Under and Alone (24 page)

I called to my boys and turned to walk away. They ran over to me and asked me if I was going to talk with any of their other teachers. How could I ever explain my twisted emotions, the sense of shame, the need to protect them? It was easier to say that I wouldn’t be able to talk to any more teachers that night, that I would call their teachers later.

Standing in the busy school yard, I thought about taking them for ice cream, to a movie, or to their favorite amusement park. Something, anything, to make me feel like a normal dad. I wanted to drop to my knees, close my eyes, and hug them and let them know how dearly I loved them. I didn’t want to leave them. I didn’t want to have to go back to work.

There were days I was out with the Mongols when I missed those boys so much I wanted to cry. A lot of the Mongols had kids, but the way they treated them often enraged the father in me. Rocky and Vicky lived with their five kids in a rented house a couple of blocks off the main drag in Tujunga. It looked like a homeless shelter, with bodies sleeping everywhere, kids on the floor, kids on the couch, kids in beds, kids crawling on top of kids. It wasn’t unusual to find everyone still asleep at noon or even five
P.M.
on a weekday. The house had a fence around the front yard to keep people out. The fence wasn’t much of an obstacle, but the pit bull did keep even the bravest of intruders away. To be on the safe side, I made sure I always had a little treat for the pit.

One day I stopped by at around two
P.M.
Rocky’s two youngest kids—one of whom was called Rocky junior—were playing outside. I knocked on the door, and Vicky started yelling for Rocky, who was still in bed. I stepped inside the living room, which was kept as dark as possible. A couple of kids were still sleeping on the sofa and floor. The TV was on, but the volume was very low so as not to wake anyone. When the front door was shut again, with the curtains drawn, you couldn’t tell that it was daylight outside. I looked around, found an unoccupied chair in a corner, and sat down to wait for Rocky.

Vicky came back to the living room, pushing kids’ legs out of the way. She had her bong in hand and was ready to get high. She sat on the sofa, staring at me. “This is some good shit, Billy. Wanna hit?”

“Naw. But thanks for asking, Vick. You go right ahead. With these five young’uns, you need it.”

“Uh-huh. And today is Little Rocky’s birthday, too.”

“Oh yeah? You guys gonna have a party?”

She didn’t even look up from the bubbling bong. “Naw, maybe next week when I get some money,” she said. She took another long hit off the bong and lay back on the couch to enjoy her personal high.

“Yo, Billy,” Rocky said as he stumbled into the room, slapping my hand and hugging me tight. He said he needed me to give him a hand on his bike. Translation: Rocky needed me to buy him some parts for his bike.

“Sure, Rock. Go get dressed, and let’s go get something to eat.”

Glancing around the room, I had to wonder if the five children would get anything to eat today. Vicky was half dozing on the sofa with the bong in her lap. It had been uncomfortable for me sitting there in the dark, and I half-leaped for the door, squinting as I walked back out into the bright sunlit California day. I reached into my jacket pocket for my shades. Rocky’s two little ones were still playing and laughing in the front yard.

It always unnerved me to see Rocky’s kids playing near that massive pit bull. I knew that if the dog turned on one of them it would surely kill the kid before anyone could do anything about it. I turned to Rocky. “Hey, today is Little Rock’s birthday, huh?”

Rocky pushed past me with a rude grunt. “Yup.”

I made my way back to my bike, staring at him.
What a piece of shit. Doesn’t give a damn about his own son’s birthday.
Rocky prepped his bike and began to kick and kick. It usually took at least a dozen kicks before that bike would turn over. Today was no exception. I waited on the street for a few minutes till I heard his bike actually fire up. I knew better than to start my bike before Rocky was under way; I’d burn more gas waiting for him than on a long haul to the desert. He made his way up the sidewalk and through the fence. I fired up and we took off.

After eating lunch and making a quick stop at the auto-parts store for a set of six-banger Chevrolet points that fit a Harley distributor, we were on our way back to Rocky’s. I had gotten away with only buying lunch and a set of points. Since the money was coming out of my personal pocket—it was too complicated and slow a process to try to get these petty-cash expenses approved by ATF—I felt good about only having to shell out twenty bucks.

I parked on the street, and Rocky pulled his bike back down to just short of the front porch. As I got off my bike, I bent down to talk with Little Rocky. “Hey, buddy. So today’s your birthday, huh?”

He looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said, “Yeah.”

“How old are you today?”

He held up four fingers.

Then he looked back down at the broken toy rifle he was carrying. I felt a lump building in my throat, and I could’ve cried right there. No way this little boy wasn’t going to have at least one real birthday present. I turned and made my way back to my bike, then yelled at Rocky, “Be back in a few!”

I rode to the nearby Kmart. I picked up a bright red fire truck and some chocolates and other candy. The more I thought about the situation—missing my own sons something fierce, being unable to spend any quality time with them—the angrier I got. I wanted to call Social Services and have someone come pick up these neglected kids. I wanted to punch Rocky’s lights out. I wanted to punch his ol’ lady’s lights out.

Instead, I’d have to bite my tongue, swallow my anger, and wait for their day to come. I worked to control my rage as I made my way back to Rocky’s place. I parked my bike, hid the fire truck and candy behind my back, and strolled up to Little Rocky. “Hey, little guy,” I said. “Happy birthday.”

His little eyes lit up, and he let out a gasp at the sight of the fire truck. He reached out and took his present. He held the truck in his lap and reached over to give me a hug, and I heard his tiny voice whisper into my ear: “Thank you, Billy.”

This time a tear did roll down my cheek but quickly disappeared into my beard and the back of my grease-stained hand.

The Mongols have four required runs each year. The New Year’s run is one of them. But the beginning of 2000 wasn’t one of my brightest moments. My mood was pretty dark indeed, and the last thing I felt like doing was celebrating.

My aunt, who’d raised me and who’d loved me with a kind of love that I never felt from anyone else in my life, had recently passed away. Her name was Johnnie, and she was the kindest person I have ever known. Simply put, my biological father and mother weren’t prepared for the obligations of being parents, and when I was two years old, they left me, my brother, and my older sister with Johnnie, who lived in western North Carolina. At that time my father worked as a police officer in Washington, D.C., and my mother stayed with him there. We didn’t see much of our parents for the next four years. When I was six, my father was hired by ATF and stationed in Greensboro, and my parents took Johnnie and us with them. Although we lived under the same roof with our parents for the next fifteen years, it was Johnnie who really raised us. She cooked our meals, took us to church, helped us with our homework, cheered for us at ball games. She was a mother to me, and I grew up calling her Mom. Her passing left a giant hole in what was left of my inner core.

The investigation had mushroomed to the point that I’d lost all touch with my real life. I had spent more time with the Mongols than with my family at Christmas. At the same time, the indifference being shown toward me by ATF brass, as well as our frequent clashes with bureau administrators, had made me start to question my priorities. I hadn’t been able to take much personal time in over a year. But Mom’s death was different. Here my priorities were completely in focus.

For the first time, I didn’t ask my ATF bosses if I could take time off from the Billy St. John role, I told them. I was going back to North Carolina to bury my mother and spend some time mourning with my family. I told the Mongols I wouldn’t be around for a while because my mother had died. Then I picked up the pieces of my broken heart and went home to be with my family.

When I returned to Los Angeles, still deeply hurting, I tried to shake off my emotions and get back into the game. I arrived just in time for the Mongols’ New Year’s run.

It was going to be held at a cheap motel in Cerritos, a middle-class bedroom community on the southeast side of Los Angeles County. The community itself is nice enough, but it has its seedy sections. The fact that the Mongols gravitated to the seediest motel in town came as no surprise.

At about five in the afternoon I motored up to Evel’s house, parked my bike in the front yard, and went to the door. Evel immediately gave me a smothering hug. “Sorry about your mom, brother,” he said. “I love you.”

I thanked him. Evel couldn’t see it in my eyes, but I was frozen in space, unable to move as I watched him walk away. He was the first person, other than family, to offer me condolences.

I had been back from the funeral for several days. I had met with several ATF agents, and not one, not even Ciccone, had expressed their sympathy to me. No one from ATF had sent a card or uttered a word. I realized that I was just another number to ATF. I wasn’t Bill Queen, a flesh-and-blood man; I was ATF badge number 489. Without warning, I felt some ancient wall crumbling inside me; I wanted to grab Evel and tell him everything—the whole goddamn story. “Look, brother,” I wanted to scream, “get your fuckin’ shit together—or you’re gonna end up in prison!” And at that moment I didn’t want to send him to prison. I slumped into his tattered, beer-stained sofa, holding back tears.

I heard another Harley roar up in the front yard. This time it was J.R. He had gone to a fast-food joint to get something to eat. I remember thinking that J.R. needed another fast-food run like he needed a chapped ass. The sound of his bike brought me back to reality, and when he strolled in with his greasy bag of burritos, the first words I heard were “Billy—sorry about your mom.” I reached out for the usual Mongol handshake, followed by a sincere hug. “I love you, Billy.” I was stunned. The tears welled up again, along with rivers of regret. I sat back down on the couch.
What the fuck are you doin’, Billy?
I said to myself. I suddenly felt that Evel and J.R. were the best friends I had in the world. Maybe I could take them both in the back room, beat their asses, straighten them out. Tough love, that’s all they needed. My mind was racing and my lips were murmuring wordlessly. I sat in some kind of waking trance, trying hard to hold on to what I knew was right.

Domingo and Rancid rolled in, and the scene played out again and again. By now I was beginning to fantasize about riding off with the Mongols and never returning to ATF. I drank a cold beer with my brothers and wondered if any of them had ever felt such inner turmoil. Did their consciences ever torment them like this?

Several hours later we rolled into a hellhole of a motel in Cerritos, and I remember looking at all the bikes lined up and all the Mongols milling around in the parking lot. I was getting back in the game. I saw Red Dog and a couple of other bad actors that I had a real hard-on for, guys who seriously needed to go to jail. I took a deep breath as I got off the bike. As I looked around, now surrounded by a horde of outlaws, I reminded myself:
I’m a federal agent, and these people would kill me without a second thought if they found that out.
It wasn’t what I should’ve been concentrating on, but at that minute, in that situation, what I needed was a sobering dose of reality.

I pulled off my helmet and tucked it away. I walked toward the motel, shaking hands and greeting Mongols as I went. I made my way to the bar and grabbed a beer. Everything was going to be okay. As I turned to walk back toward where the SFV Chapter guys were, I was approached by Ray-Ray. He was a huge, bearlike man of Mexican descent, and I had bought enough dope from him to put him in prison until he was a very old man. “Hey, Ray-Ray,” I said.

He pulled me to his chest, gripping me in a big Mongol bear hug. “Sorry about your mom, my brother—I love you.”

All I could do was stand there. I’d only just gotten my faculties back, and I wasn’t prepared for the tumult and internal challenges confronting me. They were trying to pull me to the other side.

One after another, bikers bear-hugged me, expressing their condolences about my mom, telling me they loved me. I couldn’t help myself—I felt overwhelmed by a shameful guilt, like lusting after your best friend’s wife. I watched the Mongols hugging and high-fiving, laughing and toasting the new year with beer. They exchanged war stories and put their tattooed arms tightly around one another. They put their arms around me. They freely and sincerely expressed their love for one another and for me. It
was
sincere. I knew that they honestly loved Billy St. John. And at that moment I desperately wanted to
be
Billy St. John.

Yet every time I started to believe the Mongols were truly my friends, every time I’d dream about riding away with them, they’d do something that would snap me back to reality. Their truly criminal, often murderous nature would hit me in the face like a freezing wind, and I’d tell myself,
Okay, now I remember . . .

Easy was the epitome of the outlaw biker, in serious trouble with the law his entire life. He was unstable and unpredictable. Although he belonged to the Los Angeles Chapter and could most often be found down at Tony’s Hofbrau, he enjoyed hanging out with us at the SFV Chapter. He was inked up heavily with gang and prison tattoos. He shaved his head, and although not much taller than me, he was powerfully muscular. He wore his colors like they were bulletproof and seemed to have no compunction about killing for the club. He often hungered for confrontations, even deadly confrontations. He was truly fearless. Most nights I was glad he was on our side.