Deep Cover (9 page)

Monk
zipped his fly and started for the door.

"Come
on, Doc. We have a party to go to."

Chapter
7

Bail was set at ten thousand dollars. This was the first time Kevin "Irish" McBright had been arrested since he had left The Henchmen eight months earlier. A state trooper had pulled him over for making an illegal right turn, and the car was searched after the trooper became suspicious. The charge—possession of two grams of cocaine.

During
the twelve years Irish had ridden with the club, he had been pulled over and ticketed more than a hundred times. He had been arrested three of those times for possession of narcotics. Only then he'd had the club's bondsman and legal-defense fund. This time it was his wife, Sandy, who arranged bail.

Irish
had no particular reason for turning in his colors to Counsel. He had just had enough. Years of hard riding, drinking, and fighting had taken their toll. He had to forfeit his motorcycle and blacken his Henchmen tattoos in order to leave. He was told the club would keep a watchful eye on him. He understood.

Sandy
waited outside the courthouse while Richard Clement, the court-appointed lawyer, presented the bond and arranged for his release. Irish was brought into a small conference room and surrendered to his attorney.

"I'm
Dick Clement," said the tall, slightly overweight lawyer.

"Are
you gonna get me off on this piss-ant charge?" said Irish.

"Look,
Mr. McBright, with your record they could give you seven years. Three priors for possession. Fifteen arrests in the last ten years for disorderly conduct. Assault. Attempted mur—"

"All
right, all right. I know the tune," interrupted Irish. "I just think this is bullshit. Most guys walk without a problem for a diddlyshit amount of coke like that. It's not like I was selling the stuff or nothing."

"I
might be able to get you a deal," said Clement. "I talked with a"—he flipped through the pages of his yellow writing pad—"Detective Roberts, this morning."

Irish's
eyes widened. He sat up straight in his chair.

"I'm
listening," he said.

"They
want you to turn state's evidence against a member of the club who they believe strangled a prostitute two years ago. They believe you witnessed the murder. All charges will be dismissed if you're willing to cooperate."

Irish
had witnessed the murder. He and Savage had been making the rounds together one Friday night, collecting from club-controlled prostitutes who were working the downtown streets and massage parlors. Savage thought the girl was lying about a trick that didn't show. When she was unable to produce the twenty dollars, he grabbed her throat and choked the life from her frail body. Irish had never questioned Savage's actions. A brother is always right.

The
biker stood up. He placed his face close to Clement's and said, "Tell them to fuck off."

"Listen,
I think you're making a mistake."

"I said, tell them to fuck off!" Irish was now
shouting. "I may have hung up my colors, but I'm a Henchman for life! A Henchman doesn't rat on his brothers! I’ll do fifty fucking years before I turn punk! You go that straight?”

“Sure.” Clement shook his head. “I got it straight.
Your wife is waiting outside. Your hearing is in two weeks.”

The party was already under way when Monk and I arrived with the beer. Motorcycles were lined up three-deep outside the clubhouse. There was an almost constant rumble of Harley engines. Some bikers would leave the party, kick-start their hogs, throttle the engine, then go back inside. Like a junkie needing a fix, a biker sometimes needs to feel the power of his machine between his legs.

Monk and I carried a keg on our shoulders. Two large pans of ice were set up.
we placed the kegs in the pans and affixed the spouts. The bikers converged on the beer, mugs in hand. Dog didn’t bother to use one. He just put his mouth under the spout and began to guzzle.

“What the fuck took you guys so long?” Dog wanted to know, beer still dripping from his mouth.

“I had to take a leak,” answered Monk. Dog shrugged his shoulders and returned to the beer line. Grateful Dead music was blaring, and some of the old ladies and mamas were dancing topless. The clubhouse was hazy with smoke from joints and cigarettes. Now and again one of the bikers would join the girls, fondle one for a moment, then go back to drinking and smoking with his brothers. Counsel approached and handed me a small silver replica of The Henchmen insignia.

“Stick this on your vest. Leave it there until the party’s over,” he instructed. “A lot of the bros haven’t met you yet. This will let them know you’re a guest.”

"Thanks." I pinned the insignia above my left pocket.

"Don't
get pissed if someone looks you over," added Counsel. "Just make sure they can see the pin. Everyone will know you before the end of the night. You know, last summer a stupid fuck from
The
Los
Angeles
Times
crashed one of our gigs. I guess he thought he'd get some fucking scoop or some shit like that. We tore him a new asshole that night." Counsel looked away for a moment. "Hey, there's Benny." He shouted, "Yo, Benny, come over here, man!"

Benny
was about six-three and must have weighed close to three-fifty. He had long, unkempt brown hair, a full beard, and wore a Harley-Davidson headband. As he came closer, I recognized the young woman with him.
Oh
,
no
! I thought. The words almost slipped out of my mouth.
This
woman
works
for
the
goddamn
police
department
.
My
desk
was
only
ten
feet
away
from
hers
,
for
crissakes
. My heart rate increased, and I began to tremble slightly. If my cover was blown, these guys would cut my throat on the spot.
Okay
,
be
calm
,
stay
cool
.
She
can't
recognize
me
with
my
long
hair
and
full
beard
. I took a deep breath.

"Hey,
Benny, meet Dr. Death of the Satan's Saints."

"What's
happening, Benny?" I said. I nodded slightly toward his girlfriend. She just gave a disinterested half-smile. I didn't mean to stare, but my relief was intense. Counsel must have thought I was eyeing Benny's girl, because he later reminded me of the club rule: No club member or associate should mess around with a brother's old lady. A member's old lady wears a patch that says PROPERTY OF BENNY, or Iron Man, or whomever.

It
was beginning to make sense. Benny's girlfriend was a PAA (Police Assistant Administrator). She had access to the whole goddamn computer network. I used to overhear frustrated officers returning empty-handed after trying to serve an arrest warrant on a Henchman. Obviously she had warned him. He had quietly disappeared until the warrant was old and had-been shoved aside by more pressing business. These bastards had us more infiltrated than we ever had them. Until now…

By
midnight I had met most of the Los Angeles chapter, except for Big Jimmy Hobbs and Fred "Lucky" Fletcher, who were both in jail. I sat down in an armchair, lit a cigarette, and tried to replay the day's events in my mind. One of the mamas, a heavyset girl named Pamela, sat on the arm of my chair and handed me a joint. "How you doing?" she asked.

"I'm
doing okay, babe, how about you?"

"Oh,
I'm just fine, Doc. You want anything tonight, you just come see Mama Pam."

The
thought of intimate contact with her made me ill. I wondered how many cocks she had sucked and how many assholes she had licked today. Besides making themselves available to any club member upon demand, women like Pam would also prostitute for the club. They turned over all of what they earned. The Henchmen gave them drugs and a small allowance for other essentials.

Pam
wore her long black hair straight, so that it partially covered her left eye. The scars she attempted to hide had been made by Little Vinney's cigarette. Her crime: She'd bought herself a pair of shoes with some trick money.

"I'll
let you know," I said, as I handed her back the joint. I laid my head back and closed my eyes. Despite the blaring music, I started to doze off.

As
I drifted away my thoughts turned to Amy and Alex. I imagined my son sleeping in his little bed. I saw Amy reading a book, or maybe watching television. I missed her. There I was in the clubhouse of a major motorcycle gang, when I should have been home with my wife. I shook myself awake. Falling asleep was a dangerous thing to do at a biker party. I remembered from my training with Leverick that bikers don't take too kindly to people who fall asleep too early. Tattooing faces or setting crotches on fire were common penalties.

Lucky
for me the attention at the moment was on Savage. He was being congratulated for today's victory. His right arm was in a sling, and he had a bloodstained dressing across his chest. I offered my seat.

"Thanks,
Doc," he said in a low, weak voice.

"How
you doing, Savage?"

"I'll
be laid up for a while. Probably six weeks. Hey, somebody give me a fuckin' beer!" Pam came running over.

"Nice
patch-up. Who did it?" I asked Iron Man. It hadn't been done in a hospital, that was for sure. All gunshot wounds had to be reported to the police. Savage would have been in jail, or at least held for questioning, if he had been taken to a hospital.

"A
dude named Arthur Paterson. He's got a practice in his home. His daughter is one of our sheep." He was referring to Vicky Paterson. Iron Man had told her father that if he didn't patch up club members he would receive his daughter's head in a hat box. Paterson believed him. He would lose his license and face jail time if he was caught, but he had little choice. His name would be left out of my reports.

Around
two A.M. Iron Man, Counsel, and Crazy went upstairs. Twenty minutes later, Crazy came down and invited me to join them.

He
escorted me to the security room. It contained four file cabinets, with information on members and their families as well as on police officers, drug enforcement officials, local mobsters, ex-members, and anyone else the club took an interest in. I wondered if there was a file on me somewhere in there.

In
the middle of the room was a conference table with four chairs. Iron Man and Counsel were seated. Crazy walked over to his desk. Except for his cutoff denim jacket and leather pants, he looked liked a corporate executive. He sat behind his desk, taking notes on a yellow writing pad. I sat at the table with Counsel and Iron Man.

"Take
a look at this file, Doc," said Counsel, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. "His name is Kevin McBright. He used to ride with us. Now he's a liability, if you know what I mean."

"What's
his situation?" I asked

"He
just got busted and he's about to go punk on us," answered Iron Man.

"We
can't afford ex-members with loose lips," Counsel said, staring straight at me. It would have been more appropriate for him to say that they couldn't afford ex-members, period.

"The
most trustworthy person alive is a dead man," added Iron Man with a slight chuckle.

"You
want me to take care of it?" I asked. My instincts told me to play it out.

"Yes,"
said Savage forcefully. "And soon, too."

"Within
the next five days," added Counsel

"What
does this do for me?"
Besides
keep
me
alive
, I thought to myself. Iron Man and Crazy both looked over at Counsel.

"You
get these," said Counsel. He laid a brand-new set of Henchmen colors on the table. "Just get the job done, and you're in."

"Then
I guess I'm gonna be in." I slapped Iron Man a high-five and picked up McBright's file.
Now
what
the
hell
am
I
going
to
do
?
Take
what
I
have
and
call
in
the
operation
?
Kill
the
guy
? I needed to talk with Leverick or Atwood as soon as possible.