No Angel (34 page)

Joby opened the back door and we moved onto a patio.

No one spoke as Bobby and Joby grabbed three vests off a folding table. Joby held two, Bobby one. Bobby said humorlessly, “You guys done good so far—”

“—Congrats. You’re official hangarounds,” Joby twanged, chasing Bobby’s words like they were his own.

Bobby spoke in the same continuum: “—You now represent the Hells Angels. Anything and everything you say and do is a direct reflection on the club—”

“—walk strong and—”

“—Take Care of Business.”

Joby amended, “Take Care of
fucking
Business.”

Joby handed Pops and Timmy their new cuts. Bobby held mine up for me to put my arms through. I did and turned to face them. We each jostled our shoulders and smoothed the cuts over our chests. They felt good. They were black leather, brand-new, and completely free of any flash. Bobby reached in his back pocket and pulled out three tabs and handed them out. They were white with a red border. In simple red block letters the words skull valley were stitched into them.

Bobby said, “They fit. Don’t fuck up.”

APRIL 2003

ON THE EIGHTEENTH
of April, Bobby, Joby, Timmy, Pops, and I, along with JJ, Bobby’s girlfriend, Staci, and Joby’s girlfriend, Caroline, mustered up to ride to Las Vegas for an HA poker run in support of the Sin City charter. The poker run was a fund-raising event that lasted a couple days and moved from one place to another. We wanted to go up, have some fun, and represent Skull Valley. I also think that Bobby and Joby wanted to show everyone where the former Solos had signed up for HA service.

They wanted to brag on us. We were happy to oblige.

Hells Angels can be very forward-thinking when it comes to scheduling and attending runs, but they very often neglect basic things—like reserving rooms. Availability of hotel rooms just doesn’t register for a Hells Angel: It’s a square-world concern. This was the price—or reward, depending on one’s perspective—of living free in the biker mold. As we were getting ready to leave, Timmy asked where we were staying. No one said anything. Bobby said he didn’t know. I said that I thought I might be able to get us rooms.

Joby asked, “What, at like a motel?”

“Naw, Job, at a place on the strip. The
new
strip.”

“Bullshit,” whined Joby. “We’re sleeping in the dirt.”

Timmy said, smiling, “I always wanted to try the Debbie Reynolds Hotel, what about that?” I laughed but no one else got it.

Bobby surprised me. Ignoring Joby he said, “Don’t bother, Bird. Staci called ten places last night: Venetian; New York, New York; the Luxor. You know. Some convention’s there, there ain’t shit for beds. We’ll just have to improvise.”

“Let me see what I can do. I’ll call Big Lou and see if he can work some of that Vegas magic.”

I called Gayland Hammack, the Vegas Metro sergeant in charge of the local undercover crews. I told him the situation, pretending he was Big Lou.

He sighed, “Well, it’s tight in town this week.”

“All the same, me and my brothers would appreciate your help, sir.”

“You’re with those crackerjacks right now, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

He was silent for a second, no doubt filing through hotels in his mind. “OK. Shit, Jay, what kind of Vegas cop would I be if I couldn’t snag rooms on short notice? I’ll call you right back.”

“Thanks.” I flipped shut. I turned and looked at the guys. They stared at me like I’d turned green. They’d never heard me talk like that to anyone.

Joby said, “Nothing, right? I’m telling you—tonight?—we’re sleeping in the dirt.”

I walked toward Joby and lit a cigarette. “I doubt it. Big Lou’s no joke. A moneymaker, and you know what that means in Vegas. He doesn’t fuck around with dead-end deals. He does game machines, hot minks, bookmaking, jewels—top-end shit. He’s got the strings, he’ll find something.” Joby shook his head and went into the clubhouse to get his bag. My phone rang. I flipped open. “Yeah, Bird.”

“Hey. It’s on. Three suites at the Hard Rock, two standard queens at the MGM. All comped, too.”

“You’re a lifesaver, sir. Maybe I’ll see you around this weekend.”

“I doubt it, Mister Hells Angel Wannabe.”

“I’ll talk to you later, sir.”

“Tell Slats he owes me a lap dance.”

I flipped shut.

Bobby stared at me. “Well? What’s up?”

“Nothing much. Just comped suites at the Hard Rock and a couple rooms at MGM for Timmy and Pops.” I drew hard on my smoke and threw it down. Timmy looked at me and smiled. Bobby looked at me and smiled. It was the first time I’d seen him do that. Joby came out of the house with a small duffel over his shoulder.

“Well?”

Bobby chuckled at Joby. “You can sleep in the dirt if it makes you feel better. But I’ll be hanging in my suite with my old lady, thank you very much.” Joby said no shit and Bobby, patting me on the back, said no fucking shit, Joby.

I popped a few Hydroxycuts while we finished getting ready. I needed the pills for the ride—a long, boring 235 miles through some of the most barren land you’ve ever seen.

We cruised through Chino Valley—the area north of Prescott where the Skull Valley clubhouse stood—under a wide blue sky raked by lines of puffy clouds. Joby and Bobby were up front—Joby packed double with his girlfriend, Caroline—and Timmy, Pops, and I fell in behind our Angels superiors. JJ and Staci orbited us in the truck, sometimes passing, sometimes falling back. We rode fast.

Through the rain, as it turned out. The good weather didn’t last. An hour out, the sky turned black and churned in front of us. We rode into the teeth of an Old Testament rainstorm at eighty miles an hour. Normal bikers on a weekend ride might stop, if they didn’t like getting wet, or if they had a cautious bone in their body. But rain was another of those things that wasn’t worth considering in the Hells Angels’ world.

We sliced through Kingman, rounding the Purple Heart Trail, and turned north onto 93. We picked up a Nomad hangaround named Elton Rodman at a gas pump in Grasshopper Junction, a few miles outside of Kingman. He rode in the back with us. The Martian landscape of northwestern Arizona, soaked with rain, took on rust-and purple-colored hues. The ground around the road ran thick with Sedona red mud.

The skies dried as we crossed the state line at the Hoover Dam. We rumbled over its tall, arcing road, the white towers at either end watching over us and a few undaunted, ponchoed tourists. The deep blue of Lake Mead peeked around the corner of the barren hills to the north and east. Ten minutes after we crossed, the rain started again. Bobby and Joby didn’t slow down. We kept the throttle at eighty-five, ninety miles per hour. I couldn’t help but think of JJ in the truck, warm and dry and no doubt amused. I also feared that I might be hydroplaning and was seconds away from slamming into a guardrail at a very unhealthy velocity.

The cover team followed us at a distance of thirty or forty miles. When they got to Vegas they’d hook up with Gayland, whom I thought about as we made our way to Vegas. Something I’d said to him—the thing about seeing him later—replayed in my mind. It struck me around Henderson, right outside of Vegas proper: If Bobby was interested, we might be able to throw together a show for him. Gayland could get one of the metro cops I knew to play the part of Big Lou. I’d have to get Slats to sign off, but as we sloshed through the desert I felt like I deserved the chance to make an impromptu play. I’d call them as soon as we checked in.

We roared onto the strip around six, and made our way to the Hard Rock. We pulled in looking like a pack of drowned rats. The valets tried not to stare at us as they attended to the normal procession of cars containing tourists and minor television stars. Two security guards approached as we unassed. They were big guys in nylon jackets with earpieces.

“Excuse us, gentlemen.”

Bobby said, “Hey, how ya doing?”

“You’re staying with us at the Hard Rock Hotel?”

Bobby faced them. We gathered behind him. The guards weren’t scared. “That’s right,” Bobby said. “We got suites, actually.”

“That’s great. But it’s our policy here that you will not be allowed to wear your jackets inside the hotel.”

Joby spat. Bobby said, “Fuck you.”

A guard asked, “Excuse me?”

“Fuck you. I wouldn’t take my vest off to shit in this place even if a greasy turd was running down the back of my leg.”

I dialed my cell as I put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. Joby repeated something about sleeping in the dirt as Gayland came on the other end.

“Sir, we’re by the valets, getting jacked by security. They say we can’t come in with our cuts on. We ain’t taking them off.”

Gayland chuckled. “No problem. Give me a minute.” He hung up.

I told Bobby it was being taken care of. He didn’t believe me—he was climbing back onto his bike. One of the guards put a finger on his earpiece so he could hear better. He grasped the lapel of his jacket and said ten-four. Then he said, “I’m sorry, gentlemen. There was a misunderstanding and we apologize for the mistake. Please go in whenever you’re ready. Welcome to Las Vegas. Welcome to the Hard Rock.”

Bobby smiled again. This was possibly the first time ever Bobby had smiled twice in one day. He got off his bike and gave me a hard slap on the back. “‘
Gentlemen
.’ You hear that shit? Fuckin’ A, Bird, when we get settled, call my room.”

I asked, “What’s up?”

He yelled, “Just call my fucking room after you take a shower!”

Fine.

We checked in. Each couple got a room. JJ and I took turns in the shower. It felt good to wash off the road. When I called Bobby, he asked if I was planning to see Lou while we were in Vegas, and if I was, could he meet him?

“So you want me to set something up?”

“Fuck, yes, Bird, that’s what I’m trying to tell you!”

“Big Lou isn’t too into meeting new people, but I’ll see what I can do. Give me a few minutes.” We hung up. I called Slats. He conferenced in Gayland. We thought it sounded good. We could intro him and talk around a gun deal we could complete the next day. I asked if we could get a load of prop guns to make it look like a big haul. Slats said no problem. I reminded Gayland that whoever he got to play Big Lou, the guy had to come on hard, like a real-deal crime boss. He said it wouldn’t be a problem. They said they needed half an hour to throw some things together. They’d call me back.

I went into the suite’s living room. JJ watched
Jeopardy
. I heard her say, “What’s a terrapin?”

I joked, “I’ll take assholes for one hundred, Alex.”

She perked up, remembering where we were. “What’s up?”

“What’s up is that you, me, and Bobby are going to go meet Big Lou.”

“Really? Why do I have to go?”

“’Cause Big Lou wants to see you too, sweetheart.”

She rolled her eyes and climbed out of the couch, sighing about me making her work too hard.

Slats called to tell me when and where. I hung up and called Bobby. “It’s on.”

He whispered with excitement. “Really? What should I wear?”

I said incredulously, “What you always do, Bobby.”

“He really wants to see me?”

“No, Bobby, he wants to see me and you just happen to be coming along. Who he
really
wants to see is JJ.” I changed the subject. “How’s the room?”

“Great. Staci won’t shut up about how great it is, anyway. But five bucks for a bag of M&M’s is fucking nuts, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, these places get you coming and going.”

“You got that right,” he agreed.

“Look, JJ and me’ll meet you in the lobby at ten. No Staci.”

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t get her out of the room if I laid down a trail of speed to the slots. I’ll see you then.”

“Cool. See you then.”

WE GOT IN
the truck and made our way to PT’s Pub. Halfway there my phone rang.

“Yeah, Bird.”

“It’s Slats. Listen—Gayland couldn’t get any of the guys you know to play Lou.”

“Are you shitting me?”

“No. But don’t panic. The show’s still on. Gayland’s got a guy he says’ll be terrific. Says you won’t have any problem figuring out who he is.”

“Fuck me. OK. We’ll be there soon.”

“Bobby with you?”

“Yeah.”

He chuckled, saying, “Tell Reinstra I told him to go fuck himself.” He hung up.

Bobby asked if everything was OK. I told him everything was better than OK, Big Lou just won fifty grand beating the spread on the Mets game. Bobby raised his eyebrows and nodded, impressed. I had to cover myself and hoped he wouldn’t bring it up at the meeting.

We pulled into the parking lot and got out. I didn’t like going into this kind of situation blind. All of a sudden I didn’t know anything about a guy I’d supposedly known for years.

The bar was open and dark, with a low ceiling. Red neon lights framed the booths, flat-panel screens above the bar showed baseball games and horse races. There was a Keno game tucked into a far corner. I saw Slats and Gayland. They glanced at us and then turned their attention back to a game. It was casual and well played. If they hadn’t checked us out—like every citizen in the bar was doing—it would’ve been as suspicious as staring us down.

I looked for my guy in Vegas.

I didn’t have to look for long.

From the back of the bar a short, wide, balding guy, whose remaining hair was slicked back in shiny streaks, walked toward us with open arms. He had on large, square eyeglasses with an amber tint in the top half of the lens. He was about sixty. He wore a dark suit—it was hard to tell the exact color in that light—with a chalk-line pinstripe, a checkered blue shirt, and a solid red tie. He had a pinkie ring and a brass tie clip. His black tasseled loafers were glossed to a high shine. Two very large guys—one fat, one just cranked with muscles—moved slowly behind him. They wore matching track suits.

I thought it was just too much. Cookie-cutter wiseguys.

And then he started to talk.

“Jaybird! My guy! JJ! Come over here wheres I can see you.” He dipped his head and shook his fingers in the air, beckoning us closer. I went to him. He reached up, grabbed my neck, pulled me down, and planted a loud kiss on each cheek. When he was close to the ear farthest from Bobby, he whispered, “Don’t worry. We’re good.”