Deep Cover (5 page)

"Hey,
you Dr. Death, ain't you, man?"

"Yeah,"
I answered, without looking up from my copy of
Penthouse
.

"Your
name's all 'round the joint, man. Say you killed three guards."

I
practically laughed out loud. The way the story had gotten changed around reminded me of the telephone game I used to play in school.

"Just
a little hassle, that's all."

"Yeah?
Well, everybody wants to meet Dr. Death. This guy, Dog, has been talking a lot about you, bro. He sent you a message. Says, 'Thanks, brother, see you on the outside.' You going out soon, man?"

"About
a month. They said they wouldn't slap on any more time if I kept my mouth shut about certain things. They'll probably bump me to segregation at Folsom, seeing how mixing with the population gets me in trouble. Know what I mean?" Mendez was nodding his head up and down the entire time I was talking.

"Yeah,
man. I sure do. Maybe if you get in with The Henchmen we can do some business when you get out."

"You
getting out too?" I asked.

"No,
but I still do businesses. My people outside are very loyal. I have someone running things until I get out in about three."

"What
are you here for?" I asked.

"They
busted me on some bullshit weapons charge," Mendez answered. "I sold two guys a couple of niners. They turned out to be feds. They fucked up and couldn't make the sales rap stick, so they settled for possession. The fucking judge gave me the max of five to seven. Hard-ons."

Poppi
was a cool piece of work. He smiled a lot while he spoke, but his ruthlessness was obvious. He seemed like the type of guy who would shoot you in the head, rape your wife and daughter, and celebrate by taking a few friends out for Chinese food using your credit card. He stood about five-eleven, a hundred-eighty pounds. Slim but powerfully proportioned, his jet-black hair and pencil-thin mustache gave him the appearance of a Spanish bullfighter.

"So,
what's your interest in The Henchmen?"

"Niners,
man. You can't do business in L.A. unless you do business with them. I got the product the people want, but I can't reach the buyers. They control the streets, and they got connections all over the country."

Mendez
was referring to the nine-millimeter pistol. This semiautomatic weapon was fast becoming the weapon of choice for street-level drug dealers, hit men, or just about any other vermin who gave himself permission to take a human life just because he thought it necessary. The pistol has a twelve-shot clip and is easily concealed.

"Why
are you talking to me about it? Why don't you talk to them?" I asked.

"Can't
do it, bro. I didn't even get the message for you straight from Dog. We think The Henchmen killed two of our people last year. I can't even talk to one of the motherfuckers. If I do, I'll get my balls cut off. My own people would do it, but my attitude is fuck it. That's past, now it's time to make some bread. I figure with you as a middle man, I can turn over about fifteen hundred pieces in the first two months."

"You
got that many pieces in hand?" I asked with genuine interest.

"No
problem. I got them stored in a warehouse in East L.A. Here, take this number." He handed me a napkin with a phone number written on it. "Just tell them Poppi gave you the number. They'll be expecting your call."

"All
right, Poppi, let's give it a shot." I put the napkin in my shirt pocket and went back to reading my magazine. Mendez lay in his bed, softly singing in Spanish. My thoughts drifted to my wife and son as I slowly fell off to sleep.

On Wednesday morning I was transported about thirty miles east to a local police department holding pen. From there two marshals picked me up, drove me to a café near Route 40, and turned me over to two agents waiting outside in a blue Olds 88.

"Hi,
Martin, I'm Molly Samuels," said the thin, dark-haired woman. Molly was a lawyer from Berkeley. She had joined the Bureau in 1983 after graduating at the top of her class. She could have had her pick of law firms to work for, but instead chose to become an agent. I later learned that her father had been killed on-duty while serving as a police officer in Hollywood.

"Nice
to meet you, Molly," I said, applying a little schoolboy charm.

"This
is Fred Parkins." Parkins leaned against the car, arms folded. He smiled slightly and nodded his head. I returned the gesture. Parkins had a certain arrogance about him. He was tall and slender, with blond hair and blue eyes. He looked more like a beach bum than a special agent. His father owned one of the largest accounting firms in the state. Parkins was himself a CPA, with plans to take over the firm one day. The fact that he wasn't in for the duration made me very nervous.

"Great
to have you on the team," Parkins said.

"It's
great to be had," I said, expecting at least an ice-breaking chuckle from my colleague. None was forthcoming.

As
we drove, I filled them in on my encounter with Fenway and my discussion with Mendez. Parkins was familiar with the Mexican's business and the location of the warehouse.

"We'll
check it out," he said, as he lit a cigarette with the car lighter. "Mendez's people used to control quite a bit of the drug and weapons trade in Southern California until about five years ago. At that time The Henchmen got wise to the opportunities they were missing. Even the mob doesn't want to mess with these guys. They're too crazy for most of the old families' blood. Although this doesn't stop them from subcontracting mechanic work from time to time."

"Here,
take a look at these." Samuels handed me an envelope containing some police photos.

"Who's
this?" I asked, looking at a picture of a guy, dressed in a business suit, slumped in what looked like an office chair, his head bleeding from a bullet wound between his eyes.

"That
is, or should I say 'was,' Ralph W. Dixon. He ran a chain of massage parlors and was in over his head to local loan sharks," said Samuels.

Parkins
interceded. "We think The Henchmen made the hit. In particular, Luis Morgan, the club's sergeant-at-arms. Dixon must have anticipated the visit to his office. He had placed a microcassette recorder inside his desk drawer before the incident took place. Listen." Parkins inserted a tape in the car stereo. I listened intently to a man's last moments of life:

"Who
the hell are you?" The voice obviously Dixon's.

"Time's
up, asshole. Twenty-five thousand
now
," the other voice demanded.

"I
don't have it." Dixon's voice trembling now. "Tell him five more days... three more. Yeah, just three more."

"No
more." Then the
pop
sound of a low-caliber revolver. Then the sound of Dixon's last gasp for air.

"Is
that all?" I asked.

"That's
it," said Samuels.

"What
makes you think Morgan made the hit?"

"Descriptions
given by people in the building lobby and on the street outside," answered Parkins. "They all say a man about six-three, two hundred-fifty pounds, with long black hair and beard, left the building at eight-thirty. The coroner's report clocks the time of death between seven and nine.

"We
suspect Morgan's the club's main hitter. He more than likely handles all the subcontracted hit work from the Mob. The local police are investigating the murder, and my guess is that they'll pick Morgan up eventually. Then, when the witnesses learn that he's a Henchman, there'll be a few sudden cases of amnesia."

"I
hope one day I'll have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Morgan," I said, with a twinge of arrogance. I was feeling pretty sure of myself at that moment. I think now that it must have been something about Parkins. I wasn't able to put my finger on it then, but I just couldn't relax around the guy. I was overcompensating by trying to appear seasoned and confident. With the exception of getting clocked over the head the prison work had gone well, so I guess the feelings were partly genuine.

We
arrived at Leverick's home in Sherman Oaks, a Los Angeles suburb about twenty miles from the center of town. Atwood and Leverick were waiting for us when we arrived shortly after four P.M.

"Hello,
Martin! Great to see you, kid!" Atwood said enthusiastically, his face glowing like that of a father welcoming his son home from college.

"Good
to see you, too."

"Of
course you know Dalton Leverick."

"Of
course." I reached out and shook Dalton's hand. "Dalton."

"Martin.
Nice job inside."

"Piece
of cake."

"How's
your head?"

"Like
iron." I tapped the side of my head with my knuckles.

"Okay,
Lead Head," joked Atwood. "Let's get started. First of all, here's the phone number to Base I. Memorize it. One of us will always be there. Report everything, no matter how minor. We'll prepare the 302's from whatever information you relay to us. When the case is made and we're ready to move we'll pull you in, have you sign the forms, obtain the warrants, and make the arrests. We'll need names, dates, and the time any incident occurred."

"As
I mentioned to you already," Leverick interjected, "it may be necessary from time to time to bring in other agents or local law enforcement. This won't be done without your prior knowledge, and only if it's critical to making the case. Okay?"

"Sure,
that's fine." I had long since cooled down about the prison guard incident.

"Here
are the keys to your apartment, Martin," Samuels said as she handed them to me. "Apartment 3F, 425 Wilkes Street. That's just four blocks from Mike's, a bar The Henchmen frequent. And it's only six blocks from The Henchmen's clubhouse on Fourth Avenue.

"Here's
your driver's license, James T. Randall. It's all the ID you'll need, and it's probably twice as much as some of The Henchmen have. And this is the key to a garage leased in Randall's name. You'll find a Harley 74, chopped, stripped down, and ready for the road." Samuels smiled as she handed me the keys.

"Now
what?" I asked.

"Now
you just move into the neighborhood," said Leverick. "Drive around a little each day. Be seen around town, especially in front of Mike's bar. In about two weeks, seek out Fenway."

"The
rest is improvisation, buddy," said Parkins. This guy annoyed me every time he opened his mouth. I shrugged him off.

"Let's
go. We'll take you within a few blocks of Wilkes Street," said Samuels, as she ushered me toward the door. I said good-bye to Leverick and Atwood, then left with my two escorts.

Chapter
4

Mike's had been a biker bar since 1947. At that time groups like The Main Street Fighters and The Young Angry Sons of Bitches (later to become the first chapter of The Henchmen) frequented the place. The original bikers were made up mostly of World War II veterans who'd had trouble adjusting to civilian life. By the late fifties dozens of motorcycle gangs had sprung up all over the country, with the largest concentration in Southern California. By the early seventies The Henchmen had pedaled their influence up and down the state, as well as to several states across the country.

The
bar was particularly noisy this night, because Jerome "Dog" Fenway had just been released from Boldero Prison after serving more than two years of a seven-year conviction on assault and attempted murder charges. The entire East Los Angeles chapter, except for those still serving time, were assembled at Mike's for the celebration of Dog's return.

The
head honchos of The Henchmen always sat in the same part of the bar. There was a booth in the back that had a clear view of the entrance, so the head Henchmen could monitor all the comings and goings while there. In their absence, the booth remained empty.

Kurt
"Counsel" Benson, the club's president since '72, and his four officers invited Dog over to sit with them. It was understood by club members and the regular patrons of Mike's that no one was to cross the line to that back booth without an invitation.

"Brother."
Counsel to Dog. "Welcome back, man."

"Yeah,"
said Henry "Hank the Shank" Becker, the club's vice-president.

"Welcome
home, blood." He raised his beer mug slightly, then took a gulp. Hank had rotten teeth, long hair that looked almost like dreadlocks, and thin, bony fingers with long, dirty nails.

Luis
"Iron Man" Morgan, sergeant-at-arms, threw a small patch onto the table. "For you, brother. It's an original." Dog picked up the patch with the double S's in the form of lightning bolts—the insignia of Hitler's infamous SS—and placed it in his vest pocket. "Thanks, bro," he said. Iron Man nodded.

"Tell
us 'bout how ya got sent up," said Victor "Crazy" Crawford, the club's road captain and security officer.

"Yeah,
I love that story." Vincent "Little Vinney" Brown, the secretary and treasurer. "Nobody fucks with the Dog."

Dog
picked at his beard and looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to recollect an incident that had taken place twenty rather than two years earlier.

"I
think it was July... maybe August. Yeah, it was August. My ole lady and me had a tent set up in the mountains and was 'bout to settle down for a nice afternoon nap when some stupid-ass, young punk faggot forest rangers tell me I gotta move the fucking tent to the public campground. Now it's only a piece of canvas on a rope, one end tied to my Hog, one to a tree. But that's not the point. Point is the punks showed no respect."

The
four bikers listened intently, as if hearing the story for the first time.

"So
I stab this one dude, right? The other asshole runs like a motherfucker. So I figured I'd better split, right? Figure there's gotta be enough time to get laid first, though. This dude's layin' on the ground, bleedin' and cryin' for his momma or whatever, I'm fuckin' away in my tent and bingo—half the fucking troopers in the state are on my ass before I even come.

"So
when they bust me, right, this trooper asks me why I hung around. I told him, 'I didn't think you fuckers would be back so soon, and I wanted to get laid. Kicking the shit out of some asshole always gets me horny.' "

The
bikers laughed and pounded the table. Counsel rose from his seat unsteadily. He lifted his pitcher of beer and bellowed:

"Yo,
listen the fuck up!"

The
bar immediately fell silent, the assembled bikers growing as attentive as a class of Catholic schoolboys when the Brother taps his ruler on the desk.

"Tanigh',"
he continued, his words somewhat slurred, "we celabate Dog's return from the Big House. They don't make motherfuckers tougher than him."

Counsel
gestured toward their reunited brother.

"Dog
... I love you, man. May you ride free and die hard."

Counsel
proceeded to chug the pitcher, as the entire bar chanted "Dog! Dog! Dog!" He officially ended his speech by smashing the pitcher against the table. The patrons roared, the sixty or so people in the bar that night sounding like six hundred. Ten minutes later, things had settled down to their usual chaos.

Counsel sat, arms folded, taking in the celebration, enjoying all that was his. The club's National President remembered the first time he'd come face-to-face with the legendary Henchmen.

He
had been a first-year law student, working part-time as an auto mechanic. About thirty club members pulled into the station on the way back from an August run and asked to use the garage's facilities to work on their bikes. He knew of their reputation for brutalizing anyone who provoked them, so he granted their request. To his amazement, he found when they'd departed that every tool had been cleaned with gasoline and returned to its original place. The floors had been swept, and every drop of fuel and oil paid for.

It
was only a matter of time before he became obsessed with this band of marauding cyclists. He relished the thought of being free and riding hard with this modern-day James Gang. Like Robin Hood's righteous band of fighting men, their retaliation was always total, their purpose pure and focused. No one dared to take on these warriors en masse. They were the nomads of city life, the heroes of kids brought up on comic books and pro wrestling. He knew in his heart that he was an outlaw biker—and knew The Henchmen was his future club.

It
took Counsel a year of prospecting before he got his colors. Two years later he was elected unanimously to the post of president, after killing three members of The Outcasts, a rival club, in a knife fight at a San Francisco party.

Now
he laughed to himself as he watched Dog guzzle beers and joke with the other bikers. Eight years earlier, Counsel had sponsored Dog for membership.

Iron
Man nudged Counsel. "Hey, prez, you look like you're in another world. What's up?"

"Just
diggin' my head, brother." Iron Man shrugged it off and returned his attention to the festivities. Counsel returned to his thoughts, the image of a slimmer, younger Dog prospecting for him.

The
nervous striker walked past the idle patrol car for the third time. It was hot that afternoon, and Counsel was beginning to get irritated. He sat inside the van, waiting impatiently for the potential club member to fulfill his requirements. Glaring at the prospect, he pointed his finger at the patrol car and whispered intensely, "Do it, asshole!" The apprehensive candidate walked to the patrol car, opened the door, and urinated on the driver's seat. Counsel fell back laughing, as two uniforms exploded from the coffee shop.

Counsel
pounded the dashboard as the two police officers bolted after their prey. Dog whisked down the avenue and around the corner, his organ still exposed.

"Assholes!"
wheezed a now-out-of-breath Counsel, as the uniforms turned the corner out of sight. Less than three minutes later, the two red-faced officers turned up the street without their target—out of breath, and furious at having been humiliated by a filthy punk.

About
thirty minutes had passed when Counsel came upon the exhausted prospect, sitting on the steps of a shut-down social club on 9th Street.

"Get
in, dipshit," he said with a broad grin.

"Jesus,
those cops were pissed!"

"Hell,
yes! You're lucky they didn't
shoot
your ass!"

"What's
next, Counsel?"

"The
last item, shithead, and then—if you play your cards right during probation—membership, and your Henchmen colors."

"Let's
have it."

"Go
to Chin's deli, pick up a six-pack of Coors, two packs of Lucky's, rolling paper, potato chips, a crunch bar, and a copy of
Mad
magazine."

"That
it?"

"Yeah
... and don't pay for shit."

"Wait
a second! That chink's a crazy motherfucker! He keeps a double-barrel and a .357 under the counter. He wasted two niggers last year during a rip-off!"

"Listen,
fuck-nut, I don't care how you do it. Waste him first, if you want to. Just get the shit and don't fuckin' pay, or you'll be a wannabe for the rest of your miserable life."

"Fuck
you, Counsel. Let's go to the chink's."

By
now Dog had been prospecting for five months, and he wasn't going to let some quick-triggered Chinaman keep him from his dream.

Counsel
pulled the van across the street from Chin's. It was about seven P.M., and the streets were starting to get dark. They walked toward the deli, Dog looking like a boxer approaching the ring on the night of a championship bout. Cold, determined, but obviously masking a belly full of butterflies. He looked over at Counsel. Counsel nodded, as if to assure him that he would put his life on the line for him if he was truly at risk.

As
they entered the store, Chin was sitting behind his counter watching a rerun of
Mission
Impossible
on a poorly working black-and-white TV. Children could be heard laughing above the faint sound of Oriental music in the back-room apartment of the store. Counsel sniffed the air, enjoying the sweet aroma of the cooking smell from the back room. He flipped through the pages of a news magazine while Dog continued with his mission.

Chin
sensed Dog's uneasiness and stood by his chair, expectant. With everything on the list except for the cigarettes and rolling paper, Dog began his approach to the counter, his eyes locked with Chin's.

"Two
packs of Lucky's and a pack of E-Z wider," Dog demanded, with uncertainty in his voice. Chin reached behind and to the right, pulling two packs of Lucky Strikes off the cigarette rack without taking his eyes from Dog's. He then pointed to the display case of rolling paper on the counter. Dog slowly removed a pack and handed it to Chin.

Chin
began to speak.

"Will
there be anything el—" Dog's fist found Chin's forehead. Blood began to pour from his head and he fell against the cigarette rack. Dog and Counsel leaped through the doorway and ran across the street as car tires shrieked, narrowly avoiding the darting figures.

"Let's
get the fuck out of here, Counsel!" cried Dog as Chin appeared in the doorway, shotgun in hand, bleeding from the head and crazy for revenge. Counsel pushed the gas pedal to the floor and sped away, as the dazed Asian pumped four shots at the escaping vehicle.

Things
were
simpler
then
, thought Counsel.
Much
simpler
. The bikers partied at Mike's until two A.M., then moved the celebration to the clubhouse for the rest of the night.