Deep Cover (7 page)

I arrived at Mike's early the next evening. None of The Henchmen had arrived, and only a few of what seemed to be regulars were drinking at the bar.

"What
can I get ya?" asked the bartender, a short, muscular man in his late forties. His face was hard, stone-like. His eyes were tired. I wondered what those eyes had witnessed in this bar over the years.

"I'll
have a beer." He nodded, placed a napkin on the bar, then filled a glass from the tap.

"Hi
there," came a female voice from behind me. "You must be Dr. Death."

"Who's
asking?"

"I'm
Christy. Word is all around the street about you. Used to be a Saint, right?"

"Still
am," I said. "Word travels fast, don't it?"

"Sure
does, Doc." She sat on the stool in front of me, her legs spread open. A sorry, drug-addicted whore. Her vest bore a PROPERTY OF THE HENCHMEN patch over the left pocket. Her legs and arms bore black-and-blue marks.

"For
a twenty, I can make you feel right," she said, as she placed her hand between my legs and gently massaged my crotch.

I
pushed her hand away. "I got business. Maybe later." Those terribly sad eyes locked into mine. It was as if she sensed my compassion. Her eyes grew watery.

"Sure,
Doc. Maybe a freebee for you. Somethin's different about you, man. I can't put my finger on it. Somethin'."

At
that moment I felt incredibly sad. For her. For me. For my wife Amy.

The
sudden roar of motorcycles liberated me from my predicament. Christy quickly retreated to the rear of the bar like a frightened mouse. I spun around on my stool and faced the doorway. The rest of the patrons never flinched. They kept drinking and bullshitting as if they hadn't heard the thunderous approach of the outlaws.

Iron
Man Morgan was the first to come through the door. It was customary for the sergeant-at-arms to walk into a public establishment first when traveling with the club's president. Counsel was next, followed by Little Vinney, Dog, Hank the Skank Becker, and Henry "Savage" Rivers. I was introduced to the members I didn't know and invited to sit down at the rear booth.

There
was a white-tape line on the floor surrounding The Henchmen's table. At the edge of the line was a sign on a short metal post that read: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE UNLESS YOU ARE INVITED. Nobody ever crossed it. Not even a member's old lady could just walk in and run up to her man. Even if she had money to give him, earned from a night of giving blow jobs to horny johns, she would still have to wait outside the line until summoned across.

"Let's
have it," demanded Counsel. I couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses. The shades and his long light-brown hair and beard made him resemble a hip, slightly overweight Jesus Christ. Lord knows, the members treated him like a savior.

"The
Mexicans are anxious to make a deal," I said. "We can have their entire stock of fifteen hundred pieces and an option on a thousand more. It's set for tomorrow morning at eight o'clock."

"Where?"
asked Savage.

"At
the warehouse on Pier 40, by the tracks. They'll be waiting in a red pickup," I said, looking into his cold, piercing eyes.

I
learned later that Savage and Iron Man were members of The Wild Bunch. About eight Henchmen from the L.A. chapter wore this patch on the front of their vests. It was issued to the club's killers. My cover's reputation was supposed to rival theirs, but they scared the hell out of me.

"All
right," said Counsel. "Iron Man, Savage, and Dog go with you. No colors. No bikes. Take the gray van."

The
club had three vans, which were kept in rented garages around East Los Angeles. The other two, a 1980 brown Caravan and an '86 blue Ford, were available on a first-come, first-served basis to all members. All three trucks were registered in the name of Alison Green, Victor Crawford's girlfriend.

"Do
you have a piece, Doc?" Counsel asked.

"No.
Not yet."

"Meet
at the clubhouse at seven-thirty. Savage will give you one. What's your pleasure?"

"Doesn't
matter really. A twelve-shot niner like the ones we're getting tomorrow would be nice."

"You
got it. Let's have a few beers." Counsel motioned to Christy, who came running over with two pitchers of beer.

Mike's
was becoming crowded. Many of the people who frequented the bar were regulars. The Henchmen never bothered them. In fact, many of them felt safer in that bar than in their own homes.

One
story I heard was about a woman, Jenny, who had been followed to the bar one night by two men looking to collect on her dead husband's gambling debts. These guys must not have known, or didn't care, that this was a Henchmen bar. Despite her protests, they sat down next to her at the bar and harassed her until Counsel and Fat Jack lifted them off their chairs, threw them a beating, and tossed them into the street. They were both hospitalized.

By
midnight The Henchmen had discussed fourteen murders, countless cases of rape, sodomy, and theft, and two future assassinations. One potential victim was a tough, street-smart police sergeant in New York and the other a writer named Ross who lived near San Francisco. The club was pissed at Ross for having written some revealing articles about The Henchmen for
World
Weekly
Magazine. I was worried that I wouldn't be able to keep all this information in my head until I got back to my apartment to write it down. I, of course, had to brag of my escapades. My active imagination, and my access to Bureau files on "Dr. Death" Randall's alleged activities, made my tales convincing. Integrity and brains.

I
heard a bike pulling up outside the bar. Aside from a couple of raised eyebrows, no one paid much attention. It wasn't unusual for members to come by Mike's throughout the night. I later learned that The Henchmen never met at Mike's without a guard on the roof with a thirty-thirty rifle and infrared scope. An attack from a rival club was a constant threat, real or imagined.

All
Henchmen turned toward the door.

"What
the fuck is that?" said Iron Man.

Walking
through the doorway was something I had seen before only in sadomasochistic magazines. A leatherman, complete from his leather police cap to the spurs and studs on his boots. He walked right up to the white line and the dismayed outlaws.

"I
have fifty bucks for anyone who has something I can choke on," lisped the leatherman.

The
bikers looked around, their eyes bulging in disbelief. Then, all at once, they began laughing and slapping each other on the back. When the laughing had subsided, Hank the Skank stood up from his chair.

"Let's
see the fifty, bitch," Hank ordered. The leatherman complied. Hank then whipped out his cock, ordered the man under the table, and enjoyed what he later described as the best blow job of his life. This assignment was beginning to get weird.

Chapter
6

It was a wet, chilly morning. Savage was already waiting inside the van when I arrived at the clubhouse at seven-fifteen.

"Get
in, Doc," he said as he rolled down the window. I hopped in and sat on the passenger's seat.

"Here's
your niner."

"Twelve
shots?"

"Yeah,
here are some more clips." He handed me three twelve-shot cartridges.

"We're
just buying some guns, Savage, not going to war, man."

"You
never know, bro. I don't trust these fucking Frito-heads for shit. I'm ready for anything. You'd better be too."

Our
conversation was interrupted by a tap at the window. It was Dog and Iron Man. Dog was drinking a beer, holding the rest of a six-pack with his free hand. He looked like he was ready to go fishing or camping. Savage pointed toward the rear with his thumb. They piled in through the rear doors.

"Morning,
gents," said Dog.

"Dickhead,"
Savage mumbled under his breath.

Dog
and Iron Man immediately began assembling a tripod and a thirty-millimeter submachine gun. The van had special mounts which accommodated the tripods of various machine guns, as well as an antitank missile launcher.

"Ready
for anything, eh, Savage?" I remarked.

"Fuck,
yeah."

Now
I was beginning to wish I'd asked for backup when I had the chance. These guys were ready for war. I wasn't prepared to get shot just to make a weapons buy. One minute I couldn't believe my good fortune, and the next I was wondering what the hell I was doing there. Integrity and brains. Roger Wolfe used to say to me when I was a kid, "Integrity will guide you to make the right decision. Brains will help you survive."

We
drove for about forty minutes, discussing our favorite ways to waste somebody. I boasted of my skill with the niner and baseball bat. I must have sounded convincing, because the other bikers all seemed eager to boast of their own killing abilities. The method didn't matter much to Savage. If he had to choose, he preferred to work with explosives. A skill that he'd mastered while in the Army. Savage occasionally instructed chapter members on how to rig a remote-controlled bomb, using only dynamite and parts found in any common radio-parts store.

Iron
Man loved the niner, the .38, and the ball peen hammer, which he always carried at his side, the way a carpenter carries his tape measure. One blow in the head from the likes of this psychopath could kill a man instantly. Dog, on the other hand, preferred to kill people with bad jokes.

"Hey,
yo, listen. Why do bitches have two holes so close together?" Then, without waiting for our reply: "So when they get too fucked up you can carry them home like a six-pack."

The dock was vacant when we arrived. We were about ten minutes early, so Savage and I walked from the van to within eighty feet of the warehouse. He carried the suitcase with the cash. We positioned ourselves directly in line with the back doors of the van. In case something went sour, Dog and Iron Man would have a clear shot.

The
Mexicans were punctual. Three of them piled out of the cab of a red pickup and approached us. A paunchy, dark-skinned man in his early forties walked in front. The other two, in their early twenties, if that, lagged behind.

"
Buenos
dias
,
hombres
," said the Mexican.

I
nodded, saying nothing. Savage stood motionless.

"May
I see the money,
señor
?"

"
May
I see the guns,
muchacho
?" Savage responded.

"Of
course,
señor
. They are in the back of the truck."

"Wait
here," Savage said, handing me the suitcase.

"Your
friend is not very trusting,
señor
."

"Neither
am I," I said. I trusted this guy less with each passing second. His eyes sparkled with greed. His toothy smile was forced. I looked over toward the pickup, and Savage had already opened one of the crates. He gave me the thumbs-up. I knelt on one knee and opened the suitcase so the Mexican could see the cash. As I slowly handed the case up to him, I noticed a small, round metal object behind the dumpster near the warehouse. It looked very much like the nose of an Uzi. The Mexican noticed the direction of my glance. He looked at the dumpster. Then at me. Toward the dumpster again. I rose to my feet. He reached behind and grabbed a gun from his belt.

"
Matalos
!" he shouted, as he took aim at my head. I dove toward his legs and brought him down. An explosive strike to his nose with the heel of my palm put him out. The doors of the van opened. Dog and Iron Man sprayed the two other men with machine gun fire. They were still reaching for their guns as their bodies were riddled with bullets.

The
two men crouching behind the dumpster came out firing. Savage fell. I hit the ground and took out one of them with a shot to the head. Dog and Iron Man got the other one.

I
picked myself up and, holding my gun outstretched from my body, moved slowly in a circle. Iron Man jumped from the van and picked up Savage. He was bleeding from the chest and leg.

"It's
not bad," Savage said through gritted teeth. "How'd we do?"

"We
got all the fuckers," Iron Man assured him. He then turned to me. "Doc, take the pickup and meet us at the clubhouse." Dog helped him lift Savage into the van. I grabbed the suitcase. We left five stiffs behind. I wondered if it had been a set-up from the beginning. Or had I simply discovered two extra men, brought along for security? I would never be quite sure.

Iron
Man met me twenty minutes after I arrived at the clubhouse.

"Let's
get these crates inside, then ditch this wetback piece of shit."

"How's
Savage?" I asked.

"He'll
be okay. Dog is getting him patched up now.”

We
carried five crates into one of the most fortified buildings I'd ever been in. It had more surveillance systems and weapons than most police buildings. After we'd unloaded the crates from the truck, Iron Man ordered one of the prospects to ditch the pickup.

"How
about a tour, Doc?" Iron Man offered.

"Why
not?" I accepted casually, hiding my excitement. Touring the clubhouse was not only critical to the case, I was personally looking forward to it.

The
clubhouse was a three-story building attached to a double garage. On the first floor the walls had been knocked down, creating a triple-size garage area. Two vans and as many as forty bikes could be stored there at any time. The entire building was surrounded by an iron fence. Motion-detectors and closed-circuit cameras covered the entire perimeter. When the detectors were activated, an alarm sounded inside the club. If no one reset the alarms within one minute, the signals were diverted to the homes of Counsel, Iron Man, and Hank the Skank. The same was true if any of the burglar alarms on any door or window were activated. Every door was steel-reinforced, and every window had steel shutters with openings for gun ports.

The
rest of the first floor was mainly a rec room. It had chairs, some couches, mattresses, a few tables, and a small kitchen. The kitchen had three refrigerators, two of which were stocked exclusively with American-brand beer.

Next
Iron Man took me to the second floor.

"On
this floor there's four crash rooms, Doc," he said. "Any brother can sleep here if he pays twenty bucks for each night. This is the security room." He pointed to the door at the end of the hallway. "Next to that is Counsel's office."

I
remembered from the training manual that each Henchmen chapter had its own security officer. Months before a bike run takes place the security officer plans routes, contacts local law enforcement of the towns they will be passing through, and places scouts, with rifles, along the way. It's up to the security officer to ensure the safety of all riders.

"The
Outcasts are our number-one security problem. Those motherfuckers would love to fuckin' ambush two hundred Henchmen on our way to the mountains."

Iron
Man didn't mention that the security officer also keeps files on all club members and their families, old ladies, mamas; police and feds; and just about anyone else that might at one time or another be an asset or an enemy to the club. So important is he to the club that the security officer often doesn't wear his colors in public.

The
third floor was the weapons and drug stash. In addition to the occasional guard outside the front of the building, the third floor was guarded twenty-four hours a day. Upon entering the third floor, you were immediately greeted by an automatic weapon-toting individual.

"Hey,
Snake. This is Dr. Death, the last living member of the Satan's Saints."

"Doc."
The stone-faced biker nodded. "You gotta have a patch before you can come up here on your own, Doc. Brothers have to sign in before taking anything. Street names will do it. We know who everybody is."

Any
member could take drugs and weapons from the room they called "The Stash." Drugs had to be replaced by cash or by more drugs within twenty-four hours.

The
club had an impressive arsenal. Over a hundred handguns, knives, clubs, and other small weapons were spread out on tables in the stash room. There were also several hundred plastic bags of methamphetamine, in tiny vials, ready for distribution. The Henchmen didn't bother much anymore with small-time, street-level dealing. Except, of course, if something useful could come of it.

"Everybody
gets high, Doc," said Iron Man. "One of our brothers supplied a police lieutenant's daughter. The bitch gave us all sorts of info she got from papers and shit her father brought home. We had this gig going till she was busted for possession and sent to a rehab program."

"Tough
luck," I said.

"Fuck
it. That's why we try not to supply users anymore. We only sell weight, 'cept at some of the truck stops."

Iron
Man brought me to the TCB (Taking Care of Business) room. No one was allowed access unless accompanied by the club president, sergeant-at-arms, security officer, or vice-president. This room was alarmed, and you had to know a four-digit code to gain entrance. I tried to see the four numbers as he pressed them, without seeming interested. I could only make out 5-9-2. The fourth was either a 3 or a 6.

This
room was reserved for the heavy artillery. Thirty Uzi submachine guns, a 3.5-inch rocket-launcher, and fifteen AK47 Russian-made assault rifles. (I found this a bit ironic. The Henchmen had a reputation for being staunch anti-Communists. Apparently their hatred for the Reds wasn't deep enough to prevent them from purchasing this celebrated combat weapon.) There were also several crates of grenades and about one hundred pounds of dynamite, complete with wiring and timing devices for homemade bombs—all neatly stacked on one side of the room. The other side contained racks of M16's, probably over fifty in all, sawed-off shotguns, eighty .45-caliber handguns, thirty .357 Magnum handguns, and four bazookas.

"Some
fucking collection, eh, Doc?"

Iron
Man stood with his arms akimbo, lips stiffened, nodding his head in approval.

"Fuck,
yeah," I said. "I was impressed with the shit you had in the stash room. But you could hold off a fucking army with the shit you got here."

He
activated the alarm again as we left.

When
we returned to the first floor, three club members were sitting around a table. Among them was Monk, an ex-soldier and weapons expert. Monk often did guard duty on the roof of Mike's when regular meetings took place. I asked Iron Man why they didn't just meet at the clubhouse each week. He told me it was a tradition for the club's hierarchy to meet at Mike's—that was where it had all started. He also said that real club business was discussed in Counsel's office. The meetings at Mike's were nothing more than routine, except for the occasional deal brought in by outsiders. That's what I had been until this morning. The five corpses we'd left by the dock had changed my status—literally overnight.

"Monk,
c'mere, man," said Iron Man. "This is Dr. Death."

Monk
passed the joint the trio was sharing and approached us.

"Hey,
Doc, heard you had some action this morning," he said.

"A
little."

"A
little, my ass. You took care of fucking business today, Jack." He gulped down the rest of his beer. "Listen, man, we need more beer for tonight's party. You want to take a ride, brother?"