No Angel (25 page)

Neither of us budged, though. Our egos were too invested in the work we’d done. He had a grand vision and I wanted to play the hands we undercovers were being dealt. I didn’t say as much, but I could feel that another reason Slats didn’t want us to try to join the Angels was that he would lose his sense of control—something he’d never, ever willingly relinquish.

There was a third option: One of us could have—maybe even
should
have—suggested that we fold up right then and there. Our case was a good one. We wouldn’t have decimated the Hells Angels, but we would’ve sent serious shockwaves through them. Our message would’ve been clear and effective: You are not impenetrable, you do not intimidate us, and we will not leave you alone. If we’d ended in December of 2002, we’d have had a respectable case and sustained only a minimum of battle damage.

But no one gave this a single, fleeting thought.

We didn’t want a good case.

We wanted a great one.

DECEMBER 2002

JUST BECAUSE DECEMBER
was light on contacts, that didn’t mean we didn’t have any. Things were happening with Rudy that forced us to keep in touch.

On the sixth I got a call from Bad Bob. He was hearing distressing things about Rudy, but he wouldn’t discuss anything over the phone. He suggested I come to a Mesa Toy Run—a community outreach event that collects toys for charity—on the fifteenth. I told him I’d like to but I couldn’t, since the larger Solo Angeles organization was holding a mandatory Toy Run on the same day in Los Angeles. He said he understood that my first loyalties were to my club, but we still had to get together. He suggested an early dinner on the eleventh. I said I could be in town on that date. It was set.

We’d been hearing the same distressing things about Rudy too. Apparently he’d been very chatty with fellow inmates, dropping Bad Bob’s name to gain some prison credibility. Slats went to interview him on the tenth. He found out that Rudy’d been telling people that his crew—that is, us—were running tight with the Angels and that Bob told him we were going to be offered a “patch swap”—a full transfer with no prospecting period. Such a thing is very rare. The Hells Angels don’t toss Death Heads out like candy. At the interview, Slats told Rudy in no uncertain terms to shut up. Nothing about the Angels, nothing about the Solos, and most definitely nothing about ATF. One usually doesn’t have to remind an incarcerated informer that it would be unhealthy in the extreme for him to admit to working with the law, but given Rudy’s track record, Slats wasn’t taking any chances.

Rudy promised to keep quiet.

They sent him back to the cages, but had him moved to a single to help him stay quiet.

Jails are like bee colonies. News travels very, very fast. When Rudy was pulled, it didn’t take long for the population to hear that ATF had pulled him. And when he was returned in protective custody—“PC’d”—it didn’t look all that great. We hoped that by segregating him, experienced prisoners might conclude that he hadn’t cooperated and he was being punished. But it could cut the other way too. Some might think he was being isolated for his own protection. Either way, Rudy Kramer got the message. He clammed up.

Bob and I had a lovely dinner at the Baseline and I-10 Waffle House to discuss all this. Waffles for me; cheeseburger, fries, and a vanilla shake for him.

Bob was visibly worried about what Rudy was saying. He didn’t think Rudy was going to snitch, he just thought he was being Rudy, but that didn’t make things any better. He asked if I’d heard anything about the patch-swap rumor. I told him no, and that I’d never dreamed it was a possibility. He changed the subject, saying he couldn’t understand why Rudy, a man who’d been to prison, was so eager to impress people. He said he was not cool with Rudy abusing his “good name.” Bob chuckled as he told me that he’d heard all of this secondhand from his longtime brother and friend, Phoenix Angel Howie Weisbrod, who’d gotten it from an inmate who went by the moniker Trashcan. You have to love the self-esteem these guys convey when they’re left to pick their nicknames.

“I mean, ain’t that ironic?” Bob said, jamming fries into his mouth. “I’m supposed to be Rudy’s best influential buddy, and I’m hearing about it through a guy Rudy doesn’t even know, just because Howie knows the guy Rudy’s mouthing off to. Fucking Rudy, man.”

Bob said not to worry, though. He said, “I won’t hold the Solos accountable for Rudy’s shit, you have my word on that. But you might want to chill out a little. I know you guys been doing a fair amount of business around the state, and that’s fine—man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do—but take it easy. Rudy’s popped, you got that crazy fucking traffic stop. What I’m saying is you’re on the radar now, just like us. So take it
easy
. You don’t need the attention and we
certainly
don’t need the attention.” He wedged a quarter of the cheeseburger—which was already half gone—into his mouth. “You gotta meet Howie, anyway. I told him about you, and I also told him not to think about this Rudy guy too much. I told him once he met you he’d understand everything was cool with the Solo Nomads.”

I said, “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He swallowed hard and took a long, silent pull off the milkshake. As he pulled away from his straw, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Anyway, we both know the patch-swap thing Rudy’s bullshitting about is just that—bullshit. But that don’t mean we’re not interested. I know you’ve been come at a little.” He shoved the remains of the burger into his mouth and licked each fingertip on his right hand. “Well, I’m here to tell you that shit’s likely to increase. I’m gonna bring you guys up at the next officers’ meeting, ask how everyone feels about the Solos coming in as prospects. Once we come to a consensus I’ll tell you how to respond to all the love letters you’re gonna get.” He smiled at me and slurped the rest of his shake into oblivion.

I finished my waffle, pounded my coffee, and paid the bill. I thanked Bob for everything, once again.

“Don’t mention it, Bird. You’re my boy.” We stood and walked to the door. I held it open for him. “There’s one more thing, though. I want you to go talk to Rudy. Go talk to him and tell him to shut the fuck up. ’Cause, you know, sometimes people who can’t keep quiet, they get hurt.”

I thought, This is probably the kind of conversation Joe Pistone had with his Bonanno associates when he was Donnie Brasco. Bob acted, spoke, and thought like a mobster.

I lit a smoke and said, “Didn’t even need to ask, Bob. Consider it taken care of.”

Which, in truth, it had been.

POPS AND
I went to the Solo Angeles Toy Run in Chula Vista, California, on the fifteenth. It was no big deal. We hung out with Teacher, made sure the local news crew got us on tape, and took some trophy shots with our brothers. We drank some beers and listened to some good Latin music. I was happy for that. If I never heard a Lynyrd Skynyrd song again, it would be too soon.

We had other Solo business on that trip. Our club dues had to be paid in Tijuana. The problem was that Mexico was not in Black Biscuit’s jurisdiction. Sovereign nations aren’t too keen on having unknown foreign undercover agents poking around in their backyard. Since Pops was our paid informant, he didn’t need permission to travel to Mexico in his undercover role. He used to make this trip with Rudy, but since Rudy was indisposed, he’d have to cross the border on his own.

As we got closer to the border, Pops got more and more apprehensive. Within a few miles of the checkpoint he turned to me and said, “Bird, this’s got me spooked, man.” He didn’t want to go into the Solos clubhouse alone, and I couldn’t blame him.

What I decided to do I’ve since regretted—not because I thought it was wrong to help Pops, but because it was a completely rogue action, one that even I, a documented risk-taker, should not have undertaken.

I decided to go with Pops into Mexico to conduct work—without work’s permission.

I didn’t intend to go to the clubhouse—I just wanted to be in the area should Pops get in trouble. I told him to call me after thirty minutes, and if I hadn’t heard from him by then, I’d come rescue him. I wouldn’t leave Pops alone, out of his comfort zone, to be eaten by wolves.

We crossed the border and parted ways. I strolled around drinking cola, smoking cigarettes, and turning down offers for everything from sombreros to blow jobs.

Thirty minutes passed. No call.

Forty minutes passed. No call.

Forty-five. No call.

I went to the clubhouse.

Pops was fine. He was better than fine. He told me he’d tried to call, but it kept going straight to voice mail. I looked closely at my phone and realized I had no service in Mexico. Great. Dumb.

Pops said, “Chill out, Bird. These guys love us. C’mon, let’s party a little.” He was actually eating a taco.

I kept up appearances. I met a bunch of guys, had a beer, and got roped into a game of pool. Between turns, Suzuki, the Tijuana president, approached me and said next time we came he wanted us to bring him a Harley Sportster engine. He also reminded us that we had yet to change our Nomads rockers to the Spanish, Nomada. He said, “I don’t want none of this gringo bullshit.” I gave him a hug and said sure thing, with no intention of complying. I hoped I’d never see him again. When my pool game was over I grabbed Pops and told him we had business in San Diego. He got the message. We left.

We walked through the streets. I told him I felt like an idiot. He told me to relax.

I couldn’t. I’d put myself in a completely losing situation. I lost if I allowed Pops to travel alone while he lacked confidence. I lost if I had to attempt an unauthorized undercover rescue. I lost if, after the fact, I told Slats, since this would likely end the case. I lost if I didn’t tell Slats, knowing that one day I’d get found out and be held accountable, knowing that my unauthorized action could seriously jeopardize our credibility in a courtroom. I lost because I knew that the longer I kept my trip to Mexico a secret, the worse it would be for me.

But I did it anyway, and I kept it secret for a long time.

We returned to Tucson nervous and unhappy. It was right before Christmas. I dropped Pops off at his house and waved at his wife in the front yard. I told him I’d be back in a couple days to drop off some stuff for the holidays. He said thanks. The words were for the presents I’d be bringing his girls, but the sentiment was for covering him in Mexico, even if he hadn’t really needed it.

Then he said, “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it, Pops.
Feliz Navidad
, OK?”

“OK.”

I WASN’T THE
only one sneaking around that holiday season. Slats had been doing some underhanded stuff himself.

When I got home it was the same—Gwen standing on the porch waiting for me so she could get out of the house to get some shopping done. But this time she was in a good mood. She said, “When I get back you’ll help me wrap presents, right?”

“Of course, G.”

“Good. I have a surprise for you, too.”

I went inside and found our skiing stuff laid out in the dining room.

It turned out that Slats, his wife, and Gwen had planned a trip to Angel Fire Ski Resort in New Mexico, kids and everything.

When I found out I didn’t think, Hurray! Family vacation! I thought, This is going to take me out of the game right when I need to be staying close to the guys. The truth was that the Hells Angels were becoming my family, and even though I’d told them I’d be out of town on a collection, a holiday disappearing act could arouse some unneeded suspicion. But the kids were ecstatic that we were going away together, so I told myself to swallow my pride and buck up. If I couldn’t have actual fun then I’d pretend to.

We were leaving on the twentieth. We had a few days to get ready.

The Dobyns family ran a clothing and toy drive of its own every Christmas. The kids piled their old clothing on the dining-room table. Then they had to go into their rooms and select no fewer than eight toys for donation. It wasn’t a tradition they were too excited about, but it was a good lesson in charity. When everything was together we boxed it up and took it to our church’s donation center a few days before Christmas. Every year, I told them, “Don’t worry, kiddos, it’ll make you feel better when you’re all grown up.” They trusted me enough to believe this.

I’d asked Pops if he wanted first crack at the goods. He was making decent money, but no one ever got rich as a paid informant, especially not as an ATF paid informant. I told him I didn’t want to offend him and he said he wouldn’t be offended at all, that he’d do anything to make his daughters happier. I promised I’d bring him some good stuff. Dale helped me out by being kind enough to add two new stuffed animals, some unopened CDs, and some fresh makeup. She even insisted we wrap the nice stuff, which is what we did.

I went over to Pops’s alone on the nineteenth. Short visit. We hugged in the driveway. He brought his wife and daughters out. I gave his wife a gentle hug and leaned down to say hi to his two smart, beautiful girls. I knew the girls did well in school, and they were always polite and presentable.

The girls said, “Thanks, Jay,” and took the box inside. Pops’s wife said, “Merry Christmas,” and followed them in. Pops reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out a CD. It wasn’t wrapped. He handed it to me. I was a little embarrassed. I hadn’t gotten him a present—I hadn’t even thought of it.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. Listen to track three. It reminds me of me and you.”

We hugged and wished each other Merry Christmas, and I left.

The band’s name, 3 Doors Down, was written on the CD in permanent marker. A sheet of paper had the song list. Track three was titled “Be Like That.” I put it in the player and hit Play as I pulled onto the freeway.

It was a rock ballad. It started with a guitar riff, the lead singer coming in quietly. It slowly built to a full chorus of drums and thumping bass and crashing cymbals, then went back down for a quiet refrain. It was a good-sounding tune. The singer wanted to know something: