Deep Cover (21 page)

Dave
hung up the phone and sat silently for a moment in his black-leather armchair. He stared at the dust particles floating amidst the rays of the afternoon sun, like tiny snowflakes. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then let it out sharply, disrupting the pattern of dust flakes.
This
could
all
be
gone
in
a
second
, he thought.
My
home
,
my
family
.
All
gone
. He quickly reminded himself of how he had come to own this expensive home.
How
many
bones
have
been
broken
?
How
many
widows
and
fatherless
children
have
I
and
The
Henchmen
been
responsible
for
producing
over
the
years
?
He
who
lives
by
the
sword
,
dies
by
the
sword
,
Dave
. This rare moment of soul-searching was interrupted by the sound of Jimbo's Cherokee jeep pulling into the driveway.

The
two bikers left in Dave's blue Mercedes, leaving the jeep parked in front of the garage door. As they pulled away, Dave began to sweat. The calm he had experienced during the crisis was now replaced by anger. "Goddamn motherfuckers!" he yelled, using his right hand to punch the roof of his car. His left hand remained steady on the steering wheel.

"My
family could have been killed by that fucking bomb! Christ almighty, Jimbo, how the fuck do they know where I live?"

"Take
it easy, man. We'll get the motherfuckers. Red light, Dave." Dave quickly and smoothly applied the brakes.

"It's
all gotten so crazy," said Dave, his emotions starting to even out. "We used to brawl all the time with other clubs. They would throw us a beating one week, we would get them the next. You took your lumps and you didn't complain. Now, man... Shit, it's just getting fucked up, that's all." Dave slowly accelerated as the light turned green. They drove without conversation for about ten minutes. Calmer now, Dave leaned over and opened the glove compartment. "Look in there, Jimbo. With all this shit I forgot to tell you. The newsletter. It came yesterday afternoon."

The
newsletter came irregularly. However, Counsel always managed to produce at least three issues a year. Every chapter president received a copy. It then circulated among the members. Only patch-wearing brothers were permitted to read it, although it seldom contained anything compromising or confidential. It was always returned to the chapter president. No one was allowed to photocopy it.

"Well,
look at
this
shit," said Jimbo as he began to skim through the document. "Counsel got a request from a club in Australia for a charter. Fucking
Australia
, man. You think Counsel will do it?"

"He
might. First he'll send a couple of brothers to check them out. If they make the grade, why not?" Dave shrugged, both hands now firmly on the wheel.

"Whoa,"
said Jimbo, surprised.

"What
is it?" asked Dave, turning his eyes from the road to look at Jimbo.

"My
brother probably knows this guy."

"Who?"

"The new member in L.A.," said Jimbo. "Johnny lives up in Hallock. He's about an hour from the Canadian border. He used to party with the Satan's Saints all the time. Shit, I'll have to give him a call and tell him Doc Death is a Henchman now."

"Maybe
your bro can come with us when we make the run to Eureka Lake next month. He can say hello to Dr. Death personally."

"Yeah.
Won't
that
be a piss!"

Chapter
19

I stopped at a phone booth on my way to the clubhouse to call in to Base I. Although I was a member, I wasn't about to take a chance using the phone at my apartment. For all I knew the club tapped the phones of all members, just in case. Fred Parkins was on duty when I called.

"Walsh,
how are you, buddy?" he said insincerely. "Your boys did some number last week in Philly."

"They're
not my boys," I said. Of course I could never share with anyone in the Bureau, especially this dick Parkins, that I was pleased The Henchmen had won the fight with the Toritellis. They had managed to accomplish what years of law enforcement had failed to do. The only problem now was how to deal with a more powerful, more brazen Henchmen chapter.

"Is
Leverick around? Or Atwood?" I asked.

"No,
sorry, bud. Just me."

"Lucky
me," I mumbled sarcastically. "I may need some assistance."

"Shoot!"

"We're driving down to San Pagano in a couple of hours. Six of us. Counsel wants to shut down the chapter. He plans to take their colors and suspend their membership indefinitely."

"So,
that's good. That's one less Henchmen chapter for us to deal with."

"Yeah,
but I'm afraid there might be trouble. You don't know what these colors mean to these guys. It goes deeper than we ever thought," I said with a sense of urgency.

"I
don't think we want to spook them now. What if they pick up the other agent's presence? We'd blow a major investigation for nothing. No. You've been in too long... too deep."

"Parkins,
I'm telling you! This could be
serious
,
man
!" I started to get angry. I was almost yelling.

"I'm
telling
you
," said Parkins sharply. "Everyone of us on this team is a supervisor. We have to make decisions based on what we feel is best for the investigation, as well as for the people in the field. And I say you won't need backup on this. We all have the files on The Henchmen. Counsel is legendary among all the chapters nationwide. He's shut down chapters six times since 1970. No one's ever gotten killed. A couple of beatings maybe, but no homicides. After what you and that guy Monk did to those boys in the pizza shop, you should be used to this shit by now."

"God
damn it, Parkins!" I was heated. "You'd better pray this comes off smoothly, or I'll file the biggest grievance against you the Bureau has ever seen!"

"Fine.
You do that. Anything else you want to report before I take my dinner break?"

You
fuck
, I thought to myself.
Here
1
am
risking
my
life
and
you're
concerned
with
your
dinner
break
. I knew I didn't like this chickenshit the first time I met him. He's the type of guy that agents in the field refer to as a real "suit." Someone who has no idea what the real world is all about and doesn't give a shit about anyone's life. The only thing that matters to suits like Parkins is their own careers. Fuck everybody else. He wouldn't last five minutes rubbing elbows with these guys, but
he's
the one calling the shots right now. Integrity and brains? Not this one.

"One
more thing," I said. "In Jersey. They're planning to hit Fort Dix. I couldn't find out exactly when, but they got a woman inside. A secretary in the records department. Is
that
worth some manpower?" I made no attempt to hide my sarcasm.

"I'll
take care of it. Call in first opportunity tomorrow."

I must have seemed a little pissed off when I arrived at the clubhouse. Dog ribbed me a little about my mood.

"Hey,
shitface. You look like you just tongue-kissed your grandmother," he said.

"It's
that fucking... parole officer. He's a fucking ballbuster. Fuck him." I figured since I was pissed off and it showed, I might as well add credibility to my parole officer story.

"You
got that right. You know, maybe we can take care of your PO problem."

"How
so?" I asked.

"Depends.
Let's say he's married or some shit. We send one of our cunts to scope him out, get him to go to bed, then photograph him. We tell him we'll give the photos to his old lady if he doesn't do the right thing by you. Or maybe we just slip him a few bucks, or threaten to kick the shit out of him. We've done it before."

"I'll
let you know, man. It's just a bad fucking day, that's all." I actually began to visualize Dog and Iron Man beating the shit out of that asshole Parkins, and I liked what I saw. It was strange. I felt more camaraderie with Dog than with one of the men on my own team. I decided at that moment that the next time I spoke with Atwood I was going to insist that Parkins be kicked off the team.

We
rode to San Pagano in the blue van. Counsel drove. Dog sat on the passenger side. Savage and Iron Man were sitting in the rear. I sat opposite Monk near the middle. Most of the conversation was light during the trip. Dog would occasionally offer one of his many tasteless jokes.

"Hey,
what's the difference between quiche and pussy?" he asked.

"What,
Dog?" the rest of us answered simultaneously.

"Real
men don't eat quiche." Dog laughed loudly, almost losing his breath. The rest of us rolled our eyes and chuckled, more at Dog's reaction than at the joke itself.

Counsel pulled into the driveway of the San Pagano clubhouse and turned off the engine. He motioned toward Iron Man, who lifted a metal box from the back and placed it in the middle of the van. The toolbox-size case contained three nine-millimeter pistols, two sawed-off shotguns, and one .357 Magnum revolver. Counsel reached over and grabbed one of the sawed-offs. I took the Magnum. Savage got the other shotgun.

"Why
so much hardware?" I asked.

"Just
a precaution," said Counsel. Monk was quiet. He had hardly said a word since we'd left the clubhouse. Of course, Monk didn't say much anyway.

"Let's
go," said Counsel. He looked over at Iron Man and nodded. Iron Man returned the nod and stuffed the pistol in the back of his belt. Savage did the same and we all followed his lead. We approached the house slowly. Counsel had his hand behind his back, ready at the trigger. Monk walked beside me. He looked cool, confident that there would be no trouble. "They fucked up," he said to me earlier, "so they lose their charter. No big deal. Counsel took other charters away before."

Counsel
stopped a few feet short of the door to let Savage and Iron Man overtake him. They knocked at the door and waited. Counsel stood behind them, Dog behind him. Monk and I looked from right to left, scoping out the surrounding houses. "Seems pretty quiet," said Monk.

The
door was barely open an inch when Iron Man kicked it in, knocking the man behind it to the floor. I recognized him when I got closer to the doorway. It was Slip. I remembered him from Popeye's funeral.

"Hey,
man! What the fuck…?" complained Slip. His complaint was abruptly silenced by a shotgun blast to the face. I looked on in disbelief as Counsel, Iron Man, and Savage entered the house shooting. One of the bikers, seated behind a large table, began to fire a small-caliber handgun. Iron Man took him down. I fired the Magnum at the walls a few times, giving the impression that I was taking part in the slaughter. Dog followed along, too. I wasn't sure if he'd shot anyone or not. Monk never fired a shot.

It
was all over in less than a minute. We had murdered the entire chapter, massacred them. No chance to even give up the colors. Just
boom
! I couldn't believe it. We stood there silently for a moment. "Savage!" said Iron Man. He crossed the room and knelt beside him. "Shit," he said. "He's fucking dead." Savage had a bullet hole dead-center in his forehead. Someone had managed to take one of his murderers with him.

"Peel
the colors!" ordered Counsel. "Savage, too."

"Counsel,
we can't, it's Savage!" pleaded Dog.

"I
said peel the fucking colors!" Counsel shot a hard look at Dog. "He bought it. Them's the breaks."

We
took the colors off all the bodies. Iron Man placed the sleeveless vests, all soaked with blood, in a plastic bag. Counsel reached down and removed a knife from his boot. He walked over to Sanford Collins' body. Collins, the chapter president who was known as "Sandy," was lying facedown, his legs on top of one of his dead comrogues. Counsel flipped him over and carved the letters OR on his forehead.

"What
was that for?" inquired Dog.

"The
Outcasts' calling card," said Iron Man. "As far as the man is concerned, as far as the rest of our club is concerned, they're just more victims in the ongoing biker war. Let's get the fuck going." I found out later that the initials OR, which every member of The Outcasts had tattooed on his body, stood for "Outcasts Rule." The news of that mutilation would be enough to convince other Henchmen chapters that this had been an Outcasts hit.

The ride back to the clubhouse seemed to take forever. Iron Man sat alone this time, Monk and I opposite each other again. I looked in his eyes, trying to read him. He hadn't spoken a word since we'd left for San Pagano. "Monk, you okay, man?" I asked. He nodded slightly, then closed his eyes and leaned his head back, obviously not wanting to talk with anyone. At my first opportunity I had to call into Base I and let them know what had happened. A goddamn slaughter.
That
fucking
Parkins
, I thought. I had told him this was going to be bad. Now we had to shut down the operation because of my witness to the homicides. At least we would have Counsel and Iron Man on Murder One. It was obvious now that the three of them had planned all along to gun the other bikers down. Me, Dog, and Monk were just backup for their assassination team. Within twenty-four hours I would have warrants issued for Counsel's and Iron Man's arrest. I would have to include Dog and Monk in the arrest, but I planned to testify on their behalf to get the charges reduced.
Too
bad
, I thought.
All
these
months
of
preparation
.
Becoming
a
patch
-
wearing
member
of
a
motorcycle
gang
,
for
the
first
time
in
the
history
of
law
enforcement's
battle
against
them
.
All
coming
to
an
end
.

Monk
was the first to leave the van, practically knocking Iron Man down in his haste to get out.

"Yo,
Monk!" said Iron Man, beckoning to him. "What's up, man?" Monk didn't acknowledge him. Moments later, when Counsel and Dog got out, we all turned at the sound of Monk's bike kicking over.

Iron
Man volunteered to chase after him in the van. "No," I said, thinking Iron Man would probably shoot him. "I'll bring him back." I hopped on my Harley and raced down the Avenue. I spotted Monk heading toward the freeway. I must have run a dozen lights by the time I caught up with him. I motioned for him to stop. Monk just cranked his hog up full throttle. We must have been doing close to one hundred mph, Monk always managing to stay just ahead of me. After about ten minutes, Monk turned off toward the beach. He drove his bike right up the steps of the boardwalk and down into the sand, until the wheels spun the Harley too deep to move. I left my bike on the board-walk and took off after him as he ran down the beach.

"Monk!
Monk!" I called, panting and straining to keep up with him. I finally caught his shoulder and slowed him down. He turned and punched me in the jaw. I fell back to the sand and he stood above me, pointing his finger. "You get the fuck away from me, man!" he said, with fury in his eyes. He turned and ran again. I kept after him. My jaw was swelling and I had a pain in my side from running. We must have continued for a half-mile down the beach. Monk, about ten yards ahead of me, fell to his knees, grabbed two handfuls of sand, and began squeezing them with clenched fists as he cried out: "Motherfucker! Goddamn motherfucker!" He began punching furiously at the sand.

I
approached him slowly, in part to catch my breath so I could speak. I crouched down beside him.