No Angel (16 page)

I took out $600. It’d be fun explaining that to Gwen later on.

Doug and I went back to finalize everything. Dealing with McPherson gave me a bad feeling. He owned a legitimate bike repair shop that we never got any dirt on, and he was a decorated Vietnam vet. I later discovered that one of the stars was given to him for jumping out of a departing chopper to grab a fellow platoon member who’d been shot right before he made the helicopter. Mark had defied a direct order from his CO, who wanted to take off right away since they were taking fire. Mark grabbed the guy and got back on while the pilot waited for them. He came up for both a court-martial and a Silver Star, and the brass had the good sense to give him the latter. I was not into busting guys like McPherson; it wasn’t what I was on the job to do.

Regardless, it was a good day for Black Biscuit. Carlos and I pulled out of McPherson’s $1,500 poorer, but that much richer in the way of small arms and evidence. Carlos called Slats. We decided to meet at a shopping center about three miles away.

After he hung up Carlos said, “Slats sounds steamed.”

“Well, we got a trunk full of guns. He’ll be OK.”

“I don’t know, he sounds pretty steamed.”

We got there first. We parked by a Dumpster. Carlos opened the trunk and arranged the firearms to show the boys that we’d had a good day at the office.

Slats pulled up, jumped out, and slammed the door. He was with two other task force agents, but they got out of the van more slowly. As Slats walked toward us he picked up an empty green beer bottle that lay on the ground. He threw it hard at our feet and it shattered into a thousand pieces.

I yelled, “What the fuck?!”

“What do you mean what the fuck? Where were you?”

“Buying guns, dude.”

“Oh, really? Where were you buying these guns?”

“At bad guys’ houses. Lighten up. We did good.”

“Fuck you, lighten up. You were off the map half the day! You know what that does to my heart?” He pounded his chest. “Jay. Anything happens to you it’s my ass, you hear me?”

Carlos and I held our tongues, not pointing out that if something happened to us we were pretty sure it was
our
asses.

I said, “But we got a trunk full of guns!”

“Fuck your guns!”

A young black guy wearing a straight-brimmed Phoenix Suns cap and a leather shearling bomber coat that was way too hot for the southern Arizona climate suddenly walked into our circle from behind the Dumpster. He surprised Slats, who jumped back. Carlos and I couldn’t help but chuckle. Slats didn’t like that.

He turned on the guy. “What are you looking at?” Slats pulled his jacket aside, unsnapped his holster, and pulled his revolver half out. “I repeat, what are you looking at?”

Who knows what went through the poor guy’s head? He probably thought we were doing a deal. He sure as shit didn’t think we were cops. I begged him silently, Don’t say anything, dude, just keep going, just keep going. It must’ve worked. He turned on his heel and disappeared just as quickly as he’d shown up.

“Jesus.” Slats looked like he was about to suffer a coronary.

Carlos said, “Take a breath, Joe. Come see what we got.”

Slats mumbled, “Fuck your guns.” Then he walked up to the open trunk and looked inside. He nodded. He spat out a strand of brown chaw and stared absently into the trunk. “All right, good work. Try not to go off the map again. It really kills me. I need to know you’re safe.” In spite of his anger, I knew he’d been really worried about us. He said quietly, “Jay, you know me and the guys in the van are responsible for you. I know you think you can climb Everest without help, but I won’t let anything shitty happen on my watch.” Slats looked hard at me. “I’m not pulling into your driveway to tell Gwen you’re not coming home because I couldn’t keep track of you.”

Carlos and I said, “OK.” I added, “We won’t go off the map again.” I knew I was lying. Our ditching Slats wasn’t conscious, it was just that we had too much experience and were too used to running our own games—it was bound to happen again. Besides, I really didn’t like being minded all the time.

Slats turned and walked back to his car. “Drive the stuff to the Patch for processing.” He got in. As he was about to close his door he leaned out and said, “Oh. I almost forgot to tell you. Carlos, as of next week you’re off the case. The Miami SAC wants you back.”

He closed his door and backed out of the lot while Carlos and I stood there staring at each other.

SEPTEMBER 2002

WELL, THAT SUCKED
. We knew that Carlos was on loan to us, but we’d hoped that our early successes would convince the special agents in charge that we needed Carlos more than anyone else did. No dice. He was headed back home and he wasn’t excited about it. None of us were.

We were convinced we were being screwed in the usual way that certain ATF bosses screw street agents: Carlos was being reassigned simply because someone had the power to reassign him.

The truth wasn’t far away. Slats, having worked in Miami, was on good terms with the SAC there. But our assistant special agent in charge wasn’t. Our ASAC penned the request for Carlos’s extension in a terse e-mail that rubbed the Miami boss the wrong way. Carlos’s extension was turned down and his reassignment to his home district was expedited, effective October 1, 2002.

His imminent removal presented an imminent challenge: how to extract him from the case without it seeming rash or out of character?

The task force had a brainstorming session at the Patch. Carlos could have a motorcycle accident—everyone knew he wasn’t much on a bike, just like me—but putting him in the hospital would require a bunch of makeup and effort, and it wasn’t likely to justify his disappearance from Arizona. We could arrest him, but we couldn’t figure out a way to do that without arresting any other Solos. We could say he was ordered to relocate to Tijuana by the Solo brass, but since we knew that there already existed murky channels of communication between the Mexican Solos and the larger biker world, that would be too risky.

For a few days we were at an impasse.

To distract ourselves, Carlos and I decided to do Smitty’s Porter collection.

Slats suggested we do it at Porter’s job, so as to maximize exposure and lessen the risk of it going bad, which we could not let happen. As an undercover you have to do your best to control situations while giving the other party the impression they’re the one in control.

We decided to show up in numbers. That way we’d be intimidating
and
deterring. We recruited two of the larger task force agents to join us: Nicolas “Buddha” Susuras, who had neck rolls that recalled loaves of white bread, and Chris “Elvis” Hoffman, a hulking Tempe cop.

Porter worked in residential construction. As we approached him he drew his framing hammer from its belt loop and flipped it so the claw would be on the offending side of a power swing. Gotta love that.

We were all openly packing, and Carlos carried my Louisville Slugger.

Porter and I spoke. He repeated what Smitty had told me, and that the matter was in the courts. He didn’t understand why he should be collected for money that he didn’t technically owe, not yet anyway. He also called the woman we were ostensibly collecting for “Crazy Carol.” He was calm and tough, especially considering that, as far as he knew, he was explaining his way out of a beating or worse. I found him believable, and I told him I’d have to ask my boss whether or not we’d be paying him another visit. He said he understood, then thanked me and we actually shook hands. If I could have, I’d have bought him a beer.

I called Smitty later that night from the Verano Circle undercover house and told him what Porter had told us and that he didn’t back down or act pussy. I said I believed him and we let him off the hook. I told Smitty no problem paying him another visit if he wanted me to. Smitty said, “Naw, I trust you, Bird. That Carol’s a crazy old bitch anyway.”

We never heard about Porter again.

Smitty’s words echoed in my head: “I trust you, Bird.”

THE NEXT MORNING
as Slats sat over his cup of coffee reading the
Arizona
Republic
, he came across a story about a Phoenix landscaper who’d been arrested in Chicago for large-scale cocaine trafficking. His last name was Jimenez.

As far as the Angels knew, Carlos’ last name was Jimenez too.

On September 26 we arranged to meet Smitty at the Inferno for drinks. He sat at the bar with Lydia when Carlos, Timmy, and I walked in. Lydia had her hand on Smitty’s thigh and her eyes were as big as lily pads. We said hi. She smiled at us like a little girl being given lemon drops. They didn’t know what we were there to tell them.

Smitty said, “Hey, boys.”

Smitty pointed at Dennis, who was playing pool. Dennis held up his bottle of beer. We settled in at the bar and bought a round. Crown Royal and a water back for Smitty, Cuervo 1800 and a ginger ale for Lydia, whatever Dennis was having. Beers for us Solos.

Carlos sat next to Smitty, and Timmy and I sat next to Carlos. Smitty asked what we’d been up to. I told him that Timmy and I had been doing a job in Vegas, that it was easy and we got some good scratch out of it. Timmy said that for a couple of guys who looked like us, doing collections was sometimes too easy. I agreed. Carlos didn’t say anything, just stared at his drink.

I said, “I caught up with some chick who wants me to do some work for her.” This was true. During Operation Riverside, a woman had offered me a murder-for-hire to knock off her old man. Apparently he’d been beating her and sniffing her powder and she was tired of him. “Her best friend’s on the Laughlin grand jury, and I talked to her. She ran down a list of names and yours came up.” This was also true—to a point. Having good knowledge of the Laughlin case, it was safe to assume that he’d been spoken of during the Nevada grand juries. But I really had met this woman’s friend and she really was on the grand jury—call it fate—though she hadn’t told me anything.

“And?” Lydia asked impatiently. The grand jury had been taking its sweet time. There were a ton of witnesses, and the marginal quality of the surveillance footage made it difficult to work with. The case seemed as though it would be cut-and-dried, but the attorneys were taking their time handing down indictments. They wanted airtight federal cases before they went to court. There was also some pressure to see what our investigation could add. At that time, no Angels had been formally served. Those involved were waiting for the other shoe to drop and the marshals to show up at their doors with warrants and shotguns.

I said, “And that’s it. She just had names, nothing solid. She mentioned Dago Pete and a couple guys named Calvin Schaefer and George Walters.” This was also information I knew as a fed but played as if I’d heard it in confidence.

Smitty said, “Schaefer’s Casino Cal. He shot some of those Mongol bitches. George is Joby. Skinny guy. Mullet.”

I remembered him from the Flamingo. The Nestlé Quik Rabbit. “Well, I told him to get what he could on you and Pete. I can tell him to listen out for others, too.”

“Yeah. Do that.”

Lydia asked Smitty, “Whaddaya think, sweetie?”

“I think if those bastards bring me up on RICOs, you and I are moving.”

Still staring at his beer, Carlos asked, “Where to?” They were the first words he’d spoken since we’d arrived.

Lydia announced, “Brazil!” as if she’d already punched her ticket. Living in Bullhead for as long as she had, I couldn’t blame her one inch.

Smitty looked at me and said, “I’ll need some help from your connections in Mexico to make that happen.” Then he turned to Carlos and asked, “What’s up,’ Los?” Carlos didn’t say anything. “Hey, Carlos, you listening to me?”

Carlos asked, “What’s that, Smit?”

“What’s with you, man?”

“You read the
Republic
yesterday?”

“Nope. Won’t read it tomorrow, either.” Lydia giggled.

“Well, there was a thing in there about a cousin of mine. He got popped a couple days ago.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.” Carlos tossed the newspaper clipping down on the table.

Smitty looked it over. “I’m sorry to hear that, Carlos. Real sorry.”

“It don’t matter. He was a piece of shit. But he was into some things, and I helped him out from time to time.” Carlos pretended to change the subject. “Brazil, huh?”

“Yeah.” Smitty didn’t bite. We didn’t want him to. “What’re you talking about?”

I leaned back and looked at Smitty. “We’re losing Carlos, Smit.”

“What?” Smitty half stood out of his seat. Lydia let out a little gasp. Dennis looked our way. I was a little jealous. Smitty and Lydia really loved Carlos. I didn’t think they’d feel so strongly if I was the one leaving.

Carlos said, “Yeah. I can’t hang around here, Smitty. The cops are going to be looking for me—just questions, but you know. There’s gonna be some heat. If I stay, I’ll be putting my Solo brothers at risk. I’ll be putting you guys at risk. I can’t do that.”

Lydia said, “Oh, honey.”

Smitty wasn’t smiling. He settled back into his chair. He poured back his Crown Royal and signaled for another. He put his hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “That’s the way it is, then that’s the way it is. I’ll tell the others.”

“Thanks, Smitty,” I said.

Carlos said, “Yeah, thanks, Smit. I’ll come back when I can.”

Smitty said seriously, “You do that. Make sure you do that.”

But Carlos never would.

LATE SEPTEMBER–OCTOBER 2002

I SOMETIMES THINK
things would’ve been different if Carlos had stayed. We had the kind of relationship where we could be fistfighting in the morning and sharing ice cream by lunch. He had the same size balls I did, but was more easygoing. On off days I fretted about who we could work, and drew up lengthy lists of impossible missions that Superman on crack wouldn’t have been able to complete. Carlos, on the other hand, would sit back and watch a
M*A*S*H
marathon on TV. He was a twelve-year-old boy in the body of a goateed five-foot-ten, 200-pound ball of muscle. He’d say to me, “You think you’re the hardest-working man in ATF? You’re not. And even if you were, no one would care, so sit down and watch TV with me and maybe you’ll learn something.” He balanced me out. If he’d stayed he would’ve reminded me to take it easy now and then—something I wouldn’t do on my own.