Under and Alone (29 page)

By the winter of 2000, as I was nearing the two-year mark with the Mongols, I found myself spending more time at Tony’s Hofbrau in East L.A. It was ironic, given the nightmarish impression I’d had the first night I’d ventured down there, how ominous the figures in black had appeared, how much courage I had to muster just to back my straight pipes to the curb.

But now Tony’s Hofbrau was a kind of oasis within the Mongol Nation. The situation in the San Fernando Valley was too volatile; the brawling and stabbings and drug use in The Place were overwhelming me. For the most part the guys in the SFV Chapter were in their twenties and thirties, and with the constant snorting of crank and coke, they had the stamina to stay up partying and brawling all night for weeks straight.

But the brothers down at Tony’s Hofbrau were more laid-back than the typical Mongols. There were several graybeards, guys closer to my own age, some who’d also been in the service during the Vietnam War. The L.A. brothers even listened to better music—soul gems like Marvin Gaye, the Temptations, and classic fifties doo-wop—rather than the heavy-metal shit that was in constant rotation on the jukebox at The Place and that had started to feel like an incessant jackhammering inside my skull. Unlike the SFV Mongols, with these older and mellower L.A. dudes, I didn’t have anyone ragging on me for not staying out all night.

I throttled down on Valley Boulevard, and as I rolled up in front of Tony’s Hofbrau, a half dozen Mongols from the L.A. Chapter stood outside, watching me back my Harley to the curb. I shut the motor down, took my helmet off, and turned to them with a smile.

“Heya, Billy!”

“It’s a black-and-white world, brother!”

As I walked through the doors of Tony’s Hofbrau, I felt like a true Mongol and not an ATF special agent. By this time, I felt more welcome in the company of these 1 percenters than I did among my fellow law-enforcement officers. I
wanted
to be at Tony’s on this warm night, wanted to have a beer with the L.A. members, and the thought of prosecuting any of them was not in my mind. I sat at the bar and ordered my usual beef sandwich and Bud.

I was especially glad to see Bronson, named for his uncanny resemblance to Charles Bronson and his silent tough-guy bearing. He was an older Mongol who owned and ran a paint shop in L.A. with his dad. I never saw Bronson fighting or doing drugs, but like most of us, he liked his beer.

I had a couple of Buds, talked with Bronson about getting a new paint job for my Softail Springer, and was just getting ready to head home when a new wave of Mongols showed up. Among them I saw Mike Munz, president of the San Diego Chapter. He and I greeted each other with the traditional handshake and hug. Munz was probably the most feared man in the entire Mongol Nation, and for months the San Diego Sheriff’s Department had been pushing me to get close to him.

The Southern California area has a good number of cops and investigators working the OMG scene full-time. We call them biker chasers. Billy Guinn from the San Diego Sheriff’s Department was the OMG expert down there, and he wanted a piece of Mike Munz bad. They were looking at Munz for the unsolved murders of two Hells Angels, but they were having a hell of a time coming up with witnesses to testify against him. Munz was a scary guy, heavily into extortion—nothing subtle, just pure fear tactics—and the Mongols had muscled their way into a number of different legitimate bars and strip clubs in the San Diego area. The San Diego Mongols were also suspected of owning an arsenal of high-powered weapons.

Billy Guinn happened to be a friend of John Ciccone’s, and they put in a request that I set up an operation down in San Diego. They wanted me to get next to Munz for intel-gathering purposes—any evidence I could find about the open homicides, the extortion, the guns and drugs, which they could then roll into their own prosecution.

Going down to San Diego was a risky proposition. Even hard-core Mongols were terrified of Mike Munz. He was six foot two, better than 250 pounds, rock-solid and evil-eyed. Mongols used to sit around talking about how Munz had done his prison time; whatever joint they sent him to, he would instantly ask the inmates who was in charge of the cell block. And if anyone spoke up, Munz beat his ass to prove that he was now in charge.

In addition to being intimidating, Munz suffered from bi-polar disorder and needed lithium just to remain a semifunctional thug. When I first met him, we were all partying at a hotel and I watched him popping lithium from a prescription bottle. He told me that without it, he’d be completely out of control.

After our first few casual encounters, I arranged to meet Munz at a topless club called Pure Platinum near the San Diego airport. Billy Guinn informed me that Pure Platinum was one of the clubs that the Mongols had “taken over.” The manager was so afraid of them that he didn’t call the police even after a San Diego prospect named Rick Slayton knocked him unconscious in front of a dozen witnesses in his own nightclub.

I rolled into Pure Platinum at around six-thirty on a Wednesday evening. I saw Munz’s hog sitting in the parking lot, but no other bikes were there. I threw my colors on and walked to the front door. A bouncer was waiting to collect the cover charge, but when he saw my colors, he stepped aside. “Welcome. Mike’s over at the bar.”

Pure Platinum was more upscale than any of the topless joints I was used to going to in L.A.—bigger, cleaner, with a classier clientele. Across the room, Munz gestured for me to come on over. We did the Mongol handshake, and he introduced me to his two stripper girlfriends, sitting on either side of him.

Pure Platinum didn’t serve food, so Munz told one of the girls to go out to get me something to eat. Munz then ordered a beer for me and I pulled my money from my pocket. He told me to put my fucking money away. “We don’t pay for nothin’ here.” He called over to the manager, a clean-cut guy in a nice suit and tie.

“This is Billy, my brother from L.A.,” Munz said.

“Welcome to Pure Platinum.”

“You got a great place here,” I said.

“Can I get you guys a bottle of something?”

I could tell the poor guy was completely intimidated but couldn’t do a thing about the constant shakedowns from madman Munz and the San Diego crew.

Now Rick Slayton walked in with his girlfriend. A menacing-looking man who rippled with muscles, he had a shaved head, an array of tattoos, and a reputation for loving fights more than he loved riding bikes. He even ended up fighting professionally on the controversial Ultimate Fighting circuit.*
 
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Next to arrive was Jimmy, a Mongol who’d killed a man before I began my undercover role and had managed to convince the court-appointed psychiatrists that he was insane so that he’d done his time in a mental institution.

Everyone continued to drink on the house, and the conversation was progressing smoothly until Munz made an impulsive suggestion—that we all go down to Tijuana, Mexico, that very night.

I didn’t mind pushing the envelope on occasion, but a Mexico run would be out of the question. For a United States federal agent, slipping into Mexico unannounced on an undercover deal would be a career-ending mistake. Mexican authorities would go ballistic. Cross-border operations have to be cleared well in advance by both governments. Besides, I’d received intelligence that at least three Mongols in the Mexico Chapter were police officers, one a
federale.

I made up my mind. This Mexico run wasn’t going to happen. But the trouble was, Mike Munz was used to everybody going along with his suggestions. As a chapter president, he outranked me, and turning him down would be a delicate business.

“Come on, Billy. I know this great whorehouse, got the most beautiful chicks in Mexico. For twenty bucks, you can get laid all night long.”

“Let’s go,” Jimmy said, and he even started to get up. I had to come up with something fast.

“Look,” I said. “I just picked up more than thirty thousand dollars’ worth of avionics equipment that I gotta get to Van Nuys by seven in the morning. There ain’t no way I’m taking that stuff into Mexico.”

“You could leave it at my place,” Jimmy said.

“I appreciate the offer, Jimmy, but I came down here tonight just to hook up with you guys. I would love to go to Mexico and get laid, but I just can’t do it. I can’t risk losing my job. The next time I come down here, I’ll be ready for Tijuana, okay?”

Munz stared at me, suddenly intrigued by my job. He asked just what it was that I did for a living. I told him that my company bought and sold the high-tech instruments used in aircraft. He wanted to know if I could get him a job with my company. I told him I’d talk with the owner, though to read Munz’s body language it was pretty clear he viewed the word
job
as just another opportunity for a long-term shakedown. “No problem, Billy,” he said finally. “We’ll do Mexico the next time you make it down here.”

Before leaving Pure Platinum, I managed to engage Munz in a conversation about some guns that the SVF Chapter had for sale. I hoped that it would bring a response about the San Diego Chapter’s own arsenal. I found out that all their guns were being housed at Jimmy’s place. I could hardly keep from smiling when Munz said it. A murderer and an asylum alumnus had been put in charge of the munitions.

When I left Pure Platinum and did the debrief with Ciccone and Guinn, I told them what I’d learned about the San Diego Chapter’s firearms, valuable information we needed to prepare the affidavit in order to get search warrants. But I told them I thought it was going to be nearly impossible for me to gather any intel on the homicides of those two Hells Angels in which Munz was the prime suspect. I could feel it in my gut, the undercover instinct telling me to steer clear of this one. Mike Munz was just too violent and unpredictable a character for me to push my luck any further.

I had made the big decision: The Laughlin River Run in April 2000 was going to be the last significant event I would participate in as a Mongol. I’d been riding with the gang for two years and two months, and I’d taken the case further than I’d ever dreamed. I’d patched in and had been performing the duties of secretary-treasurer of the SFV Chapter, and in February I’d been elected chapter vice president. But I had also gone well beyond my personal limit for abuse. My body was breaking down. I was constantly feeling sick, and the years of riding Harleys and hanging out in ear-splitting Mongol bars had caused permanent hearing loss.

My personal life was a disaster. I’d lost touch with my own sons. My relationship with my girlfriend was over. I was isolated from my colleagues at ATF, and I knew the administrators in the L.A. Division were wholly indifferent to the sacrifices I’d been making.

As far as the investigation went, I felt like a gambler who’d been letting all his chips ride on the next roll of the dice. At some point the law of averages was going to catch up to me. At some point I would definitely crap out. What I feared most was making a slip, doing something stupid to give myself away. And giving myself away would no doubt cost me my life.

As Laughlin approached, a new wrinkle emerged, stressing me further. We heard that the Hells Angels were spreading a rumor in the biker world that the Mongols had been infiltrated by an undercover cop. Ciccone and I didn’t think the rumor referred to me; it was likely just the result of some Angels trying to stir up problems in the Mongols.

But given the suspicion and animosity I’d long been feeling from guys like Red Dog and The Kid, and given their penchant for crank-induced paranoia, the news wasn’t helping me sleep better at night. For several months, I nodded as Mongols discussed the rumor in Church, repeatedly saying that they would murder the undercover if they ever found out who he was.

I had come to dread the moment when I put on my helmet, fired up the Harley, and had to ride in again. I felt like a massive stone wall was about to come crashing down on me at any minute.

Looking for a way to make the trip to Laughlin less onerous, I had been talking with Mongols from the Mother Chapter about riding into Laughlin with them instead of my own fuckup of a chapter. Mother was leaving at a more reasonable hour, and I knew that it would be less of a hassle to ride with a group whose bikes wouldn’t be breaking down every twenty miles.

But the more I thought about the run, the less I wanted to make the trip at all. I called Ciccone and told him that I just wasn’t up to another six-hour ride with the Mongols, whether it was the Mother Chapter or SFV. Ciccone was frayed to the limit, too, and wasn’t thrilled about having to tail us.

So we devised a plan that made our lives easier. We decided to put my bike in the back of a U-Haul trailer and drive it to Needles, California, a small desert community just fifteen minutes from Laughlin proper. Once there, we’d offload my Softail Springer and I’d cross the border into Nevada and on into town. I’d lay some story on the Mongols about having to stop on the way to take care of some business and needing to ride to Laughlin solo. The story wouldn’t be a problem. I’d been in long enough now that I could tell them anything.

The day before the run, I went to the U-Haul office in Upland and rented a truck under my Billy St. John name. I drove it home and loaded up my Harley. I noticed that the license tag on the truck was a temporary paper one out of Florida. The tag numbers had been handwritten in with a Magic Marker. The idea that this would be a big problem down the line never crossed my mind.

I had gotten to the point of giving myself a pep talk before every meeting with the Mongols:
Okay, Queen, this is the last time you’re gonna have to do this. Nothing’s gonna go wrong. It’ll be a smooth operation. You can do this, brother.

To my amazement, Ciccone showed up precisely at ten, as we’d arranged. It was completely unlike him; lack of punctuality was the one thing he had in common with the SFV Chapter. It was great to see him instead of a bunch of Mongols.

We trucked it to Needles without incident. I hunkered down low in the passenger seat to make sure that no Mongols spotted me on the road along the way. After gassing up in Needles we found an out-of-the-way location to offload the bike. Everything went exactly as planned. I threw on my patch, along with my other Mongol regalia, and fired up the bike. The plan was for Ciccone to follow me into Laughlin and break off just before I got to the Riverside Resort Hotel.