No Angel (11 page)

Spirits, in northern Gilbert, was Mesa’s spot. There were parking spots permanently reserved for the boys, right near the entrance where the bouncers—two lumps built like ice cream trucks—could keep an eye on them.

Bad Bob led us in. I wasn’t quite inside, but I could hear the music come to an abrupt halt. Then a bad Michael Buffer impersonator boomed over the PA:

“This is Good Time Charlie the Outlaw DeeJay here to tell you we got more Heeeeeellllllsssssss Angeeeeeelllllllssss in the Houssssssssssse-ah!” Spotlights hit the entrance as we walked in. “Baaaaaaad Bahhhhh-hhhhhhb! And his Angels broooooohhhhhhhhhsssss!!!!!!” The crowd, which was respectable but not enormous, parted like the Red Sea for Moses. As we Solos walked in, the DJ added, “And guests!!!!!!”

The music—“Enter Sandman” by Metallica—fired back up. It was like stage night, and I thought, All that’s missing is the smoke pots.

Even for a guy who’d played to stadiums full of screaming football fans, I had to admit that this ceremony felt good. It must’ve felt incredible to the Angels. These were guys who, if they didn’t have the Death Head stitched to their backs, would be broke-dick drifters sitting alone at the end of the bar counting quarters to see if they could afford another can of Bud. Instead, the drinks were free and the women lined up. This goes a long way toward explaining the appeal of joining the Hells Angels: It’s where guys of a certain stripe go to feel good about themselves. Once members, they are offered universal respect—which they undoubtedly deserve since they are, as a group, a fearsome bunch. They get treated like kings because in their world they
are
the kings. And since they are instantly recognizable wherever they go, they get this respect everywhere. Their world travels with them and for them, a bubble made of leather and motorcycles.

We were led to a VIP area that was occupied by a few other Angels and a snarl of scantily clad women. Some were attractive, some looked like mudflaps on a snowy day in March. We were introduced.

After the intros, we broke up. Timmy periodically checked on our bikes and talked with the bouncers, Pops hung with Ghost, and I huddled with Rudy and Bad Bob.

“I know you been doing business with Cruze down in Tucson,” said Bad Bob.

Rudy said, “I’m glad you do. If you didn’t, it’d mean he wasn’t on the level, and that’d mean I’d have to stop working with him.”

“It’s my business to know these things.”

I said, “It sure as shit is.”

Bad Bob puffed up. “That’s right.” He turned to me. “I want you to know you can do your thing with Cruze and whoever else with my permission. So long’s I know about it, it’s cool. Man’s gotta put bread on the table.” An unknown prospect brought each of us a brown bottle of beer. The bottles were sweating, their labels peeling.

Bad Bob swigged his beer. He was reading from the script. We all were. He said, “I hear good things about you, Bird. Only good things.” A little ball formed in my stomach, but Bad Bob smiled and it went away. He appeared to trust us. A more astute criminal might have caught the implication of those words: Sometimes the personas we undercover cops create are too good. I hoped this wasn’t the case. I hoped we weren’t moving
too
quickly. Bad Bob said, “I gave Rudy a list of phone numbers. We can help you. You can help us.”

“You’re talking about the Mongols.”

“I am. But we prefer ‘Girls.’”

“OK. I got your back on those bitches. Me or my boys see any of them—down in Nogales, on some dirty cactus road, in a fucking Mexicali saloon, wherever—you’ll be the first to know.”

“Thank you, Bird.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He didn’t.

We went back to the clubhouse around 1:00 a.m. In spite of being drunk, the boys still rode tight and fast. Stroker Dave was in front of us, and at one point he spread-eagled his arms and legs. He looked like a four-pointed star doing 90 mph down the Superstition Freeway. Timmy looked at me and shook his head. I knew what he meant. I was exhausted, and we still had to write reports and get up the next day and do it all over again. And it wasn’t even that late. We were still warming up.

Rockem served another round of Jacks and Buds at the clubhouse. I poured back the shot and nursed the beer. Then I said we have to go. Bad Bob, ever the host, asked, “You sure you’re good to get home?” I thought he was going to offer a ride with a designated driver. Instead, he removed a plastic Ziploc filled with white powder from behind the bar. “’Cause I can offer you each a little road bump if you need to fly right.”

Pops said he was reformed, Rudy said he’d already had some, I said that Timmy and Carlos and I had a job early in the morning, and that I’d had enough of that stuff for three lifetimes. Bad Bob shrugged. “Suit yourselves. I’ll see you soon.”

Yeah. Soon.

AUGUST 2002

HELLS ANGELS LIVE
for their club and their brothers. One of their credos is “Step down or aside for no man, no law, no God.” They are free men unto themselves. At the root of this liberty is the experience of riding a bike. Their Harley-Davidsons are the vehicles of their emancipation. Emancipation from society’s rules and expectations; from a life of work and obligations; from other men, wives, girlfriends, and family. Of course, they have jobs and wives and girlfriends, but these things are secondary to their status as Hells Angels. The things that the rest of us depend on for safety and consistency were never there for these men. They’re outcasts. The way they see it is, why should they return any favors?

For these men it is the smallest of steps from outcast to outlaw.

The irony is that while their appearance and lifestyle are clearly set up in opposition to those of us who live straight lives, they are hardly distinguishable from one another. Their individuality is confined by a rigid conformity. All wear the same kind of clothing, ride the same brand of bike, and adhere to the same set of club rules. All must report once a week to “church” meetings, and all must pay monthly dues. The cuts forever remain the property of the club, as do the “skin patches,” the tattoos that each new member must receive. If for whatever reason a brother quits the club, then the Hells Angels are bound to go to his residence and remove every article of clothing, furniture, and memorabilia that contain any reference to the Hells Angels—not merely to punish and divest him, but because the stuff simply is not his. If the man in question leaves on good terms, his skin patch gets an “out” date; if he leaves on bad terms, then those tattoos are carved off—in some cases taken back with a cheese grater, or with a clothes iron on the linen setting.

I eventually learned from Skull Valley Angels Teddy Toth and Bobby Reinstra, whom I had not yet met in August of 2002, that the Hells Angels’ rules were legion and covered damn near everything. They made a D-I football playbook look like a pamphlet on buying a Jacuzzi. The Hells Angels have rules that govern their bikes, their appearance, their behavior, their old ladies, their engagement in criminal activity, their handling of rivals. If you become a Hells Angel, everything else about you becomes moot. You’re no longer John J. Johnson—you’re a brother. A soldier. A unit of fear. A spoke on a wheel of violence. Drinks become free, and pussy is never more than a dick’s length away. You’re the rock star and
both
of his bodyguards rolled into one. You’re suddenly capital-R
Respected
. If you’re done wrong by someone, the whole club is duty-bound to do wrong back to that person.

For example, see Cynthia Garcia, God rest her soul.

In spite of all this, they apparently lacked a rule that prevented us from gaining easy access. That or Bad Bob was gullible or desperate enough to vouch for us statewide within a week of our visiting Mesa that first night—which is exactly what he did.

We were exploiting one of the Angels’ few weaknesses. In the wake of Laughlin they needed allies and potential recruits. They looked at us and saw kindred spirits, guys who were tough, cautious, business-minded, and willing to use violence. The Mongols situation was real and the Angels, while prepared for their adversaries, could never be prepared enough. The bottom line was that the Hells Angels knew a good thing when they saw it, and we were a good thing.

The day after our first Mesa visit, I made sure to call home ASAP. The next morning I rolled over in bed, opened my phone, and dialed home. I told my kids I was sorry I couldn’t have been with them the night before. I told them they were the most important things to me in the entire world, and that I’d never cut them short if my life hadn’t depended on it. I told them I loved them. Then I told them I loved them again. I told them that I was their father before I was anything else. I wasn’t naïve enough to tell them what I was doing I was doing for them, but I was naïve enough to believe my own lies.

I apologized to Gwen for having to pretend she was a mobster.

“No worries, honey. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I know it won’t be the last. Besides, like I said, it gives me some kind of a rush.”

“I like hearing your voice too. When I’m around guys like that.”

“It’s the closest I ever get to visiting you at work.” She laughed. Gwen has a way of laughing at jokes she makes for her own benefit, whether they’re funny or not. It’s something I’ve always loved about her.

Fair or not, I’ve always kept her out of my work. I needed to know that my family was distinct from my job, that the two would never cross into one another. I didn’t have the heart to tell them the ugly secrets the world had shown me, and I needed to believe that decent families like mine were what I was fighting for. I needed sanctuary, which is exactly what they’d been for me.

I wanted to go back to them, but first we had to do a gun deal that Rudy’d set up. It was in no way associated with the Angels, but it was all part of the show, so we saddled up.

The deal was in Apache Junction. The neighborhood was a blank, garbage-strewn expanse of neglected suburbia, which is too kind a term for it. Not a lawn in sight. Dotted with dilapidated trailers. Rubble and litter and dust everywhere. Vast, worthless, vacant lots. One of those broken places on the fringe of what we think of as America, but which is every bit American.

Carlos, Timmy, Rudy, and I pulled up to a white trailer around five in the afternoon. Carlos brought up the rear. He lost control of his bike a little and skidded to a stop, nearly bowling me and my bike over. No harm done: We laughed. Rudy put his head in his hand. He still couldn’t believe how lame his crew members were at handling their bikes. I couldn’t half blame him.

There was a white, late-model BMW 325i with filthy, illegible license plates in the driveway, along with three cars on blocks. On the porch of the trailer was a ratty, stained love seat. Sprawled across the love seat was a shirtless man with tattoos of a pentagram around his bulging bellybutton, a hand with its middle finger extended over his heart, and a necklace of satanic-looking letters. He was passed out. Around his right wrist was a hospital outpatient band.

Rudy said, “That’s Nathan.”

A woman opened the door. “Hey, Rudy.”

“Hey, sweetie.”

Sweetie
was the last word that came to mind as I gazed on a classic meth tramp: lined face, shattered teeth, sunken eyes, bleach blond hair, her waist bulging over her cutoffs.

“Hey. This your crew, huh? I’m Iwana.”

All I could think was, I wanna what? I lit a cigarette.

I should have had sympathy for people like Iwana, but the simple truth was that I didn’t. After a certain age, after so many miles, after so much drugs—and after I’d seen so many people like her in my work—it was easier to think of people like her as lost causes. I knew this was a convenient lie I told myself. I wouldn’t hesitate for a second to use a person like Iwana as a snitch if I thought she could be useful. Rudy was a prime example of just this kind of arrangement. What we dangled in front of him was not merely a pass on jail but a final way out. Often the opportunity to flip—and be remade in relocation—was the ultimate chance in a life of repeated disappointments. All involved silently agreed that these changes were unlikely—cops held them out as fantasies, and perps clung to the hope that there was something pure left in their hearts. We knew that even with the best intentions, the odds were stacked against the Iwanas and Rudys of the world. Habits die hard, money is tough to come by, and temptation is a bitch.

A kid appeared at Iwana’s bare thigh and tugged at her shirt. It was a boy, maybe five years old. He looked as though he hadn’t bathed in days.

Iwana swiped at him and said, “Not now, Dale, we have guests!” He ran away.

He shared my daughter’s name. My heart sank as he hung his head and scampered off.

We went inside. There were two others—Rudy intro’d them as Mark and Sharon. Sharon said, “I’m Nathan’s old lady.” She added, “He OD’d last night.”

No shit.

Timmy asked, “He need anything?”

“Naw. They already gave him some stuff.”

Rudy said, “Mark’s your guy,” and we went with him. He led us to a dark, one-room apartment that could only be accessed from the backyard, where little Dale rolled a tire around. As Carlos and Timmy followed Mark, I went up to the kid.

I said, “Whatcha got there?”

He stopped, the tire twirled to the ground. Dale said, “You wanna see the new toy Nathan got me?”

“Sure, kiddo, where’s it at?” I expected him to tug me around the side of the house to show me a Big Wheel or a Slip ’N Slide or a Super Soaker. Instead he walked up to the tire, knelt, tilted it up, and pushed it toward the side of the trailer. It hit the wall and twirled to the ground once again.

Dale turned to me, smiling genuinely. “Pretty cool, huh?”

I smiled. It hurt. “Yeah, that’s great, kiddo. I gotta go talk to Mark.”

“OK. Later, mister.”

Later, I thought. I added myself to the long list of people who had abandoned him.

Inside the apartment, Mark was handing Timmy an H&R .410 sawed-off shotgun. He told us Rudy had already given him fifty bucks for it. I looked for Rudy and asked Timmy where he was. He shrugged. Timmy cracked the gun to confirm it was unloaded, then snapped it shut.