You Can Run but You Can't Hide (5 page)

guy in the ring. The night I fought him, I fell for it. He connected

with an uppercut to my jaw. Lights out. I took the eight count. I

woke up at “Nine . . .” I saw Porky Pig playing the banjo and heard

the
Batman
theme in my head. I should have stayed down. The fight

was over.

The Disciples lost over eleven hundred dollars on me that night. I

was expected to pay back every last dollar for not coming through.

A few weeks later, we had a rematch, and I ended up knocking Titus

out in eight rounds. I beat his ass. I avenged my one loss and won

back the Disciples’ respect.

As tonight’s opponent entered the bar, loud Indian war music

blasted over the house speakers. The crowd erupted. Toward the

back, I could see a boxer in a slick white robe making his way to-

ward the ring. He was wearing a full Indian headdress. The an-

nouncer started saying something, but I wasn’t listening. All I could

see was this guy Lopez disrespecting Indians with his crazy costume

and war-dance soundtrack. He was mocking my people. I could feel

a kick of adrenaline rushing through my veins. My rage was build-

ing. Lopez was no Indian; he was Mexican. I glared across the ring

at him, but he refused to lock eyes.

At the start of the first round, I came out firing. To my surprise,

Lopez was ready. We traded a few jabs here and there, trying to find

our respective ranges. I got careless at one point, and Lopez un-

leashed a right hook that dazed me. It felt like I had just gotten hit

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

by a sledgehammer. Sensing I was hurt, he jumped all over me.

Luckily, I was able to hold it together until the end of the round.

When the bell rang, I said, “Thank You, Jesus.”

I was still a little woozy as I stumbled back toward my corner. I

fell down onto my stool and glanced across the ring at Lopez. He had

cornermen and trainers buzzing all around him, wiping him down,

rinsing out his mouthpiece, and massaging his shoulders. One guy

was kneeling in front of him, giving him advice.

My
cornerman’s advice went something like this:

“What in the hell was that?! You gotta hit him, you pussy! Don’t

forget . . . we’ve got thirteen hundred dollars riding on you, Puppy.”

Over the next couple of rounds, I realized Lopez probably hit

harder than any other fighter I had ever gone up against. His body

shots bothered me more than anything, because my stamina was

shot. My constant chain-smoking didn’t help. I usually tried to

keep my fights to no more than four or five rounds, because after

that I was completely gassed. I had to get out before I faded and my

opponent turned me into a human heavy bag.

By the end of the fifth round, I still hadn’t landed anything on

Lopez. The guy didn’t even look like he was in the same fight. I was

gasping for air trying to get back to my corner at the end of every

round.

I thought back to when my dad first taught me to fight. He

would say, “Focus on one spot on your opponent and go after it. Do

not stop until he goes to the canvas.” With Lopez, that was the area

between his left ear and his chin. I had to go for it in the next round,

or it was all over for me. Time was running out.

When the bell rang at the beginning of the sixth round, I jumped

up and darted across the ring, only focusing on Lopez’s weak spot.

I tuned everything else out. It was just me and Lopez’s jaw. He came

after me with everything he had, but I didn’t let that stop me. After

he dipped down and threw a left uppercut, everything opened up

for me. It was like a moment frozen in time. Everything in the bar

stopped. I reared back and ripped a right cross to the left side of his

jaw that buckled his legs and sent him down to the canvas.

The Disciples went crazy. The Mexicans weren’t so happy. After

all, this was the Gringo Graveyard.

When I finally zigzagged back to my corner, Indian grabbed me

by the back of my neck in victory.

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25

“You look like you could use a drink, Puppy,” he said, and handed

me a bottle of whiskey.

I collapsed onto my stool. This would be my last fight for a

while. I was beat in every way.

Two days later, Tom Tom and I hit Phoenix on a hot summer af-

ternoon. In the worst part of town, we found the Devil’s Disciples’

clubhouse—a run-down motel with about a dozen rooms. As Tom

and I made our way up the dirt driveway, we saw a ten-foot scare-

crow dressed in full-on biker leathers and a real human skull for a

head. Yup, this was definitely the place.

A few months back, while we were still in Denver, Tom had run

into another Disciple from the Phoenix chapter, who gave him a

courtesy card. All we had to do was show it to the Disciples’ presi-

dent when we got to the clubhouse. It was like having a temporary

membership.

When we entered the clubhouse, we were met by a big, burly guy

who came walking out of one of the back rooms. He was holding a

half-gallon jug of cheap wine and smoking a cigarette. He stopped

dead in his tracks to look Tom and me over. Tom handed him the

courtesy card.

“Name’s Hudat. Welcome to Phoenix, brother,” he said. “Make

yourself at home.” Then Hudat looked over to where I was stand-

ing. “Who’s this?”

Before I said anything, Tom said, “His name’s Dog. I met him in

Denver. I’m thinking about sponsoring him as my prospect. This

brother’s a cold-blooded mother, man.”

Some of the bikers who were looking at us from the other room

started laughing. “He don’t even look like he’s big enough to hold a

Harley Hog up by himself.” Who the hell was this guy telling me I

couldn’t ride scooters? I been riding from the time I could walk. My

whole family rode. My grandpa tried jumping a dirt bike when he

was sixty-one and shattered his leg. But before we walked in, Tom

had told me to keep my mouth shut, so I didn’t say a word, but my

blood was boiling. I could feel Tom’s eyes on me. If I made a move

on Hudat, every Disciple in the place would kick my teeth in.

When Hudat asked me how old I was, I paused for a moment. I

figured the Disciples didn’t want to take any chances with some un-

derage punk hanging around the clubhouse with all the boozing,

drugging, and fucking going on. If the place got raided, they’d go

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Yo u Ca n R u n , b u t Yo u Ca n ’ t H i d e

down for contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I used my

deepest, most mature-sounding voice and said, “Eighteen, brother.”

His eyes widened and he started laughing. “OK then, big man.

Come on in and grab yourself a drink.” He handed me his jug of Bali

Hi wine. I grabbed it and took a huge swig. That is some bad wine.

Living at the Disciples’ clubhouse was a zoo. The place was

always crazy with people partying and loud music blaring. I got

pretty tight with a lot of the Phoenix brothers, like Dago, Indian,

Reverse, Pappy, and Little Pat. These guys would go out on their

scooters and round up the hottest chicks in town. I’m not talking

street whores, I’m talking about young, hot college chicks and bored

housewives who wanted to party. Once the girls heard the thunder of

the scooters rolling down the street and saw the boys in their

leathers, it was a done deal. A college girl would come back to the

house all shy, and before you knew it, she’d be up on the table danc-

ing with her titties out.

When they weren’t partying, the Disciples were robbing and

stealing . . . or trying to, anyway. The cops kept showing up at all

the jobs they were trying to pull off, because they kept tripping

alarms, so they never got away with any loot. I thought it over and

came up with a pretty good plan. I figured we could pretend to be

the owner of a business and explain to the security company that

we were having trouble with the alarm. That would make them

think it went off because of a technical difficulty.

I finally got up enough nerve to tell Hudat some of my ideas. He

was pretty impressed with what I had to say. For whatever reason,

the guys never let me tag along, but it felt good to be able to con-

tribute something. After that, most of the Disciples had a new-

found respect for me, and even the ones who didn’t now knew I

wasn’t some dumbass

My strength was devising a master plan, figuring out exactly

how a job should go down. I wasn’t all that keen on going out with

the guys on their burglaries, anyway. A lot of them were loose can-

nons and way too careless. One thing Flash taught me was, you’re

only as strong as your weakest link—and, well, let’s just say the

Disciples had some very weak links.

When the Disciples were out pulling off jobs, they usually left me

back at the clubhouse with their old ladies—just me and the girls.

And man, did those honeys like the Dog. Before the guys made it out

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27

of the driveway, some chick would drag me into one of the back bed-

rooms and say, “Don’t tell nobody, because if my old man finds out,

he’ll kill me.” Sure, the Disciples had rules—like don’t kill without a

reason, don’t steal from your brothers, and don’t have sex with no-

body’s old lady unless he gives you permission. But I wasn’t a Disci-

ple yet, so I didn’t think any of those rules applied to me.

I needed somewhere I could take a break from the chaos of the

clubhouse, so I scraped together my money left over from boxing and

got myself an apartment. It was a decent place on the north side of

town.

Tom finally put me up as a prospect to the club a few months after

we arrived in Phoenix. If you get taken in, you have to prospect—that

is, be a prospect, or probationary member—for ninety days before

you can become a full-fledged member. Three whole months before I

could get my patch sounded like a lifetime. I was going to be nothing

but a slave for the Disciples to fuck with. I’ve never liked being or-

dered around by anyone. Besides, I felt I had already proven myself to

the gang.

On the inside, I was ready to burst. I needed to let out my ag-

gression, so I began fighting again. Every time there was a chance to

scrap, I would be right there in the middle, waiting to take my shot.

I’d go to bars, pound whiskey until I was wasted, and then take it

out back to throw down. Some guys brought chains, while others

had baseball bats or clubs.

Tom Tom would look over at me and yell, “Come on now, Dog!”

I had to fight to win every time, because a prospect can never afford

to lose. My probation with the Disciples went on for what felt like

forever. The guys gave me crap every day. It was only a matter of

time before I cracked.

Somebody heard Jimi Hendrix was in concert nearby, so we all

rolled over to the show on our scooters. We were about to go in,

when Hudat turned to me and a few of the other guys and said, “All

prospects hang out here and keep an eye on our bikes and our old

ladies.”

I did everything I could not to lose my stuff. I kept thinking he

was messing with us. There was no way I would sit outside in the

parking lot with their old ladies while they went in and partied.

Tom wouldn’t look at me, because he knew I was pissed. They

went into the concert and left us with the scooters and the chicks. I

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really tried to keep my mind off of missing the show, but I couldn’t.

It was bullshit.

“Forget this, man. I ain’t sitting out here like some idiot.” I got

off my bike and went into the show.

When I got inside, I had no problem pushing right up to the front

of the stage. Most people saw the nasty look on my face and just got

out of the way. I needed something to take the edge off fast, so I

walked right over to where this hippie was standing with a jug of

wine.

“Give me a pull off that skin flask.” He handed it right over, no

questions asked.

I took a long swig and then walked off in the other direction,

still holding that flask. I could hear the guy swearing at me as I did,

so I doubled back.

I lifted up my T-shirt so he could see the gun I had tucked in my

waistband. “What was that?” I asked.

His face went blank. “Nothing, man. Nothing.”

Two Hell’s Angels standing nearby must have been watching

what I did. They walked over and said, “What’s your name, man?”

“I’m Dog.”

“Who you with?”

“I’m prospecting for the Devil’s Disciples.”

The Angels were cool. They slapped a bunch of different-colored

pills into my hand before they split. I had no idea what any of them

were, but I swallowed them down with a gulp of wine anyway. I wan-

dered around the show like a zombie, taking people’s weed and swig-

ging their wine. I was trashed. When the music stopped, I stumbled

back out to the parking lot. I could see all the Disciples down by the