Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle (17 page)

Melanson called in favors and got a second mortgage on his house. He managed to get together about $50,000. Saul did his best, too, and was able to scrape up about $20,000 for his old friend. He handed it over, and then — without telling Melanson — drove to the airport and boarded a plane for Florida until things cooled off. “I didn't want to be in the middle of that mess,” he later said.

Melanson called his Hells Angels contact and told him he had their money. Great, the contact told him and arranged a meeting at Novotel, a business-oriented hotel at Yonge and Sheppard in the north end of the city.

On the following morning, September 3, a cleaning staffer knocked on the door to his room. No answer. Since there was no “do not disturb” sign hanging from the knob, she let herself in. The first thing she saw was Melanson lying face down on the floor. He had two bullet holes in the back of his head.

Saul heard about it down south and rushed to get back to Toronto. He arrived in time for the funeral. It was a lavish affair at Melanson's parents' church in Markham, north of the city on Steeles Avenue, just west of Yonge Street. After the service, the hearse was followed by a procession of Harleys more than 200 strong. Their riders — who, as was their custom, wore full colors — included Lobos, Penetrators, American Breed, Scorpions and a large number of Outlaws, who were relishing the opportunity to say they had told the Vags what happens when you deal with the Hells Angels. No Hells Angels showed up, but the Montreal Chapter did send flowers.

The next day, Saul approached the police about becoming a paid informant. He told them everything he knew, but it was not enough to achieve a single arrest. It became increasingly obvious that there was a huge rift between the Vagabonds and Hells Angels, and they never really partied or worked together again. While the years have softened hard feelings — and Hells Angels have held out the olive branch at least twice since then — there is still tension between the two clubs. While Vagabonds will attend Hells Angels events as a group, individual Vags still steer well clear of them even though the two clubs are officially at peace.

Don't feel too sorry for the Vagabonds, though. In 1991, Canada Post found itself desperate when its workers walked off the job. They had plenty of replacement workers, but the picket lines were militant and potentially violent. Without any other viable options, the federal government agency hired the Vagabonds en masse to protect their workers past the angry strikers and paid them a remarkable amount of money. Realizing that providing muscle was probably their best way of getting paid, they started hiring themselves out to either side during strikes, either protecting or intimidating replacement workers depending on who had hired them.

With the Vagabonds out of the picture, Stadnick's Hells Angels started looking at other Southern Ontario-based gangs. They went to a familiar face. After Bernie Guindon had been released from prison, he reassumed leadership of what remained of the once-mighty Satan's Choice.

The Choice's Hamilton, St. Catharines, Sault Ste. Marie, Windsor, London, Ottawa and Kingston Chapters had opted to become Outlaws (giving that gang particular strength not just in hot drug-selling areas, but also vital border crossings). Kitchener, Thunder Bay and Guindon's home chapter in Oshawa had stayed loyal. The Toronto Chapter had split, with a breakaway faction becoming the Outlaws Toronto Chapter and the rest maintaining a Satan's Choice clubhouse in the city.

No longer the most powerful biker club in the province, the members of Satan's Choice were still very proud. There were a lot of factors at play. On the pro side of an alliance with Hells Angels were a chance to get back at the much-hated Outlaws, a huge increase in wealth from the sale of cocaine and a bolstering of club power. On the con side of the debate were increased attention from law enforcement and the potential for Satan's Choice to become mere vassals of a more powerful American-based club. Keep in mind that Guindon was fiercely nationalistic — almost to a mania — and had vehemently opposed previous alliance overtures from both the Outlaws and Hells Angels.

Stadnick was insistent and consistent. His visits to Ontario in his black Jaguar sedan with Quebec plates were no longer limited to Hamilton. He could been seen regularly in Oshawa (where he took Guindon and his men to strip joints) and Toronto (where he treated Guindon to gourmet dinners at tony restaurants). He was also a familiar sight in Kitchener, where he befriended local businessman and Satan's Choice chapter president Andre Watteel. And he was even spotted in Thunder Bay, which was much closer to his interests in Winnipeg than it was to any other major city in Ontario.

It didn't take long for the individual members of Satan's Choice to see that a close association with Hells Angels had great benefits. Whatever his personal opinion was, Guindon made a King Solomon-like decision. The members of Satan's Choice would be free to have any business or social dealing with Hells Angels they desired, but the club itself would have no official alliance and a patch-over was not in the offing. In response, Stadnick made it clear that he was also negotiating with other Ontario clubs, in particular the Toronto-based Para-Dice Riders and the Loners of nearby Woodbridge.

The increase in stature resulting from the deal with Stadnick allowed Satan's Choice to do something it hadn't done in a very long time — expand. Two new chapters popped up. One was in Sudbury, a hardscrabble mining city in Northern Ontario that was already getting virtually all of its drugs through Stadnick's friend and fellow Nomad Richard “Rick” Vallée.

The other was in Hamilton. That was widely regarded as a deliberate slap in the face of Parente, who had become the country's most influential Outlaw. “Oh, they hated Parente,” a police officer told me. “And they knew it would piss him off to have another club in what he considered to be his town.”

But the Outlaws had troubles of their own. Membership was down. The looming threat of the Hells Angels had put a dent in recruiting and even veteran members seemed to be less interested in staying with the club. After seeing what the Hells Angels were capable of in Quebec and knowing full well that they wanted Ontario, many Outlaws understandably felt nervous about the future of their club.

That tension turned to violence on the night of November 28, 1992. And the intended target appeared to be a familiar and valuable one. At about 2 a.m., Parente's girlfriend — 38-year-old Linda Demaria — had just arrived at Parente's house in Dundas, a nice, quiet suburb just west of Hamilton. She'd spent the night out having dinner and drinks with some friends in nearby Burlington. She was in the passenger seat of the second of two carloads of friends that pulled into Parente's driveway. Just as she was climbing out of the car, she was shot once in the lower back and collapsed. The bullet entered just above her pelvis and exited through her abdomen.

She was rushed to nearby McMaster Medical Centre and quickly put into stable condition. Neither the people in the cars (some of whom were “known to police”) nor Parente could provide any eyewitness details. They were described by a police spokesman as “cooperative to a point.”

Despite the extensive use of metal detectors, the shell — believed to be from a 9-mm handgun — was never found, nor was the shooter's location determined. “We can't say: ‘was this a drive-by? Was someone hiding in the bushes?” the spokesman said, indicating they had found little useful evidence at all. With nothing in the way of physical evidence and not a useful word from any of the witnesses, the police admitted they had little chance of catching whoever was responsible, but they did indicate that they felt that Demaria was probably not the intended victim. “We still are unable to determine a motive,” said the spokesman. “Or even if the shooting was for someone other than the victim; or if it was, in fact, for the victim.” Considering the distance involved — since none of the revellers saw the shooter, it's likely to have been quite a long shot — and the inherent inaccuracy of handguns over long distances, the target could well have been anyone in the large group.

But the potshot at Parente's girlfriend, probably taken by a biker or Mafia functionary, was small-time compared to what the police did to Parente four years later. At 5 a.m. on the morning of April 29, 1996, more than 100 police officers from a half-dozen forces launched Operation Charlie, named after the skull on the Outlaws logo. They descended on the Outlaws' St. Catharine's clubhouse, four other locations in the Niagara peninsula and one apartment building on Hamilton Mountain.

After the Hamilton Police shut down the Birch Avenue clubhouse, Parente had moved his operations about 30 minutes east to St. Catharine's. Because the clubhouse was heavily fortified, the cops attacked it with a front-end loader. They tore down the front wall. They arrested nine Outlaws, but the real prize was Parente. The cops surrounded his farmhouse on Sodom Road, just outside of Niagara Falls, and arrested him when he came out with his hands up. He was charged with two counts of trafficking cocaine and one of uttering a death threat. The papers at the time identified him as a former Outlaws national president and current St. Catharine's Chapter president.

That night, the house of an Outlaws member burned to the ground. On the following day, a helicopter was seen to land on the nearby Port Colborne farm of an Outlaw and let off some passengers after dark. The police admitted they found both facts interesting, but had no answers for either.

Being in jail wasn't Parente's only problem. On July 10, 1996, a new inmate was brought into the Hamilton-Wentworth Correctional Centre from just outside Montreal, and within hours of his arrival, he attacked Parente with a makeshift knife fabricated from a toothbrush. The assailant surprised Parente and managed to stab him in the eyes and throat, but failed to do much damage before he was wrestled off him. Parente refused to cooperate with police when they questioned him, and also refused medical treatment.

Just as Operation Charlie was making the papers, the third incarnation of Satan's Choice in Hamilton started to germinate in an East End gym. Bikers like gyms not only because they like to work out, but because they are great places to sell drugs and, in particular, steroids. A small-time Hamilton criminal we can only call Jimmy Rich because he's also in witness protection told his two workout buddies that he had a connection who could make them all very wealthy. Rich's weight-lifting buddies — Gary Noble and Ion Croitoru — quickly accepted.

Croitoru was a local celebrity. And he was hard to miss. He was huge. Only about six-foot tall, he carried a very solid 300 pounds on his frame. He complemented his intimidating stature with wild eyes, a shaved head and a bushy, black Fu Man-chu mustache. He looked pretty much like what he was: a washed-up professional wrestler.

Years earlier, he'd been in the employ of the World Wrestling Federation (WWF). It can't be overstated how immensely popular the WWF was at the time. Few stars had the magnitude of Hulk Hogan. He was everywhere. People in places like Hamilton wore his likeness, and even his catchphrases, on their clothing. They watched him in movies and on TV. They loved him. And he fought against Croitoru.

Johnny K-9

Croitoru was what wrestling fans call a “jobber.” That's a guy who's paid to show up, look tough, rile up the crowd and then get the daylights beaten out of him by the star. And Croitoru played it up. He'd show up in the ring with tight black shorts and a studded collar around his neck. He'd climb into the ring, acknowledge the boos, and do anything he could to amp them up. Then the star would come in and trounce him. His signature moves were the Stomach Claw and the Flying Headbutt and he became famous as Johnny K-9.

It was a hard way to make a living, even by Hamilton standards. But Johnny K-9 — even though it wasn't his legal name he managed to get a bank account under it, so it has to be considered his real identity — was a major celebrity. At the time, guys like Hogan were thought of as legitimate superstars, so getting thrown out of a ring by him was enough to grant a fairly healthy dose of stardom upon a jobber. Johnny K-9 could barely walk a block in downtown Hamilton without someone offering to buy him a beer.