Under and Alone (18 page)

“Let’s head back over the hill and hit the Sundowner.”

The Sundowner was a semiregular hangout for us. The parking lot was dark except for one small area lit up enough for a security camera to keep a keen eye on the motorcycles. Loud music was blaring from the back door. Several bikes were parked out back, including two adorned with black-and-white stickers.

For me, this meant that I’d be prospecting and fetching beers for at least two more full-patch Mongols. My relaxed mood faded as we walked through the back door. It was dark in the narrow hallway, and the bar was standing room only. I assessed the potential for trouble. A battle-scarred barroom brawler leaned against an ice machine to the left. He had a Budweiser in hand, and judging from his stare he was probably into his second or third six-pack of the evening. He was looking too hard in the direction of Domingo’s wife.

He started to say something to her, but I couldn’t hear it clearly over the blasting jukebox. Domingo picked up on the comment, though. Rocky pushed forward through the crowd. I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with my president.

The drunk had stopped staring at Terry. His angry glare was now fixed on Domingo. Domingo squared off in front of him. “What the fuck you lookin’ at?” he shouted in the drunk’s face.

“You!” the drunk spat back defiantly.

Domingo’s fist landed dead center on the drunk’s chin. His beer flew straight up from his hand and hit the ceiling as he fell backward onto the ice machine. The bouncer was standing close by and grabbed Domingo in a bear hug. “Easy, big boy!” he said.

With Domingo’s arms pinned, the drunk made a remarkable recovery and drew back to unload on Domingo. Neither the bouncer nor Domingo saw the punch coming. But I knew what I had to do. Before the drunk could land his punch, I caught him with a hard right hand to the head and knocked him to the floor.

Before I could throw another fist, though, images from the United States Attorney’s Office began to flash through my mind. This exact scenario had been run past me. Sitting in the offices of assistant United States attorneys Sally Meloch and Jerry Friedberg, two of the most respected prosecutors in the district, I had asked: “What do I do when confronted with a violent situation like a barroom fight?” Jerry’s response was to stick his fingers in his ears and begin chanting, “La-la-la-la-la.” I said, “Look, I don’t have to let someone hurt me, do I?” “Of course not,” Jerry answered. Meloch and Friedberg both knew that the Mongols would expect nothing less from me than they would from any other Mongol prospect. I had to use my best judgment, but as far as the U.S. Attorney’s Office was concerned, I could vigorously defend myself or my fellow Mongols, as long as I didn’t instigate any fights.

The drunk was now on his hands and knees. I grabbed him from behind and, wanting to put on a good display without really hurting him, I began a series of blows to the back of his head with only a semiclosed fist. In truth, it was hurting my hand more than it was his head.

But I had to look like I was beating this guy’s ass in order to save his life. I needed to get him out of the club before we saw any knives or Rocky’s snub-nosed .38. As I punched his head, I began pulling him toward the back door.

But now Easy, one of the other Mongol patches in the Sundowner, came flying over to help out. Easy was a lunatic, ready to kill for the club at any moment. I’d only pulled the drunk a couple of steps toward the door when Easy caught him square in the face with his steel-toed boot. The kick was so high and vicious it looked like Easy was trying to kick a fifty-yard field goal.

Boom!
The blood went splattering as the drunk’s head recoiled toward me. I cringed at the sight. I knew I had to get him out of the bar before he was stomped to death right before my eyes.

Easy landed another steel toe to his face. I began to drag him faster toward the door. Another savage kick landed, and another. I pulled him into the narrow hallway where there was not enough room for Easy to kick him anymore. I landed a couple more show punches to the back of his head, yanking him harder toward the back door.

Finally, he was outside, but Easy was out in the parking lot with us and landed another devastating boot to the drunk’s face. He collapsed on the ground. I let go of the back of his shirt.

Then, like a stunned deer on the highway, the drunk rolled over once, sprang to his feet, and sprinted out of the parking lot.

By this time more than half the Sundowner had emptied into the parking lot. The owner and the manager were attempting to calm everybody down and restore some order. Domingo and I joined the line walking back inside. We had made it to the hallway when round two began.

Another inebriated patron, even bigger than the last one, was walking our way. He caught Domingo with an intentional elbow, knocking him into the wall. My adrenaline was still pumping from the first fight, and I reacted on instinct, grabbing his shirt, forcing him against the wall. The guy’s fist seemingly came from nowhere, catching me upside the head.

I reeled back. Although stunned, I didn’t let go of his shirt, and I responded with a fast shot to his face. I saw his hand go to his back belt area, then a very shiny bowie knife coming up fast.

I let go of his shirt and sprang backward toward the other side of the hall. He swiped the knife across the front of my jacket, slicing it clean open across the front. I jumped back again as he lunged forward repeatedly, trying to stab me, until I was outside in the parking lot.

He kept coming at me. He wasn’t trying to slash me now; he was trying to run me right through with that eight-inch blade. Suddenly, I saw Rocky out of the corner of my eye. I hoped that he’d been to the car to retrieve that .38-caliber revolver. “Shoot him! Shoot him, Rocky!”

Just like that, I knew that this investigation was over. I was in pure survival mode. Rocky would kill him. I could see myself on the witness stand, testifying that I’d begged my chapter’s sergeant at arms to shoot this crazed, knife-wielding attacker.

He swiped the knife at me again, nearly splitting open my face. “Shoot him, Rocky! For fuck’s sake, shoot him!”

But as it turned out, Rocky knew this drunk. I heard Rocky hollering his name. Before he could take another swipe at me, he looked at Rocky and lowered the knife. Everything stopped except the pounding in my heart. Rocky ran up to him, screaming, “What the fuck’s the matter with you, you fuckin’ idiot?”

Easy had made his way back out with another patched Mongol and moved toward the blade-wielding drunk. He was now holding the bowie knife down by his side. I stood there shaking with rage. The Mongols demanded the knife. I figured once they had the guy’s knife, we’d square off in a fistfight and I’d clean his fucking clock. My heart was racing a mile a minute.

Not in this life—cop or no cop—had I ever let anyone attack me like this without serious retaliation. I shook with rage as I waited for the Mongols to get his knife.

Then he handed the knife over to Rocky. I moved forward to finish this guy off, but my path was blocked by Easy. “Hold on, Billy, we’re gonna take care of this.”

I bit my lip, waiting to see what was going to happen. To my disbelief, the Mongols let the drunk off the hook.

“What the fuck?” I said.

Domingo, Rocky, and Easy huddled for a minute, talking to the guy, then I watched my attacker walk away.

Domingo turned and explained the situation to me. “Don’t worry about this shit, Billy. We got his knife. I told him that he would have to come up to The Place next Tuesday to get it back. When he shows up, you’re gonna stab him with it.”

My heart stopped pounding. “Hell, yeah. Be my pleasure.”

He’d insulted the club. No one
ever
did that to a Mongol. No one ever attempted to hit a Mongol, stab a Mongol, or insult a Mongol without bringing down the most violent form of retribution.

Domingo knew that too many eyewitnesses had seen our faces in the Sundowner, and that if we killed the guy here, we’d all be getting locked up for it. But next week at The Place would be a different story.

I looked at the bowie knife in Domingo’s hand, and pictured myself cutting the guy open in the dark alley behind The Place.

But sanity quickly returned. Although I really wanted to throw a few fists at the guy, there was no way I was going to stab him. I’d been a cop for twenty-five years, and it wasn’t likely that ATF or the U.S. Attorney’s Office would authorize me gutting a guy with his own eight-inch bowie knife no matter how much he deserved it.

We were all watching for the cops to show up at any moment. Domingo gave the order to split, and we loaded up in Rocky’s car.

Now I had another problem: How was I going to get out of stabbing the guy? There needed to be some kind of answer to the question or this case was over. The next Church was held on Saturday at Bucket Head’s place. Everything had gone back to normal since Thursday night’s mêlée at the Sundowner. As I stood outside Bucket Head’s house doing my prospect duty I heard a loud voice calling from inside. “Prospect Billy! Get in here!”

I hustled in to a group of Mongols sitting around a kitchen table.

“Listen, Prospect,” Rocky said. “We got just one question for you.”

“Yeah, Rock?”

“What the hell was with all those haymakers you were throwing the other night? Dude, you gotta stay tucked in. Make shorter punches when you’re on top of a motherfucker like that.”

I laughed. “Yeah, I’ll try to do better the next time round.” They all laughed along with me.

“Okay,” Domingo said. “Get out of here.”

I was halfway out the door when Domingo called me back in.

“Oh, by the way, that fuckhead that tried to stab you the other night, he found out that you were a Mongol and took off for fuckin’ Florida. I guess you’re not gonna get to stab him, Prospect.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, too bad, huh?”

Back in February 1998, when Ciccone called me up to ask if I wanted a shot at riding UC with the Mongols, neither he nor I thought that I’d be able to actually patch into the gang. Rumors flew about the secretive initiation rites of various clubs. In some cases, a prospective member had to commit a serious felony. Often he had to commit murder for the club. The outlaws had long ago figured out the lines that a law-enforcement officer, no matter how deep undercover, could not legally cross. Initiations could be brutal, degrading, and downright filthy. You might be required to take hard drugs and participate in sexual acts with women. Back in the 1960s, prospects were beaten and covered in human feces before gaining that coveted top rocker.

The fact is, neither Ciccone nor I knew what I might have to do while riding with the Mongols. I had my own line in the sand, but I was worried I’d find myself in a situation when I’d unexpectedly have to leap across it. But I had now become the best prospect the Mongols M.C. had ever seen. I’d hauled drugs for them, stood guard for them, and now I’d shed my blood fighting for the club. What more could they want from me?

It was mid-October, somewhere around six in the evening, when I left my place and headed for The Rock. I had talked with Ciccone earlier, and he was planning to tail me in his Pontiac for what we assumed would be another routine night of prospecting.

We had gathered enough information and evidence by this time that criminal cases were starting to come together, and the U.S. Attorney’s Office was thrilled with our progress. Besides that, on the personal level, Red Dog was on my list. If it was the last thing I ever did in my life, I was determined to see that Red Dog was going to prison. I’d taken more shit off him than from anyone else in my law-enforcement career, and he was going to pay for it. Red Dog’s windburned face became a kind of beacon to me, driving me forward to get to the finish line. As I rode through Tujunga, I could see his image in my mind, his snarling, taunting face inches from my own.

“Billy, did your president tell you that you ain’t ever gonna get your Mongol patch?” he’d said one afternoon when we were all down in Venice Beach.

“No, Red, nobody ever told me that.”

“Well, you ain’t! And you wanna know why, Billy?”

“Yeah, Red Dog. I wanna know why.”

He smiled his nasty, yellow-toothed smile. “’Cause you ain’t
Chicón,
Billy. This is a Chicano club. And, Billy, you ain’t
Chicón.
”

Everybody laughed at me. I stared at Red Dog.

“Check me if I’m wrong, Red, but you ain’t
Chicón,
either.”

Everybody laughed again. Except Red Dog.

Now as I rode, I thought about the orange grove and Red Dog holding his Glock. I rolled on until I found myself turning onto Foothill Boulevard. I always held my breath to see what bikes were sitting out front or who might be standing next to them. As The Place came into sight I could see three or four bikes.

I rolled up in front and backed my straight pipes to the curb.

“You need to be on your toes tonight, Billy,” Domingo said when I walked inside. “The national president’s going to be here.”

With Little Dave, the top dog from the Mother Chapter, coming to The Place, I’d be running my ass off all night.

A couple more bikes rolled up out front. I glanced out to see who it was. Two Mongol patches backed to the curb. I saw Stinky, one of the regular biker chicks, and a couple of others like her milling about. I heard that familiar spine-tingling call—
“Prospect!”
—and turned to see Rancid offering me a hit off his JD bottle. I grabbed it and downed a gulp. Rancid looked at me with a strange expression. “I like you, Billy,” he said.

Rancid hardly ever called me anything but Prospect. His using my first name made me a little uneasy. I was always studying these guys for the most subtle changes in their demeanor, any little tic that would indicate some change in their attitude toward me.

The national president, Little Dave, rolled up. Now the whole SFV Chapter was at The Place, along with a few Mongols from other chapters. It was truly going to be a long work night for Prospect Billy.

Evel walked up to me and said, “Take your colors off a minute, Billy. I wanna see the inside of them.”