No Angel
For Mom, Dad, Gwen, Dale, and Jack—you are my heroes.
And for Jaime, without whom this book would not have been possible
Bikers, Cops, and Motorcycle Clubs Involved in Operations Riverside and Black Biscuit
3. “You’re looking at the loves of my life is what you’re looking at.”
6. Rudy wanted to know where I did my time
7. Too broke for Sturgis, where Timmy learned the fine art of fetching sauerkraut
11. Why’d Jack give me that rock?
17. Gimme a B! Gimme an I! Gimme an R! Gimme a D!
23. Inhale … Exhale … Inhale … Exhale …
24. Jingle bells, Batman smells, etc.
27. “9-1-1! 9-1-1! Get out of the house!”
32. Big Lou and Gayland Hammack run some game
33. “Get me that brown mustard, not that yellow shit.”
Agency
(alphabetical by last name)
Note: The men and women listed below are the principal players found in
the text. The Acknowledgments section at the end of the book contains a
comprehensive list of officers involved with Black Biscuit
.
Chris Bayless, special agent, aka “Chrisser”
Carlos Canino, special agent, aka “Los”
Vince Cefalu, special agent, aka “Vinnie”
John Ciccone, special agent
Greg Cowan, special agent, aka “Sugarbear”
Jay Dobyns, special agent, aka “Bird”
Alan Futvoye, special agent, aka “Footy”
Steve Gunderson, special agent, aka “Gundo”
Daniel Machonis, group supervisor, aka “Mach One”
Jenna Maguire, special agent, aka “JJ”
Tom Mangan, special agent, aka “Teabag”
Joe Slatalla, special agent, aka “Slats”
Jesse Summers, special agent, aka “Summer Breeze”
Gayland Hammack, sergeant, Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department
William Long, detective, Phoenix Police Department, aka “Timmy”
Shawn Wood, sergeant, Arizona Department of Public Safety, aka “Woody”
Pops (given name not provided)
Michael Kramer, Hells Angels member at Mesa, Arizona, and San Fernando Valley, California, charters, aka “Mesa Mike”
Rudolph Kramer, Solo Angeles member, aka “Rudy” (no relation to Michael Kramer)
Note: As above, the men listed below are only the significant players found
in the text. Many more Hells Angels are mentioned in the pages that follow
.
Dennis Denbesten, member, aka “Chef Boy-Ar-Dee”
Donald Smith, member, aka “Smitty”
Ralph Barger, member, aka “Sonny,” “Chief”
Daniel Danza, member, aka “Dirty Dan”
Daniel Seybert, president, aka “Hoover”
Kevin Augustiniak, member
Gary Dunham, secretary, aka “Ghost”
Paul Eischeid, member
Robert Johnston, president, aka “Bad Bob,” “Mesa Bob”
Mike Kramer, member, aka “Mesa Mike” (transferred to San Fernando Valley, California, charter during the case)
Calvin Schaefer, member, aka “Casino Cal”
Robert Mora, member, aka “Chico”
Pete Eunice, member, aka “Dago Pete,” “Ramona Pete”
Rudy Jaime, member
Robert Reinstra, vice president, aka “Bobby”
Joseph Richardson, member, aka “Joey,” “Egghead”
Theodore Toth, president, aka “Teddy”
George Walters, sergeant at arms, aka “Joby”
Douglas Dam, member, aka “Doug”
Craig Kelly, president, aka “Fang”
Robert McKay, member, aka “Mac”
Henry Watkins, prospect, aka “Hank”
Dolly Denbesten (wife of Dennis Denbesten)
Staci Laird (girlfriend of Bobby Reinstra)
Lydia Smith (wife of Donald Smith)
Alberto (last name unknown), vice president, Mexican Solo Angeles, Tijuana, Mexico
Robert Abraham, gun dealer, Bullhead City, Arizona
Tony Cruze, member, Red Devils, Tucson, Arizona
Tim Holt, machinist, Mohave, Arizona
Dave “Teacher” Rodarte, president, U. S. Solo Angeles, Los Angeles, California
Scott Varvil, school nurse, mechanic, Kingman, Arizona
(alphabetical after Hells Angels and Solo Angeles)
HELLS ANGELS
*
aka “Big Red Machine,” “Red and White,” “81”
Arizona Nomads (Flagstaff), Cave Creek, Mesa, Phoenix, Skull Valley, Tucson
aka “Orange Crush”
Arizona Nomads (Bullhead City, Phoenix, Prescott)
Page
Bullhead City, Lake Havasu City
Tucson
Phoenix
Tucson
Charter location unknown
Globe
Phoenix
Tucson, Phoenix
Phoenix
Vietnam Vets Statewide
BANDITOS
Texas, western states, international; aka “the Red and Gold,” “Bandits”
California, western states; aka “the Black,” “the Black and White”
Midwest and Southern states; aka “OLs”
Eastern states
Canada (absorbed by Banditos)
California; aka “the Green,” “Greenies”
*
Note: the charters listed are only for Arizona. As noted in the text, the Hells Angels have
charters in approximately twenty states and twenty-six countries.
The worlds of undercover cops and outlaw bikers are colorful and unique, and each possesses its own language. If at any time you’re unclear about the terms found on the following pages, please consult the glossary found at the back of this book.
If I must choose between righteousness and peace, I choose righteousness.
—THEODORE ROOSEVELT
If you’re not making mistakes, then you’re not doing anything. I’m positive
a doer makes mistakes.
—JOHN WOODEN
UCLA MEN’S BASKETBALL COACH, 1948–1975
BIRDCALLS
JUNE 25 AND 26, 2003
TIMMY LEANED CASUALLY
against the rear fender of my black Mercury Cougar, a cell phone on his ear and a smile on his face. The bastard was typically calm. Twelve months I’d been his partner, in and out of harm’s way, both together and alone, and the guy never looked stressed. He was as self-possessed as a rooster in a hen house—my polar opposite.
I paced in front of him, rehearsing what I was going to tell our Hells Angels brothers. I shook the last smoke out of a pack of Newports. “Shit.” I lit the cigarette, crumpled the pack, and threw it to the ground. It was 10:00 a.m. and I’d already emptied the first pack of the carton I’d bought that morning.
Timmy said into his phone, “I love you too honey cake. I should be home soon.” He’d been saying things like that going on five minutes.
I stared at him and said, “The fuck, stud? Come on.”
Timmy put a finger in the air and continued on the phone. “OK. Gotta run. Love you guys. OK. See you tonight.” He snapped his phone closed. “What’s the drama, Bird? We got this.”
“Oh, you know. Nothing really.” I pointed at the guy lying facedown at our feet. “Just that if they don’t buy it, then we’ll end up like this asshole.”
There, in a shallow desert ditch, was a gray-haired Caucasian male, his head split to the white meat. A pile of brains had oozed to the ground where Timmy had put Joby’s .380. Blood droplets, sprayed into the sand and dirt, made small, dark constellations. His blue jeans were splattered with purple, quarter-sized splotches. His wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape, his hands were limp. It was already over 100 degrees and the promise of coagulated blood and exposed matter had begun to attract flies.
