Gods of Mischief (12 page)

In those days the principal of Hemet High School hated my guts—understandable, given my antisocial behavior—and it seemed Mr. Vanderwater was hauling me into his office to suspend my ass every other week.

I was suspended for blowing up a lavatory toilet with a cherry bomb (not guilty, Your Honor), for screwing a senior girl in a second-floor stairwell (guilty as charged) and twice for smoking pot on school grounds (which never happened). It was true I hung out with the potheads—I preferred hanging with those laid-back dudes—but toking weed made me sick to my stomach, so I stuck with cigarettes and screwed my lungs instead.

Principal Vanderwater couldn't have cared less. The man wanted me expelled and was willing to do just about anything to make it happen, even if it meant bending the truth for the greater good. Twice he
lied to Pat and Dodi, telling them I was smoking pot during school hours, and twice Pat punished me for those lies with a beating. To make sure I stayed out of trouble, he'd drop by the school during lunch period to keep an eye on me.

One afternoon while doing his usual lunchtime surveillance, Pat's pager went off. When he dialed back the number he found himself talking to Principal Vanderwater, who told him I'd just been caught smoking weed again.

It was more bullshit from the principal, and now Pat knew he was being lied to.

Furious, he stormed into the school yard, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and headed straight for the school office with a bunch of my classmates in tow. They'd heard Pat's marching orders; “Either you kick that bastard's lying ass or I'll kick yours.”

I couldn't believe my ears. I'd been given the green light to waylay Principal Vanderwater. We turned into the office, leaving my classmates outside in the hall gawking through the glass, then waited at the counter for Vanderwater to appear. When he finally did, he got the surprise of the school year when I hit him with every bit of strength I could muster.

As you can imagine, that was the punch heard round the halls of Hemet High for a long time. The police were called and Principal Vanderwater threatened to have me prosecuted. Must have changed his mind, though, because he took the matter to the school board and got me thrown out of Hemet High instead. A year later, sometime during junior year, I dropped out of school for good. That had to be a glorious day for Vanderwater. Man must've thrown himself one helluva party.

There would be many
anxious moments during my time undercover, moments when I honestly wondered if I'd ever come home again. Countless times I thought of walking away, or bent the ear of the Man upstairs, asking Him to keep me safe. But heading for Winchester that
day for the Hemet chapter's first annual run was the first time I'd felt a real sense of danger and self-doubt.

Despite those feelings, I wasn't about to bail on my commitment to Hemet, the ATF and myself . . . I wasn't going home with my ass whipped. Because the hard truth was, I was a forty-two-year-old sinner who'd never done a damn thing he was particularly proud of in life. And I saw that mission as my once-in-a-lifetime chance to finally succeed at something worthwhile . . . something I actually believed in.

I had to keep going no matter what.

So there I was in the parking lot of a Winchester biker bar, helping set up folding chairs for the big Vagos bash, when the Norco chapter came rumbling in on their Harley-Davidsons. You could always spot those Norco boys, man. The patches sewn on their cuts, awarded in recognition of services rendered to the club, always looked brand-new and ready to wear. That's because Quickie John, the Norco P, handed them out for practically any occasion. He thought they made his chapter look cool.

Perfect church attendance? Get a patch.

Eat all your vegetables? Get a patch.

Wipe your ass properly? Sure, here's a patch for that too.

As soon as those Vagos dismounted they approached Big Todd, who pointed in my direction. I kept unfolding chairs but watched them coming from the corner of my eye—maybe six or seven of them, trailed by that smart-mouthed punk I'd popped at Johnny's. I figured this was it. I was about to get gang jumped.

“You George Rowe?” said the patched Vagos leading the group.

“That's me.”

“I heard what you did to my nephew.”

So this was Uncle Mike, Norco's vice president.

“Your nephew called my old lady a cunt,” I told him. “What would you have done?”

Mike glanced briefly over his shoulder at the long-haired douche before pointing at my arm cast.

“So you hit him with that?”

“That's right.”

“You hit my nephew with a fuckin' cast?” said Mike, heating up.

“Yup.”

Like I've said, I fought a lot of men over the years, and experience tells you when an opponent is preparing to unload. The body coils and there's a look in the eyes that's primal—almost wolflike. You can recognize it when you know what to look for.

That day, facing Uncle Mike, I was definitely seeing it.

I felt my senses sharpen and my mind snap into focus. My body was tuned in now, primed and ready for the assault to come. Usually I let the other guy take the first swing; it always put me in the mood to rumble. Once Uncle Mike took his best shot, I was pretty sure what would be coming next. The rest of the Norco boys would immediately pile on and turn a fair fight into a lopsided rout . . . it was the outlaw way. I planned on using my arm cast to block some of those blows—with luck maybe even break a few hands—but I also knew I had an ace in the hole. There was a buck knife sheathed on the back of my belt. If I had to pull that blade to save my skin, I'd do it without a moment's hesitation.

“Hold up!”

Just as we were about to dance, Big Roy was cutting in.

“I know all about what happened, and I'm gonna handle it,” he told Uncle Mike. Then he turned to the nephew and announced loud enough for everyone to hear, “There's at least four other guys here who saw what happened at Johnny's. You were out of line, and you know it.”

The punk kept his mouth shut.

“George is a Hemet hang-around,” Big Roy told Uncle Mike. “If anyone's gonna punish him, it'll be us.”

I felt like the naughty schoolboy again, caught between my adoptive father and Principal Vanderwater.

Mike thought it over a moment then told Roy, “Alright, P. But if you don't take care of this, we will.”

That said, he walked away with his nephew and the rest of the Norco Vagos in tow. As soon as they'd cleared earshot Big Roy turned on me and hissed, “You owe me, motherfucker.”

“I appreciate it, Roy, but—”

“Shut the fuck up and listen,” he snapped. “Don't ever make this chapter look bad again, do you understand me?” Then he pointed at the ground. “When you're done setting up the chairs, I want you to find a fuckin' broom and sweep.”

I looked around.

“You want me to sweep the parking lot?”

“Are you fucking deaf? I said clean up this mess.”

Man, I was pissed. Here I was, a grown man being ordered around by a punk-ass bitch. Any other time I would have grabbed that prick by the throat and bitch-slapped him six ways to Sunday. But for the sake of the mission I swallowed that asshole's shit and swept the parking lot, daydreaming of the day John Carr would throw open Big Roy's cell door and I'd step inside for a little payback. I'd beat that bastard bloody, then walk right out again with a parting “Now clean up this mess.”

Man, I couldn't wait.

G
eorge, it's Billy. Listen, I really need you to do me that favor.”

“Huh? Who the fuck is this?”

The phone call had slapped me from a sound sleep, and it took a few seconds to clear the cobwebs and realize who I was talking to. Billy was on the line again, that crazy kid who'd been tossed in the can for beating up his even crazier girlfriend. He was calling from the jail in Temecula for a third time, and each plea was growing more desperate than the last.

“You gotta help me, man. I don't know what else to do.”

“Neither do I,” I said. “Already told you there's nothing—”

“You can tell that bitch to drop the charges,” he jumped in. “She'll listen to you.”

“Billy—”

“George, if Jenna testifies against me, I'm fucked. I am totally fucked. Please. There's no one else. You gotta talk to her, George. Please.”

This was one more aggravation I didn't need, but the kid was facing serious jail time for assault and battery, and he was freaking out. I knew Billy wouldn't quit calling until I did as he asked.

I rubbed my eyes and sighed, “Where is she?”

I drove out to the place where Billy figured his old lady might be shacking up—a house belonging to one of her longtime tweaker pals. Jenna was supposedly there trying to get clean ahead of a drug test with Child Protective Services. If she failed it, there was a strong possibility she would permanently lose the child she and Billy had made together.

My knock went unanswered, but the door was unlocked, so I let myself in.

The place was a shithole. I moved through the living room into the kitchen, where I found the counters littered with rotting food and fat flies. I headed into the hall, then turned into the first bedroom. And that's where I found Jenna.

The girl was on the downside of a high, laying half naked on the bed and curled on her side. She seemed to recognize me standing in the doorway but barely moved.

“What are you doing here?” she mumbled.

“Billy asked me to check on you.”

“Fuck Billy,” she said, closing her eyes. “Fuck that asshole.”

I walked to the edge of the bed and noticed the rubber tubing and an empty syringe on the nightstand.

Jenna always had a sweet tooth for heroin. In high school she'd spread that shit on tinfoil, put a match to it and chase the dragon, sucking the smoke through a straw. Then she took it a step further when a girlfriend got hold of her diabetic aunt's syringes. At her peak Jenna was shooting up every four hours like clockwork. By the time I walked into that room, the twenty-two-year-old had slammed so much junk that the veins in her hands and wrists had died and the crooks of her elbows were plastered in scar tissue. Lately she'd taken to injecting that shit into her neck's main cable. That way it went straight to the dome.

“Are you just gonna lay there feeling sorry for yourself?” I said to her.

“Maybe,” she murmured.

“The hell you are. Take a shower and get dressed. You're coming with me.”

I took her by the arm and hauled her to a sitting position.

“What the fuck?” she snapped at me.

“C'mon, get up.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out.”

She looked at me thoughtfully a moment then down at her bare feet.

“I don't have shoes.”

“Where are they?”

“I told you. I don't have any.”

I walked around the bedroom, checking the floor for shoes, then headed into the hall telling her, “I'll find some shoes. You take a shower.”

Jenna as a teenager, a few years before we met.

I think it might have been one of the few times Jenna ever listened to me. She cleaned herself up and threw on some clothes while I scrounged a pair of shoes from her friend's closet, which were too big but walkable. Then we piled into my truck and headed for the OK Corral, a bar Jenna had been sneaking into since she was fifteen. We pulled up stools at the bar and I ordered her a Zombie, the strongest drink I could think of.

With all she'd been through, I figured the girl could use it.

Jenna was originally from
Big Bear, a mountain community in the San Bernardino National Forest, but she and her little sister didn't stay rooted for long. Her folks had a messy split when the girls were young, then her mother got heavy into drink. By age thirteen, Jenna was following in Momma's footsteps, sneaking Gentleman Jack from the cupboard and smoking marijuana behind her school.

One year later, tired of life with Mother and an abusive stepfather, Jenna called her old man, who was then Hemet's fire chief, and begged him to come rescue her. He did as his daughter asked and eventually gained custody. It's a sad irony that the chief was also one of Hemet's drug and alcohol counselors at the time—the man other parents would send their kids to for help. But not even he could control his wild child. Despite all his training and best efforts, the man lost his own daughter to heroin.

Of course, Jenna wasn't born an addict, but once she got a taste for the lifestyle she jumped into it like a teenager cannonballing into a swimming pool. By the age of sixteen the girl was slumming in flophouses, slamming heroin, smoking meth and fucking a different partner every other night.

One of those partners was Billy, and once that tweaker and Jenna hooked up it was like putting a lit match to gasoline. Ever the romantics, the couple began spending nights together making crank for resale. Law enforcement eventually caught wind of their little enterprise, and the two fled to Arizona, where Billy had family.