No Angel (33 page)

“Corner pocket.” He pointed the tip of his cue at the target. He leaned over, took a few practice swings, and shot. He hit it too hard. The eight rattled in the jaws and stopped, hanging over the lip. “Fuck.”

As I sank the rest of my balls, Slats said, “OK. We’ll try it out. You know I know all about the prosecutorial benefits of letting it play.” Of course I knew. This was a guy who, during a lull in his career, had taken the LSAT on a lark—no studying, no guides—and scored in the ninety-sixth percentile. He was like Rain Man with a gun. He could cite incidents, addresses, suspects, and statutes off the cuff—and they were always right. I’d seen him play five hands of craps at once, win, and then correct the dealer on payout mistakes. Even when we were at odds I trusted his knowledge and intelligence.

He continued, “But if I get a feeling or something smells bad, that’s it. If you do something too crazy, that’s it. If they want you to do something too crazy, that’s it. If I wake up one morning and my back hurts and my feet are screaming at me and the Pepto ain’t doing its job—that’s it. Got it?”

“Got it.” Slats was still in control. I sank the hanging eight with authority, just to tick him off.

“Good.” He yelled over to Dan to get us another pitcher, our fifth. Dan looked up from his paper, nodded, and climbed out of the booth. Slats turned to me and said, “Let’s play some more. See if you can win just one more game.”

We played for two more pitchers.

Win? We were pretty drunk, but I don’t recall even shooting at another eight ball all night long.

APRIL 2003

CHURCH CONVENED ON
April 3 at a Super 8 motel in Prescott. Skull Valley had a clubhouse, but for some unknown reason we couldn’t use it. We met Joby first, drove to the motel, parked, and went inside.

We went up to the second floor and walked to the room. That day’s
Arizona Republic
lay on the threshold in a plastic bag.

Joby knocked on the door three times, paused, then knocked once. The chain came off and the locks turned. The door swung into the room. Rudy Jaime, the short, pierced meth head, stood in the dark hall wearing a half-smile. He nodded and told Joby to come on in.

Joby turned and gave us a deep nod. He went inside. The door closed, the locks tumbled, the chain slid back into place.

Timmy, Pops, and I stood in a tight circle looking at each other. Pops made a little frown and shrugged. Timmy and I were motionless. Rudy was probably watching us through the peephole.

Twenty minutes in a motel hallway. An eternity. We couldn’t go anywhere, we couldn’t smoke, we couldn’t talk. The ceilings were low, the hall smelled like Febreze. We lined up against the opposite wall and three cleaning ladies walked by. They were from south of the border. Pops said
Hola
as they passed. They giggled and mumbled
Hola
back.

We didn’t know it at the time, but this was the first course of our prospecting phase. It was a small, uninspiring appetizer, but it was pretty indicative of what we’d be going through in the coming months: a lot of standing around and waiting for nothing to happen.

The door made its unlocking sounds. It swung open. Rudy again. He pointed at me and said, “No phones.” I handed my cell to Timmy and went in. Rudy closed and locked the door behind me.

I moved through the hall, past the bathroom and closet. It was a standard room. Rudy squeezed by me and sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. I stood at the threshold of the room, the large dormant TV to my left. Joby and Rudy were joined by Bobby Reinstra and Joey Richardson. Joby explained that Teddy couldn’t be there because his emphysema was acting up. I said I hoped it wasn’t serious. Joey said he’d fight through it, just like always. Then we got down to business.

Bobby asked the questions. What’s your name? Jay “Bird” Davis. Why are you here? To announce my intention to become a Hells Angel. Why do you want to become a Hells Angel? Because I’m tired of playing in the minor leagues. Do you understand what being a Hells Angel means? I understand that I will have to make sacrifices. Do you know how hard it can be to become a Hells Angel? I don’t care how hard it is or how long it takes. I am loyal, I am dedicated, and I am a warrior. All I want is a chance to earn the privilege of being a Hells Angel.

They liked that. It wasn’t mockery. I was sincere and I was serious.

They asked me questions they knew the answers to. Questions about how I made money, about where I came from, about the people I knew. They asked me what I thought about the Solos’ association with the Mongols. I told them I didn’t like it, and that, in part, their relationship was one of the things that had compelled me to seek membership with the Angels, the Mongols’ sworn enemy.

They liked that, too. I was excused.

Then Timmy, then Pops.

They spent about fifteen minutes with each of us. Then we waited in the hall for another thirty minutes. Then we were called back in, together.

The room was tight with all of us in there. Joey and Rudy smoked. I asked if Pops and I could smoke too. Joby said sure. Bobby went over some club rules. He said that Skull Valley was a no-dope-dealing outfit. We were ordered not to bring any more drugs back with us from Mexico. We said that wouldn’t be a problem. He said personal use was tolerated. Joby nudged Rudy and said, “Like this tweaker motherfucker.” Rudy chuckled.

Bobby didn’t smile. I’d never seen him smile. “The last thing is this,” he said. “You gotta clear up your Solo status. Take care of it in person, get rid of those cuts. Don’t fuck around. As far as we’re concerned there’s no such thing as a Solo Angel in the state of Arizona. You no longer exist.”

Joby said, “We’re gonna kick those motherfuckers outta the whole U.S. of A.”

Bobby didn’t move.

We said that wouldn’t be a problem.

Bobby said, “OK, then that’s it,” and we shuffled into the hall.

I was excited about coming in under Bobby. He was a perfect Hells Angel role model, someone I could learn a lot from. I knew he’d die for the club or his patch, and I knew he didn’t take shit from anyone. Whether I agreed with him or not didn’t matter. We may have been dedicated to different things, but it was the dedication itself that mattered most.

As we walked down the stairway Bobby asked, “Bird, you ever get any steroids?”

“I don’t use them, but I might be able to help you out.”

“Really? You look juiced.” The Hydroxycut had taken what little fat I had and obliterated it. All that was left was muscle, bone, and nervous energy.

“Just genes and hard work.”

“All right. Well, I’m looking for tes, D-bol, and Anavar. You come on any, let me know. I’ll pay for ’em.”

“Will do.”

I know it’s a technicality, but I thought: So much for not dealing drugs and the no-needle rule.

ANOTHER ANGEL WENT
down in early April: Bobby Perez. Perez was a guy who’d cheated death for far too long. He’d walked out of several shoot-outs without so much as a bruise, Laughlin included, while his adversaries hadn’t been so lucky. Once, in San Diego, he’d singlehandedly taken on three Mongols, killing one and getting stabbed in the fight. The surviving Mongols ran off, and he became the West Coast HA prom king. Nothing so dramatic caused his death: He’d been arguing with his neighbor and his neighbor had had enough and gunned him down. For some, karma’s a bitch.

His funeral service would be in Dago, and we were instructed to ride with Skull Valley.

We decided to take advantage of the fact that we’d be on the coast: Before hitting the road I called Teacher, got Alberto’s number, and called Alberto.

“Hello?”

“This Alberto?”

“Yeh.” That’s how he said it.
Yeh
.

“This is Bird. You know who I mean, right?”

“Oh. Yeh.”

“Me and my guys are gonna be in Dago in a couple days. We wanna meet. We got some things we need to say to you.”

“OK,” he droned. I was hoping he’d sound scared, but he didn’t.

“Bring whoever it is over there’s been talking shit about us. We need to clear this up for good. All of us. OK?”

“Yeh, OK, Bird.”

He said we could meet at the Chula Vista Denny’s on April 12. I told him we’d be there.

We rode out to California through the high desert, nothing but sand, dirt, scrub, and blue sky as far as the eye could see.

Neither I, Timmy, nor Pops wore cuts. We were in biker limbo.

We took the Alberto meeting seriously. If he showed up with a bunch of guys, we intended to state our problems, say we were done with the Solos, and not back down. If he came with even numbers, then we were intent on showing him up, maybe even smacking him around a little. The Angels knew we were going to talk with him and what we were going to tell him, and we had to guard against the possibility that they’d tail us to see how we handled ourselves.

We got to the Denny’s first. No Alberto. We crammed into a booth. Pops and I gruffly ordered coffee, Timmy politely asked the waitress for a Diet Coke with lemon. She was unfazed. She was a fortysomething waitress at a California Denny’s, she’d seen everything guys like us had to offer and more.

I was riding high on six Hydroxys and two Red Bulls. The piss-weak Denny’s coffee barely ticked my caffeine receptors. Pops was quiet except that when his coffee came he poured in a couple ounces of sugar and stirred it for about five minutes.
Ring-
a-
ding-
a-
ding-
a-
ring
.
Ring-
ading-
a-
ding-
a-
ring.
Timmy sat there calmly, reading a paper that had been left on his side of the booth by the previous customer.

Alberto came in. Timmy said, “Yo. He’s here.” Pops and I turned to look.

We weren’t prepared for what we saw.

He was alone.

“Timmy, tell him we’ll meet outside, behind the kitchen.” Timmy got up. I rummaged in my pocket and pulled out seven or eight bucks and put them on the table.

The waitress saw it and came over and asked, “You boys done, then?”

“Uh-huh,” said Pops. We waited for the receipt.

We got up and went out back. Timmy stood facing Alberto. He was a short, sturdy guy pushing fifty who wore a drooping mustache and a pair of aviator sunglasses. Timmy wasn’t talking to him. He pinned Alberto down with a hard stare and crossed arms, under one of which was tucked his neatly folded Solo cut.

I looked at Pops as we approached. He lit a cigarette and offered me one. I waved it off. He put the pack in his breast pocket, leaving it sticking out a little. He looked calm.

I walked up to Alberto and asked, “Where the fuck is everybody?”

“Yeh. They ain’t coming.”

“Just you, then, huh?”

“Yeh. Yeh, just, uh, just me.” His voice shook. This was going to be easy.

“All righty, then. Here’s how it is. We’re leaving the Solos, effective immediately.”

“Why—why you wanna do that?”

“Why? We thought you’d be happy, all the shit you talk about us.”

He shrugged and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Still gotta ask. You got a cigarette?” he asked Pops.

Pops shook his head slowly.

I looked Alberto up and down. There was nothing to the guy. “We’re leaving because the Solos are a chickenshit outfit with no balls. And since you showed up here alone, I’ll add that you’re stupid too.” He didn’t say anything, just stared at us through those aviators. I asked, “Why’d you talk so much shit about us?”

He gathered himself and said, “I wasn’t telling no lies, man.”

“Yes you were. We were legit and we are legit. Just because we’re not in Mexico doesn’t mean you get to run your mouth. You had a problem with me or us, you should’ve called, taken care of it man-to-man like we’re doing now.”

“Yeh. Well. I guess I didn’t do that.”

I stepped a little closer to him. “No shit, Two Dogs. Look, I don’t want an apology, I could care less. I just want you to know our relationship with your club is over.” I turned to Pops and signaled for a smoke. He handed me one. I held it, unlit, in between my fingertips.

Alberto asked, “That’s it, then?”

“Yeah, that’s it, Al.” I lit up.

“Well, I’ll need to have your cuts, then.”

I couldn’t believe him. “Really? Maybe you do have some balls.” I looked at Timmy. The muscles of his face moved in increments. His eyelids were sleepy, his smile was slight and amused. I looked back at Alberto. “No dice, cabrón. We keep the cuts. Payment for our inconveniences.”

“Can’t do that. You know it’s a club rule.”

I took a hard drag off the cig. “Well, tell you what. Pops and I don’t have ours on us. But if you want Timmy’s, feel free to go and take it from him, if you think you can. You get his cut, we’ll mail you ours.” I took a beat and said, “Besides, we’re not in your club, so fuck your rules.”

Alberto looked at Timmy and actually moved backward half an inch.

Timmy huffed a near-silent laugh.

“Right. Listen, Al, you ever want our cuts, then you can get a crew together, come to Arizona, and take them from us. Won’t have a problem finding us—just ask the first Hells Angel you see. Otherwise, it’s been real.”

He shrugged so slightly a fly wouldn’t have been scared off his shoulder. Other than that, none of us moved. Alberto was wedged between us and a filthy, dark green Dumpster. I stepped to the side and said, “You can leave now.”

He scampered off, not saying anything.

I imagined the guys in the cover van were laughing their asses off.

We got on our bikes and went straight to Dumont’s, Pete Eunice’s bar in El Cajon. Bobby and Joby greeted us as we walked in. I said it was done. Joby asked how they took the news. Timmy said the guy pussied-out and he didn’t take it one way or another. Bobby patted me on the back and said, “Good. We got some stuff for you guys.”

We walked through the bar. Hells Angels from all over the West milled around. I nodded to Pete, who was behind the bar fiddling with the TV remote, and a few other guys I recognized. They all knew who we were, they all nodded back.