No Angel (30 page)

I couldn’t figure out what had gotten into Slats. So I’d gone off script—I was having a fucking conversation, for crying out loud. You can never predict what the other guy will say or do—I had to react on the fly. That was my damn job!

It took a long time for me to cool off. I had a hard time understanding where Slats was coming from. I eventually concluded it was all about control. He felt that if I kept increasing my unpredictability, the reins of Black Biscuit would be taken from him.

I didn’t care about that. It was
my
case, and as far as I was concerned, he could go to hell.

MARCH 2003

I TOLD TIMMY
and Pops about my argument with Slats. They couldn’t believe it. Timmy was especially mad, since, like me, this was his career, not just something he did for money like Pops. Timmy asked, “Why should we hang our ass out so much for someone who doesn’t think we’re doing a good job?”

I shrugged. “You know—do something right and no one remembers, do something wrong and no one forgets.”

Timmy nodded and said, “Damn straight.”

The truth was that Slats
was
under more pressure than we were, but neither Timmy nor I was about to admit it. We could only feel our own suffering. We’d each sold our empathy up the river. All that was left was pride, determination, and loyalty.

It was around this time that I started to pop Hydroxycut.

Hydroxycut—a weight-loss pill that suppresses appetite and injects a burst of energy—helped me to focus on whatever was directly in front of me. It was convenient: I could bump the pills anytime and they were readily available—any Walgreen’s carried them. The recommended dosage was no more than six pills in a twenty-four-hour period. That’s where I started.

I needed the energy because I was running ragged. The life of an undercover cop is not one of leisure. I was up every morning at seven, going over notes from the night before or transcribing audio from one of my recorders. The notes couldn’t be half-assed or glossed over, they had to be dead-nuts on. Then I’d do my expenditures, and those had to be to the penny. I kept track of everything—drinks, gas, cigarettes, coffee, food, drugs, guns, tribute payments—everything. Then I’d contact the suspects—some of whom were occasionally crashed out in the living room while I did reports behind my bedroom’s locked door—and set up meetings and deals for the day or week. Then I’d call Slats and go over everything with him. Then I’d meet a task force agent to exchange notes and evidence. Then I’d start making my runs, seeing the boys, hitting the spots—just being seen is a job in itself. Then I’d make my scheduled meetings, do the buys I’d set up, hit the clubhouses, and have conversations. Some days I’d ride from Phoenix to Bullhead and back, others I’d put a hundred and fifty miles on my bike just riding around the Interstate loop in Phoenix. All along I checked in not only with Slats but also with Bad Bob, Smitty, Joby, or whoever else was featured at any given time in the case. While bullshitting with the boys, my mind constantly turned, thinking up new schemes, new ways to build credibility. The sun would set, the heat would dissipate, and the nights would begin. I’d go out and, despite drinking, would try to stay lucid enough to be able to defend myself, JJ, Timmy, or Pops if any of us got made. The stress of being in near-constant mortal danger is what we were trained to endure, but undertaking it day after day is enough to fry anyone. I’d get home, cross myself, smoke cigarettes, down coffee, jot down notes and reminders, and then try to get a few hours sleep before doing it all over again the next day.

It was no coincidence that I started with the Hydroxycut after my argument with Slats. I was drawn too thin but had to keep going—my commitment, ego, and drive wouldn’t allow me to quit. My family was beginning to hate me—if they didn’t already—Slats was up my ass, the HA were getting farther up my ass, I was responsible for the safety of my crew. It was like the movie
Groundhog Day
, where the guy lived the same day over and over, except that if I got found out I’d get killed—and that would be that. Hydroxycut gave me an energy boost that went beyond the three Starbucks Venti lattes, two-packs of Marlboro Lights, and half-dozen Red Bulls I consumed on a daily basis. I knew the pills weren’t good for me—nothing I did then was good for me—and I knew they’d make me look like a junkie, but I simply didn’t care.

I also started to take them in March because of our up-in-the-air status. Bad Bob’s suspending our right to wear our cuts made me uneasy. I needed to do something that would make me feel rooted to who I claimed to be, so I decided to get sleeved with tattoos. It was something I’d wanted to do for a long time, and I knew it would also boost my credibility, since most cops won’t submit to getting inked-out prison-style.

I’d been checking out Robert “Mac” McKay’s work at his Tucson tattoo parlor, the Black Rose, for a few months. Mac was very talented, and I knew he’d do a great job on my arms. We’d started discussing my getting sleeved when I’d met the Skull Valley guys in Prescott. He said he’d be happy to hook me up and give me a good deal. I didn’t tell him how good a deal it would be—since it could be tagged as an operational expense, ATF would pick up the tab. I told him I wanted my arms to depict good and evil, since I was neither. He liked that.

I had plenty of tats by then—the Saint Michael on one shoulder, four intertwined strands of barbed wire, which paid tribute to the four ATF agents lost at the Branch Davidian compound in Waco, over the other. Spanning my shoulder blades like a bridge was the word jaybird. These tats were bold but pretty benign.

Getting a tattoo is funny. It always depicts something contemporary about you—a friend dies, a child is born, an epiphany is had—and you get inked. When you get one you think you’re marking something about you that will never change. You think, I’ll always be young, I’ll always put my children above everything else, I’ll always honor the dead. The reality is that while the tattoo remains, the person it’s etched onto changes.

For instance, I had the dates of the deaths of the ATF agents killed at Waco inked onto me along with the strand of barbed wire. But I had to have them covered because I was afraid that someone—specifically, Scott Varvil from the Riverside case—would put two and two together and want to know why I was commemorating an infamous date in ATF’s history. Before I got those dates covered, I asked one of the agents who’d fought at Waco what he thought I should do, and he told me that if they were hindering my ability to work confidently, the guys who’d been killed would absolutely want them blacked out.

I blacked them out, something that for me bordered on sacrilege.

I didn’t think about it too much when I told Mac I wanted my sleeves to depict good and evil. I knew that deep down I was good, but I also knew that in order to survive and do my job well, I had to appear evil. What I didn’t admit was that I was in the process of giving in to my darker tendencies. I’d been tamping down the good in me for months. Ironically, I accepted evil in the service of defeating it.

I was Bird. I was Jay Dobyns. I was good. I was evil. I was all and none of the above.

So. Both arms got skulls and flames and demons mixed with flowers and clouds and angels. Like the rings I wore on each finger, the earrings I had in each ear, and the bracelets I wore on each wrist, these talismans balanced each other out. I was the scale, and they were the weights and counterweights. I thought by evening these things out on my body I would remain balanced in my mind. This was just lip service, though. I couldn’t have been more out of whack.

But Mac
was
good. We would do an hour on one arm, an hour on the other. JJ would sit in the dark room and make phone calls. She’d talk business with Casey, Pops, or Timmy. Sometimes Lydia would call to see what was going on. Slats and I had numerous coded conversations while Mac’s needles buzzed away under a bright desk lamp.

Mac asked a lot of questions about my collections business. I told him it was pretty easy money. He wanted to know if I beat a lot of people up. I told him the near-truth—that I rarely beat anyone up (or never, since I never did any actual collections). I said it was usually enough to just show up with a baseball bat and a couple guns and my serial killer cap. He wanted to know how much I made. I told him it depended, but usually ten percent. I told him the most I ever made was fifty grand. He asked, no shit? I said no shit, and, travel time aside, it never took longer than twenty minutes.

Mac said he’d like to get in on it with me, if I ever needed the help. I told him I’d keep him in mind, but that with Timmy and Pops I was pretty well covered.

Mac also wanted to know what the story was with the Solos. The fact that Bad Bob had pulled our colors was a hot topic. It was also unpleasant. The control the Angels exerted on us by pulling our vests was good for the case—it would bolster the RICO charges—but it felt awful to be twisting in the wind.

And it was a noisy wind that snuck through all the cracks. All through March we fielded constant calls from Smitty, Dennis, Joby, Doug Dam, Casino Cal, Dan Danza, and a host of others wondering what was up with us and our club. The guys’ questions were more curious than accusatory. They wanted to know why the Mexican Solos were kneecapping us. We told them the truth: We didn’t know and were taking care of it. Mainly, though, we kept our fingers crossed. We weren’t sure whether Bad Bob would be satisfied with the evidence I’d given him, but based on the calls he’d put in to Joanie, the Phoenix charter P, it looked encouraging. However, if Bad Bob or Joanie wasn’t satisfied, then the case could easily have folded. In the event that this happened, several task force agents were in the preliminary stages of drafting search-warrant affidavits.

Despite our concerns, the case continued. In the wake of the Chico threat, we shut down the Romley Road house and got a four-bedroom on Carroll street—a pool and everything—in a quiet neighborhood on the edge of the Cave Creek charter’s territory. It felt good to be back in a middle-class, suburban neighborhood. Jay Dobyns still lived somewhere inside me.

I spoke with Bob on March 6. He said he’d gone over everything with Joanie and that they were convinced. I asked him if we could suit up again and he said, “You guys are good, Bird. Put your cuts back on. But I ain’t happy with these Solos. I’m getting fed up with taking care of your shit. I didn’t vouch for you so I could be your babysitter. This isn’t over.” He didn’t elaborate, but I guessed what was coming.

We were about to get pushed.

On the morning of the seventh we met Joby at the Iron Skillet Truck Stop in Kingman to further discuss our Angelic future.

We sat in a window booth, the powerful semis outside growling and idling. It was before noon, but the sun was strong and soaked the thin veneer of clouds with a blinding white sheen. Timmy and I sat across from Joby, JJ was wedged between Joby and Pops. Joby ordered eggs, sausage, dry wheat toast, and coffee. The rest of us ordered waffles. Joby wanted to know what was with us and waffles. JJ asked him what was wrong with waffles? We all laughed.

Our coffee came. Joby spoke quickly. He ranged over topics like a crop duster over pest-stricken fields. Laughlin: He was afraid he’d soon be arrested; he’d stabbed guys there; he’d given CPR to a fallen Angel named Fester, whom he couldn’t revive, and under whose body he’d hidden a firearm; he might go to Mexico if it didn’t look good with the law; he’d expected to die the night of the riot. “I didn’t think we’d make out the way we did. I think that’s why we won. We went in there knowing we were outnumbered four or five to one, knowing we were dead. So we weren’t afraid, you know?” He stopped there. He shook his head.

Our food came and we dug in. Joby moved on to the Solos. He repeated everything he’d told me at the Valentine’s Day party, how we had to come up to Skull Valley, how we’d be given freedom to conduct business, how we were ready. He said he was planning on giving us a formal recruitment offer when he got back from the fifty-five-year anniversary party in Berdoo the following week. This was nothing new. What
was
new was that he said our membership was essential to consolidating Angel power in the area between Bullhead, Vegas, and San Bernardino, California. Joby let on that we were
needed
. This sent me flying. I could use it to bargain not only with Joby and the Hells Angels, but with Slats and our superiors.

Breakfast was over. I tried to pick up the tab, but Joby insisted. We were on a frigging date.

Joby and I walked side by side through the parking lot. He asked me if I had any support stickers. I thought he was asking if I had any Red and White stickers. I began to remind him that I didn’t wear those things, when he interrupted me. “No. Not those. Do you have any for the Solos?”

I said, “Pops has some.”

He asked Pops. When we got to our bikes, Pops dug through his saddlebag and came up with three or four that read support your local solo angeles. Joby took one and walked over to his bike, peeling the backing off the sticker. He laid his hand over his oil bag and smoothed it into place. He turned and looked at us. JJ leaned on my hip, I had an arm around her shoulders. Timmy and Pops straddled their bikes. We must have looked like Stallone’s gang in
The Lords of
Flatbush. We couldn’t believe what we were looking at. It was possible that this was the first time a Hells Angel had placed another club’s flash on his bike, ever. And that club was ours.

Joby knew what he was doing. “I don’t care, Bird. Timmy, Pops, JJ.” He looked each of us in the eye as he said our names. The semi trucks rumbled. “I don’t care. You guys are right by me, and I support you.”

I walked away from JJ and gave Joby a hearty hug. I said, “Thanks,” into his ear.

He barely shook his head. “No need. You guys are my brothers. I’ll talk to you when I get back from the fifty-five party.”

MARCH 2003