Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle (12 page)

In fact, the Wild Ones never actually managed to do anything to retaliate against the Outlaws in Hamilton. They talked about it a lot, but never managed to put anything together. And when Stadnick returned from the fateful Le Tourbillon summit meeting with Hells Angels to report that fellow members Gary “Gator” Davies and George “Chico” Mousseau were dead (along with Montreal Hells Angel Jean Brochu), it was over for the Wild Ones. Those who weren't either dead or dismembered quit. Many of them continued to be friends and even business partners with Stadnick in the future, but none went back to the biker lifestyle.

But Stadnick continued to operate in Hamilton. Alone and wary as a Hells Angels associate — and later a prospect of the distant and notoriously violent Montreal South (Sorel) Chapter — in an Outlaws town, he continued to make friends and sell the brand, but he generally laid low in his hometown.

As Harris and I drove around, he showed me all kinds of biker-related landmarks. He showed me a house Parente used to own, but never lived in, instead choosing to rent it out. Then another house he actually lived in with his girlfriend, although he didn't own it or actually pay any rent. Harris pointed out a roofing company owned by a full-patch Hamilton Hells Angel who used to be an Outlaw. Then he laughed when he told me about how another Hells Angel won the contract to pave the new East End police station's parking lot.

Then he showed me the James Steet North restaurant Zucca's, where a wise guy's Yukon Denali was recently shot up and many say what's left of the Italian Mafia still meet.

I asked him if the Mafia still hold much sway in Hamilton, traditionally their base in Ontario, after all the killings and arrests.

“Oh yeah,” he said vehemently. “They're still around. Look at the Royal Connaught situation, lots of people got paid, but not a thing's been done.” He was referring to Hamilton's last great hotel, which still lies in ruins on the south side of King Street despite tons of public money having been paid out for its restoration. But he admits they're nowhere near as powerful as they were in the Papalia heyday.

As we kept driving around the city, we stopped to check in on a minivan with a homemade trailer that had been driving the wrong way on a one-way street until it collided head-on with a garbage truck. The minivan was crushed and the homemade trailer was upside-down about half a block away, but Harris' officers seemed to have it all under control, so we left.

Harris then took me to 402 Birch Avenue, right where it meets Burlington Street in the north end amongst the giant, now-mostly empty steel factories and other metal-fabricating businesses. There was nothing there. Literally. I told him I had been there before — having been told it was where the Outlaws clubhouse was — but I thought I had written the address down incorrectly or confused it with Birch Street, a few blocks to the east. “Nope,” he told me. “City got rid of it. Used to be a row of houses right there, and the Outlaws clubhouse was one of them.” Then he pointed at a triangle of patchy grass and cracked pavement. Then he pointed at the curb. “And that's where Jimmy Lewis died,” referring to the killing that landed Parente in prison.

Then we drove around the corner of notorious Sherman Avenue. To me, it looked like the most worthless bit of territory in all of the rust belt; but many Hamiltonians know that it is one of the most fiercely fought-over stretches of land in organized crime history. “There, 409 Sherman Avenue North. That's where the Sherman House used to be,” he said. “It was an old-style strip bar where the Outlaws used to hang out; it was owned by Billy Roberts and his wife. They had a ‘talent agency.' ” There's nothing there now but a parking lot surrounded by high fences topped with razor wire. It was empty except for a couple of rusty old dumpsters.

I mentioned that there used to be a lot of strip joints in Hamilton. “Yeah, there were nine at one point,” he said. “Now there's just one.” We both know he's talking about the infamous Hamilton Strip, formerly known as Hanrahan's.

“What? Bannister's is gone?” I asked, dumbfounded. The downtown strip joint was an institution. I was first brought there one afternoon when I was 15 by some school chums — they were pretty loose about ID back then — but my memories of the place are not fond.

In fact, I knew it was no longer called Bannister's because its owners had gotten into some serious trouble, but there had always been some kind of strip joint in the building under one name or another.

Harris told me that there hadn't been a strip joint in the building for years and that the only other one nearby was in Burlington. He added that the Outlaws used to hang out there, but don't anymore. “People just don't feel comfortable in those places anymore,” he said. “And they can get anything they want these days from the Internet.”

Even back in the 1970s and '80s, things did not always go easily for the Outlaws in Ontario, especially in Hamilton. Roland Harper was a high-ranking member of the Red Devils who was outraged by the way the Outlaws treated a young woman he knew. He swore revenge, and decided the best way he could get back at the Outlaws was from inside. So, without telling anyone else about his plan, he quit the Red Devils and joined the Outlaws.

Because he was an experienced biker and a big, strong and bold man, he was accepted right away. And he had another strange ace up his sleeve. Because he was a diabetic, he couldn't drink. That allowed him to stay sober while the other guys drank themselves sloppy. He earned their trust and learned their secrets.

After he became the Hamilton Chapter's sergeant-at-arms, he called Harris and arranged a meeting at the Westcliffe Mall parking lot up on the Mountain where the Outlaws rarely ventured. He told Harris he wanted to work for him as an informant, but that he had to be paid. Harris told me he couldn't help but laugh, then told him he didn't have any money to give him, but he did put him in touch with an OPP officer who could authorize such a situation.

The relationship paid dividends right away. Harris and his men raided the Outlaws clubhouse after Harper told them that the bikers were running an after-hours bar there. At the time, Ontario law forbade bars from serving alcohol after 1 a.m. (last call was 12:30), so after-hours drinking clubs — or “speakeasies” as the locals called them — were not uncommon.

The raid didn't yield any big arrests, but it did get the cops into the clubhouse. They confiscated a number of weapons, including shotguns.

And there were other problems for the Ontario Outlaws. In 1981, Buteau had made friendly overtures to three gangs in B.C. who were called the Satan's Angels. They had developed an enviable network between themselves and their regional puppet gangs, and within a couple of years had become Hells Angels chapters, answering to American chapters in Washington State. But they had little if any communication with the other Canadian Hells Angels chapters in Quebec. To welcome them into the fold, Buteau sent a couple of veteran Montreal Hells Angels to their coming-out party in 1983.

The guys he sent were members of the notorious Montreal North Chapter in Laval. Years earlier, tension between new recruits and the old guard — the former Popeyes — caused the Montreal Hells Angels to split. The old guard stayed in Laval, while the new guys formed a new chapter in a small, industrial town about an hour downriver called Sorel. Although Sorel is geographically north of Laval, it was called Montreal South because it was on the south shore of the St. Lawrence, while Laval was called Montreal North because it was north of the island of Montreal.

Buteau's emissaries were Michel “Jinx” Genest and Jean-Marc Nadeau. Both were very violent (Nadeau was later involved in at least four murders) and addicted to drugs. They left Montreal on July 17, 1983. They took the bus. And somewhere along the line, they picked up a 17-year-old girl.

As they passed through Ontario, they took up the back of the bus. Nobody wanted to sit near them. And when the bus arrived in Wawa, the bikers and their new friend — like everybody else — went into Mr. Muggs, the doughnut and coffee shop that served as Wawa's bus terminal.

While they were inside, a Ford Taurus pulled up with some tough-looking characters inside. They rolled down the windows, pulled out some handguns and filled the bus full of bullets, shattering every window. Hearing the commotion, the passengers ran out of Mr. Muggs just in time to see the men pile into the car and peel out of the parking lot. Three people were mildly hurt when they were hit by shattered glass. At least two witnesses noticed the “Support Your Local Outlaws” bumper sticker on the rear bumper.

When police arrived, they found a handgun and 56 grams of PCP stuffed into an old pack of cigarettes hidden in a garbage can. The bikers were questioned, but nothing stuck to them. They were free to go back to Montreal. The OPP drove the girl back home.

Acting on the eyewitnesses' accounts, the OPP went to the Outlaws' clubhouse in Sault Ste. Marie and arrested Parente, who was visiting from Hamilton, a friend of his from St. Catharines named Roy Caja and a local guy named Ben Greco. When I asked him about the incident, Parente told me in no uncertain terms that he was not in the car in question when the bus was shot up. At least four sources have told me Parente was definitely in the car, but none of them was actually an eyewitness. At any rate, all three Outlaws were arrested for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder.

At the preliminary hearing, the Crown prosecutor, Norman Douglas, brought up the specter of “open gang warfare” between the Outlaws and Hells Angels. Parente's lawyer assured him the sentence would be light if he pleaded guilty to possession of a firearm for a purpose dangerous to public peace. He was released on bail. Parente took that under serious consideration.

Upon his release, Parente flew back to Hamilton. That evening, some friends suggested he go out drinking with them. Rather than potentially get into trouble, Parente turned them down and decided to go to Bannister's, the downtown strip joint. It made sense. While other guys were paying for a night out, he could get paid to go to Bannister's.

Mario “Mike the Wop” Parente

On that night, he wasn't really a bouncer per se, according to Harris, but more of a greeter, like they have at Wal-Mart. Harris dropped by Bannister's regularly. “The owners — Rinaldo Ticchiarelli and Louis Acciaroli — were big-time coke dealers. They later went to prison for it,” he said, “so I liked to keep an eye on it.” He was surprised and somewhat disappointed to see Parente there. “You're wasting your talents in a place like this,” he told him.

Parente recalled it as a less friendly conversation. Hamilton had a bylaw that stipulated that any liquor-licensed establishment could be closed (and could potentially lose its license) if it allowed already intoxicated people inside. Parente understood that Harris and his men intended to enforce the bylaw vigorously that night, so he and his own men were very choosy about whom they let pass.

It had been an uneventful night until Brian Lewis showed up. The Lewis brothers were well known in downtown Hamilton, the three half-black, half-white (Parente used the phrase “salt-and-pepper” to describe them) brothers were day laborers and small-time criminals who had a hobby of scaring and intimidating innocent strangers. Brian, the youngest, was already wasted when he arrived at Bannister's that night, and Parente (concerned about Harris' warning) refused to let him in. Brian took offense and a small scuffle broke out. In seconds, Brian was turfed, and he bitterly swore revenge before retreating.

After closing, Parente didn't go home. Instead, he went to the Birch Avenue clubhouse. He was alone. Before long, Brian's two brothers, Jimmy and Tim, and five of their friends went looking for him. The police saw the group on a downtown street, but did not stop them.

When they arrived at the clubhouse, the gang of toughs called Parente out. He came out and they began to threaten him. Parente saw that Tim had a handgun and heard someone shout “Shoot him!” Alone and fearing for his life, as he said later, Parente brought a loaded double-barreled shotgun out with him. Harris maintained it was a shotgun he had confiscated in the speakeasy arrest, but Parente denied that.

The men were screaming at Parente, threatening him. He saw that Tim had a handgun. When he saw Tim raise the gun and point it at him, he said, Parente squeezed both triggers of the shotgun. Jimmy Lewis took the full blast of both shells in the lower back. He fell back against a parked car, exposing a big hole in his torso. He died on the street. The gang scattered. Parente fled.

Two hours later, Harris was paged at home. There had been a shooting at the Outlaws clubhouse. “That could only be one person,” Harris recalled thinking.

When he arrived on scene, the investigating officer approached him and said: “They call this guy ‘The Wop.' Do you know him?” Harris laughed.