Secrets & Lies (40 page)

A handful of black sedans were lined up in the lot by the building, and over the next fifteen minutes, a few more cars arrived and parked. Men wearing suits got out of the vehicles; I recognized a few faces here and there from Flickers. They were Sal Casazza's people. On cue, a small band of bikers noisily drove up the street and entered the parking lot. Heathens. Men wearing sleeveless black leather jackets and sporting ugly tattoos on their forearms dismounted and went inside the warehouse. A few minutes later, Los Serpientes arrived. They were careful not to park their bikes too close to the Heathens's.

There was no doubt this was a high-level meeting. I snuck away from the pickup truck and frantically looked around for a pay phone. I spotted one at the corner, so I sprinted to it and called Barry.
I told him what was going on. He didn't think he could assemble a police backup team in time; the meeting would probably be over before anyone arrived. However, he asked if I could infiltrate the warehouse and find out what was going on. He would make sure one or two patrol cars were alerted to stand by. I didn't want them to jump the gun without some kind of a signal, so Barry said he'd instruct them to remain vigilant and not act unless they heard from me or trouble really broke out. He hoped there wouldn't be any violence; four cops weren't about to be effective against what sounded like an entire army of gangsters in the building.

So it was up to me.

I ran away from the parking lot, around to the opposite side of the warehouse, to look for a way in. A loading-dock door on that side was shut, but the back of the building looked more promising. The structure was the equivalent of three stories, but along the top, near the roof, was a series of windows. One was cranked open to let in air. My rope wasn't long enough to reach it, but there was a storm gutter drainpipe that led from the roof to the ground on the corner of the building. Those things are made of a flimsy material—aluminum?—but there were metal straps bolted to the building in increments that held the drainpipe in place. I approached the structure and put my boot on the first strap. Its width was negligible, but as long as I was careful, the tip of my boot fit. It held my weight, so I risked the ascent. It was like climbing a ladder with half-inch-deep steps on tiptoe. When I was about two-thirds the way up, I had a scare—one of the metal straps was loose and broke away. My foot slipped and I would have fallen had I not clutched the drainpipe with both hands. Because my gloves were made of leather, the friction held; otherwise I would have slid down the pipe like a fireman.

Once I was on the roof, it wasn't difficult to make my way to a spot above the open window and use the rope and hook to lower myself inside.

The warehouse was like a huge barn, and I was up in the trusses near the ceiling, above the work lights that hung from the ceiling on
long electrical cords. I figured since I was behind the lights, the men on the floor couldn't see me. Nevertheless, I did my best to perch on a crossbeam bathed in shadow.

A number of folding chairs had been set up, and the men were milling around and taking seats. It looked like a neighborhood town hall meeting, ha ha, except they were all criminals. The Heathens sat to one side, the Serpents to the other, with a wide space in between. A line of chairs faced the two groups, and these were occupied by Casazza, Shrimp, Mario, and eight other men. Otherwise the place was empty and unused. The cavernous qualities of the building caused the men's voices to echo in the rafters, so I had no problem hearing the conversations. Right now, they were all talking at once, as the meeting hadn't begun. Apparently, they were still waiting on some people.

Over the next ten minutes, a handful of more bikers and men in suits arrived and took seats. I counted six Serpientes, seven Heathens, and eleven Italians. And then I got a shock.

Leo Kelly and another man entered and took seats near Sal Casazza. They shook hands with the others in the line, and then they went over and shook hands with Carlos Gabriel! After that, Leo and the other guy moved to the other side and shook hands with a couple of the Heathens, probably their leaders.

My heart was beating a mile a minute.

Leo was a gangster. All along, he had lied to me. He was part of Sal Casazza's—and in turn, Vincent DeAngelo's—organization. No wonder he married DeAngelo's daughter! He was ensconced in the thick of it! The bastard! The no-good, lying bastard! The betrayal just kept getting worse.

The other man with him was tall, blond, and good-looking in a country-boy kind of way. In fact, he wore cowboy boots and a Stetson.

Then the meeting was called to order. Casazza stood, all three hundred pounds of him, and addressed the attendees.

“Thank you all for coming to this important sit-down. Mr.
DeAngelo and I appreciate you putting aside your differences to come and hash out these problems we're facing. I know all of you want to get back to business as usual, and so do we. You all know who I am, right? But you may not know our friend from Las Vegas.” Casazza turned to a tall, skinny guy who was probably in his thirties. He stood and joined the fat man. “This is Paulie DeAngelo, Vince's son. He's here as an emissary for his father.”

Paulie raised a hand and said, “Hello,” and then he returned to his seat. So there was the proof that Casazza was in bed with DeAngelo, and that the motorcycle clubs worked for them.

“And you may not know Ricky Bartlett.” Casazza gestured to the cowboy, who stood, smiled, and waved. “Ricky's here from Texas. As you know, he has an interest in what happens here today. Thanks for coming, Ricky.”

“My pleasure,” Bartlett said. “I hope we can be in business again real soon.” He sat down. I had to remember that name—Ricky Bartlett—and ask Barry about him.

Casazza resumed. “We all know the Heathens and Los Serpientes are at war, and this is hurting everyone's businesses. The police are all over us. The Feds are biting our asses. It has to stop. Now. We're gonna listen to each side's grievances. Bryson, you're up.” He nodded to one of the Heathens sitting in their front row. The man stood and walked to the center, and then Casazza sat. I don't think I'd ever seen him before. He was big, bald, and had a swastika tattooed on his forearm.

“I'm Doug Bryson, president of the Heathens,” he said. “We have enjoyed a long and fruitful relationship with Mr. Casazza and his crew. The product they've supplied us from overseas has always fit our needs. We have a damned good distribution machine in place, and it's been that way for quite some time. Recently, we opened up a route into Mexico, but the spics—”

The Mexicans didn't like that. They shouted in protest and two of the men stood to challenge Bryson.

“Whoa, hold it,” Casazza said, standing again. “Watch the language, Bryson. We're all friends here,
right
?”

Bryson sneered and shrugged. “Sure. Sorry. As I was saying, the
Mexicans
here don't like us moving guns south of the border. They started attacking our runs. Then people started dying. One of our HQs was firebombed. That's number one. Second—we've heard that
our
guns are being sold to Los Serpientes instead of to
us
. That's unacceptable, especially since we were told you guys were suspending the exchanges while the heat was on. Third—we know there's a counterfeit money operation going on and Los Serpientes are benefiting. We want in on that action, too. The Heathens can move funny money of higher denominations all the way across the country, and you know it. Fourth—” Then he turned to Casazza and said, “I don't know why you want to do business with these greasy wetbacks. You might as well do business with niggers, too.”

More shouts of protest from the Serpents. One of them bolted from his seat and tackled Bryson to the floor and started punching. Heathen members jumped up to protect their leader. It looked as if a full-scale gang fight would break out until Paulie pulled a handgun from underneath his jacket and fired a shot in the air. That got everyone's attention and the brawl ceased.

“Everyone shut up and sit down!” Shrimp hollered. “We're at a sit-down, for Chrissakes!”

“You want the cops to barge in here?” Casazza yelled. “Sit down!”

Bryson got up off the floor and brushed himself off, all the while glaring at the Serpents's side of the room. “I wasn't finished talking.”

“I think you are finished,” Casazza said. “Sit down.” Bryson gave
him
a dirty look, too, and then resumed his seat. “Just for your information, Bryson, we
do
have business with the
niggers
. We do business with whoever Mr. DeAngelo deems to be a worthwhile partner.” He then looked at Carlos Gabriel. “Señor Gabriel. Your turn.”

Los Serpientes's leader stood and took the floor as Casazza sat.

“We gonna need a translator?” Bryson mumbled. There were chuckles from his side of the room, but Gabriel's icy stare shut them up.

“I speak English very well, thank you very much,” he said. “Los Serpientes only recently started working with Mr. Casazza and Mr. DeAngelo. We welcomed the relationship, and up until recently everything was going good. We had our routes to Mexico in place, and they were established
decades
ago. Los Serpientes claimed them on behalf of
La eMe
, and we have made runs for them for two years.”

I knew that “La eMe” was the Mexican Mafia. Barry told me that. Los Serpientes was a splinter gang that worked as their associates.

“It is our
right
to maintain these routes. Our people have always controlled them, and we always will. The Heathens recently started using them, doubling the chances of arrest. We all know that territories must be respected unless special arrangements are made. That's
my
number one. Second—we've been asking to be cut in on the gun deals for months. Our brothers south of the border need them. The Heathens always refused to sell to us, but other motorcycle clubs benefited. It's not right that the Heathens have been the first-line distributor. There are plenty of MCs that can do the job, including us. I say, share the wealth and we'll all be happy.”

Gabriel took his seat and Casazza stood. “All right. Thank you, gentlemen. Now. Mr. DeAngelo has advised me to offer terms to reconcile this messy war. But first of all, I want to address Señor Gabriel's claim that we've been selling guns to Los Serpientes instead of the Heathens. We haven't. We haven't sold to anyone since the war started and the heat has been on everyone. The truth of the matter is that our supply of guns coming from overseas was being ripped off from under our very noses. We've had two such thefts, and it's
those
stolen weapons that were sold to Los Serpientes without our knowing about it.”

That elicited murmuring among the attendees.

“I had my men look into it, and we identified the traitors. And we're going to deal with them here and now as a gesture of good faith to everyone present tonight.”

He turned to Shrimp and Mario, who stood and left the meeting. They disappeared into the darkness against the back wall. I couldn't see exactly what they were doing, but it appeared they were handling a flatbed dolly. Sure enough, they rolled it out and into the space between the two factions. Lying on the dolly were two men who were bound and gagged. Two more of Casazza's crew helped Shrimp and Mario pick up the prisoners and set them up on the floor on their knees.

They were Mr. Faretti and Mr. Capri.

That reminded me of my camera! I dug into my backpack and pulled it out—and then realized it didn't have any film! I had given the last roll to Barry and hadn't bought any more. Ugh! I could have slapped myself. The camera was useless, so I put it back and concentrated on trying to memorize everything the men said.

“I was saddened to learn that my trusted colleagues, Mr. Faretti and Mr. Capri, had stabbed us in the backs,” Casazza said. He looked at Gabriel. “Is it not true that these were the men who sold you the guns?”

Gabriel stood and answered, “Yes. That's them. But we thought they were acting with your blessing, Sal.”

“I know. I'm not blaming you, Carlos. You get to keep the guns they sold you. We've already recovered the money you paid them. But traitors and thieves will not be tolerated in our organization.”

Casazza pulled a handgun from under his jacket. He then turned to
Leo
and beckoned him to stand. Leo looked confused, pointed to himself, and mouthed, “Me?”

“Yes, you, Leo. You all know Leo Kelly, right? He's been doing important work for us. And he's also now a part of Mr. DeAngelo's family, isn't that right, Leo?”

Leo stood and said, “Uh, yeah. That's right.”

“Your father-in-law has asked that you do the honors.” He held the gun out to Leo.

Oh, my God
, I thought.
Oh, my God
.

Leo hesitantly approached Casazza and took the weapon. There was a beat, and at first I thought he wasn't going to go through with it. Then, like an expert, he quickly checked the ammunition and tested the handgun's weight in his hand. He stepped up behind Capri and pointed the gun at the back of the man's head. Both Capri and Faretti struggled in their bonds and cried muffled pleas into their gags.

Seconds went by, but they seemed like hours.

Then—
bam!

Capri fell forward. A pool of blood started to spread around his head and shoulders. That made Faretti panic and try to stand. Shrimp and Mario held on to him. Leo moved over behind the man, pointed the gun, and fired again.

My former lover had just murdered two men in cold blood.

Leo stood there, his arm still outstretched. I think he was a little stunned at what he'd done. Casazza approached him, patted him on the back, and took the weapon.

“You can sit down now, Leo.” He did. Casazza gestured to some of his men, who picked up the two corpses, laid them back on the dolly, and rolled them away. “Now. Let me address your grievances. Mr. Bryson.”