No Angel (17 page)

October was party month. There was an Arizona Nomads rally on the fifth, a couple of Mesa support parties in the middle of the month, and a party commemorating the Angels’ fifth year in the state of Arizona on the twenty-sixth. We hoped to go to all of them.

Before the partying started, however, Smitty called and said we needed to meet. It was September 27. I said I’d be right over.

When I got to the Smiths’, Lydia was in the yard, as before. She had on a wide-brimmed hat to protect her from the sun. I said, “Yard looks good.”

She thanked me and pointed to the house. “Old man’s inside,” she said.

I knocked and Smitty let me in. He didn’t wear his cut, he held a bottle of Bud, he smiled that winged smile of his. The Smiths looked like they were having a nice day at the old homestead.

“Having a nice day at the old homestead, huh?” I asked.

Smitty smiled some more. His eyes turned to slivers. “You bet. Beer?”

“You bet.”

We went inside. He ushered me to the table off the kitchen, went to the fridge, got out a beer, and popped it with an opener on his key chain. He handed me the bottle and sat down.

“This is gonna be quick. I gotta leave for church in an hour.”

“No worries. What up?” I drank. The beer was sweet and cold. I held up my pack of cigarettes and raised my eyebrows, making sure it was OK if I smoked.

Smitty said, “Of course.” I lit up. “Two things. First, I really need to know what you can tell me about Laughlin, from that gal of yours on the grand jury. If Lydia and me need to get out of the country, I gotta know ahead of time.”

I nodded and smoked and said, “I’ll keep on her. Soon as I hear anything, you’ll know.”

“Good. The other thing is I’m this close to getting approval to start a Mohave Valley charter of the Eight-Ones. It’ll be me, Dennis, Joby, a couple other Arizona Nomads, a brother from Barstow who’s gonna open a tattoo shop, and a couple of prospects.”

I nodded. “That’s good news. You need more representation around here. I been hearing about some Mongols setting up over the hill in Kingman.” Kingman was just east of Bullhead.

Smitty grimaced. “Joby said the same shit. Ain’t good. You tell me anything—
anything
—you hear about those bitches, got it?” I nodded deeply. This was serious business.

Smitty reached for a hard pack of Marlboro Reds. He flipped the top and drew one out. My lighter was lit as he slipped it between his lips.

He pulled on the cigarette, the tip flared up. He nodded, I clicked my Zippo shut. He nodded again. “That’s what I’m talking about, Bird. You guys know how to act.”

I nodded again.

He smoked with conviction. He inhaled a large blue puff and it didn’t come out. “Here it is, Bird. We need more people like you. I want you, Timmy, and Pops to come in with us at Mohave Valley. I’ve spoken to Dennis and he approves.” He didn’t mention Rudy because we’d kept him on a short leash and Smitty hadn’t met him. Rudy was too unpredictable to be gumming up the works all over the state.

This was a very exciting development, but I couldn’t accept for a few reasons. Joining while the case was still in its early stages wasn’t feasible, let alone advisable. I knew that as an Angel prospect I wouldn’t be able to operate with the same freedom I had had as a Solo Angeles Nomad. Not to mention that Slats—and our bosses—would have to approve such a move. I decided to offer Smitty a non-denial denial and consult with the rest of the Black Biscuit task force.

But I still took comfort from Smitty’s overture. The emotional way he’d received the news of Carlos’s departure and this sudden recruitment were excellent signs that we were being accepted—even coveted. They were proof we were doing a very good job.

As I mulled over his offer, I must’ve paused for a moment too long because Smitty demanded, “Did you hear what I just said, Bird?”

I lit another cigarette. “Hear you? You kidding, Smit? You’re asking if I wanna become a Hells Angel?”

“Timmy and Pops too. I want the Arizona Solo Angeles Nomads to patch over.”

I drank my beer. It was hot and the beer was already getting warm. I gave Smitty my considered, and technically honest, answer: “Look, Smitty, no disrespect, but I gotta think about this. I have to talk to my P, Rudy. Bob knows him. I got loyalties to the Solos and I can’t just give up on them.”

“Loyalty is trump. I understand.” He flicked a fragile column of ash into a Hells Angels ashtray. “Of course. Think about it, you have to. I know you have what it takes, but remember—it takes a lot.” He tipped back his bottle, I finished mine. “Now I gotta go to church.” He stayed seated. Our meeting was over. I stood up.

I stuck out my hand. “Thank you, Smitty.”

He grabbed my hand from his chair, smiling. “I’ll see you soon, Bird.”

OCTOBER 5. ON
the way to the Patch I stopped at a Starbucks. They already had the Halloween seasonal, a pumpkin-flavored latte with brown sugar cinnamon sprinkles. I love the seasonals at Starbucks—I get them with extra foam and low-fat milk. Totally lame, but there you go.

As I walked through the Black Biscuit headquarters, Slats asked, “What the fuck is that?” He pointed at my coffee.

“A triple Venti pumpkin spiced latte, extra foam, extra sprinkles. What’s it look like?”

He hung his head and turned around.

The agents were getting ready to head to an Angels Nomads rally in Bellemont, a town west of Flagstaff. It was an afternoon run, not a ton of partying. We planned on dropping in, paying our respects, and coming right back to Phoenix.

We did a mini-gauntlet. Slats fired questions at us: Where you living these days? Solos, huh? Never heard of ’em. Where they from? Where’d you say your business was again? What’s that tat for? Where’d you say you used to live? What kind of bike is that? Who’s your president? Where is he?

Slats barked at me, “Where’s your old lady?”

“You’re looking at a freebird, dude.”

“That so? I got some choice pussy I can hook you up with.” Slats played a convincing dickhead biker pimp.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Follow me.”

“That’s OK. You wanna bring ’em around, do that. I said I was a freebird, not desperate. I do good enough I don’t gotta follow you around to look up some skirts.”

Slats spat into a Coke can and broke character. He leaned into a metal folding chair, the hard gray back pressed into his chest. “I dunno about that.”

“What am I supposed to say?”

“Not that.”

“Dude, I think that’s pretty good. Besides, they’re already calling us the gay Solo Nomads. Something’s gotta give.”

“I know, but you gotta make a better show than that.”

“Well, I could always fuck my beer can.” I inhaled sharply. “Get me a girlfriend, dude.”

“Working on it.”

“Work harder.”

“Working on it.”

A little clash of cop egos.

I knew Slats had hit a glass ceiling with the brass in securing a female operative. Like it or not, this business takes place in a man’s world. I’m of the minority opinion in law enforcement circles that women are as capable and essential as men are in undercover assignments, but the truth is that they have a hard road to walk. Most of the time they play girlfriends, runners, or mules. What I needed was a woman whom the Hells Angels would actually respect. Slats had brought a few women in to assist for short periods, but circumstances had kept them from being able to commit. I wanted Karen from New York, but her boss adamantly refused her participation.

I became convinced that Jenna Maguire was the best alternative. Her contact with Smitty and Lydia had been impressive, and her youth, good humor, and attractiveness were solid pluses. The problem was getting her. Her superiors and more experienced co-workers had been warning her not to go with me, who had a reputation for wild impulsiveness, into the violent, misogynistic world of the Hells Angels. Her reply was that at least the Angels wore their sexism on their sleeves. JJ’s bosses didn’t much like that.

There was nothing we could do about it before the Angels Nomads rally, so we suited up. I insisted we trailer the bikes to Flagstaff and ride the final few miles to the actual rally. Neither Timmy nor Pops put up much of a fight.

Pops was our designated driver. He pulled the truck around to the back of the Patch. Timmy and I pushed the bikes into position. Pops got out of the truck and opened the trailer, not paying attention to where his bike was parked. As he dropped the truck’s gate, it hit the top of his bike’s front wheel and the bike fell over. Pops said shit, Timmy and I laughed. Pops pulled the truck forward and we picked his bike up and strapped it in. Timmy went to use the head while Pops and I finished. As we pushed my bike into the back, I turned my ankle slightly and momentarily let go of my side of the bike, suddenly transferring all the weight to Pops, who was not in a good enough position to hold it. The bike rolled back, over my other foot, and fell into Pops, who managed to keep it upright. I cursed and helped him out. He wasn’t amused. We strapped my bike in as Timmy began to roll his bike up the ramp. As I’ve said, Timmy was a big, strong man, but he’d misjudged the weight of his bike on an incline. He got it halfway up the ramp, lost momentum, and held it there. He asked for help.

Slats watched the whole thing, chewing chaw like cud. Most of the task force agents stood behind him, shaking their heads.

As we walked down the ramp, Slats spat and said, “You guys look like a bunch of zoo monkeys trying to fuck a football.” Everyone behind him howled. We did too.

From then on, in all of our coded conversations, reports and correspondences, we were code-named the Monkeys. For brevity’s sake, I was M1, Timmy was M2, and Pops was M4. We reserved M3 for the dear departed Carlos, should he ever return.

WE RODE TO
Flagstaff, parked the trailer north of town in a Waffle House lot, got out of the truck, rubbed oil on our foreheads, and rolled around in the dirt to make it look like we’d just ridden 150 miles.

The rally was at the Bellemont Harley dealership and Roadhouse Tavern. The cynic in me couldn’t help thinking that a bar and a bike dealership were the perfect combination of symbiotic enterprises—kind of like a jail and a bail bondsman, or a gun shop and a liquor store.

Billy Schmidt, a hangaround who wanted to prospect for Dennis, worked the ticket gate with Dolly, Dennis’s platinum blond, near-toothless fiancée. We said hi to them and started to pay. Dolly told us not to worry about it, but I insisted. We went back and forth. Ultimately we each paid five bucks and got our hands stamped with the number 81 in blue ink.

We sauntered into the parking lot where a few barbecues were smoking, a large tent was erected, and Hells Angels posters flapped in the breeze. The Harley dealership had lined up a phalanx of fresh floor models and the tavern end of the operation had set up several kegs in iced garbage cans. Everyone milled around drinking beer, smoking, and bullshitting. No one was openly armed, us included, as the warning had gone out to be clean for the rally.

Smitty greeted us and led the way to a group that included Dennis and Turtle. Other clubs in attendance were the Red Devils, the Spartans, the Rough Riders, and the Desert Road Riders. Pops went and got as many beers as he could carry and we commenced drinking and standing around. Traffic whisked by on the adjacent I-40. There was a line of smoke-colored ponderosa pines to the north. I noticed two black vultures drawing lazy spirals in the sky.

We were living the glorious, free life of the Hells Angels.

I asked Smitty if there was anyone doing any business that day. He said no. He said this was a public rally and we couldn’t be sure of who was in attendance—the implication being informants or even, perish the thought, undercover cops. He said the uniforms were parked out on the interstate, waiting for an excuse to pounce. I agreed we shouldn’t give it to them.

Unsurprisingly, a couple of old buddies were in attendance too: Varvil and Abraham. Sugarbear hadn’t arrested them yet. I thoroughly and completely blew them off. I was hanging out with the Angels—with their local hero, Smitty—and they no longer deserved my attention. I could see them eyeing me jealously from across the parking lot and I fought the urge to fall down laughing.

I told Smitty we weren’t staying long, that we had a job the next day and wanted to get back to Phoenix. He told us to stick around, spend the night, get a room at the Geronimo Inn.

We made a snap decision and stayed.

At some point Steve Helland, an Arizona Nomad and close friend of Smitty and Dennis, came over with his wife, Cheryl, and a couple of girls who looked to be about sixteen. The girls were attractive—both wore cutoff jean shorts and HA support T-shirts. They reminded me, as all young women did, of my daughter. Helland said to me, “Hey, Bird, this is my daughter, April, and her friend Michelle. They’ve been wanting to meet you.”

Smitty said, “Yeah, Bird, you should hang out with these girls, get to know them.” Cheryl Helland nodded, a smile plastered on her face.

I was being offered the flesh of a minor—and that of her friend—by her own father. I didn’t know whether to laugh at or simply assault the Hellands. In retrospect, I think they were offered to me because, while I was a biker and a debt collector and a gun runner and a supposed hit man, I had my act together, wasn’t a drug addict, and treated myself and others with some measure of respect. In the biker world I was a catch.

Sad.

I declined, saying I was plenty capable of getting in trouble without involving a fourteen-year-old. Everyone chuckled. April said she was eighteen, which gave me zero pause. She was still a girl. Helland leaned in and growled, “If she’s old enough to sit at the table, she’s old enough to eat.” He smiled at his wife, who shrugged. April and Michelle stood around for a couple minutes and then wandered away. Lydia, who’d heard the whole thing, asked if I’d spoken to JJ lately.

I said I could speak to her right now. I flipped open my phone and dialed her up.

She wasn’t expecting my call, but I didn’t have to speak any code to let her know what the story was. JJ immediately fell into role. Lydia demanded the phone. They gabbed about the rally, Bullhead, San Diego, and me. I heard Lydia say, “We love Bird.”