Under and Alone (7 page)

Not that I could have told them too much even if I’d wanted to. It’s one of the cardinal rules of undercover work: You never know who might blow your cover, what kind of casual remark, even out of the mouth of a child, could have devastating repercussions. The safest thing is to always keep your friends and loved ones in the dark about the specifics of your assignment. Of course, they understand that you’re doing some kind of top-secret law-enforcement work, but beyond that, the nature of your job, the specifics of any deep-cover case, can only hurt them in the long run.

On a cool spring night in Los Angeles, where motorcycle riding is a year-round mode of transportation, I was trying to take the investigation to that next level, making my first undercover foray into the Mongols’ stronghold in East L.A.

Tony’s Hofbrau is a notorious, old-time biker bar located in a small enclave just outside downtown Los Angeles. East L.A. is a primarily Hispanic community in the shadows of the city’s mirrored skyscrapers, where the smells of cilantro and habanero chili peppers waft through the warm breezes, carried along with mariachi music, rap, and rock. Small, well-maintained houses with gated yards and nurtured gardens commingle with tenement housing projects. The older, honest, hardworking generation lives side by side with the younger, hotheaded criminal element; the God-fearing with the gangbangers. And it was here in East L.A. that the Mongols were most at home.

As I turned onto Valley Boulevard from the Long Beach Freeway I rolled on the throttle of my Harley. It wasn’t long before the sea of bikes came into view: truly an awesome sight. There were easily eighty to ninety motorcycles lined up, standing curbside sentry in front of Tony’s Hofbrau. Rounding that corner, I felt a sharp pang in my gut, the kind I’d felt rolling into the A Shau Valley in Vietnam back in 1971. Here I was again, about to go to war, only on a far different battlefield. There was no platoon to back me up this time, and no one else to look out for. The only ass on the line was mine.

I slowed the Harley down as I approached my target. Slowly, they came into view: dark, shadowy figures that seemed, at first glance, like some mob of grim reapers. With no obvious place to park my motorcycle, I cruised past the hordes of rough, bearded, tattooed, black-leather-clad Hispanic bikers. Predator and prey, eye to eye.

I’d been feeling awkward and nervous to begin with, and now my entire body tensed as I finally reached a break in the asphalt real estate where I could park my hog. Streetlights were either in short supply or purposely rendered inoperative, and the darkness enveloped everything. I could hear the blare of Latino music even from a considerable distance. I backed the bike to the curb, the straight pipes grumbling that famous Harley idle like some mechanical beast. In the space of that moment, I asked myself what I’d gotten into, and told myself that it still wasn’t too late to get out. I sat for what seemed like an eternity before I cut the engine. I took a deep breath and repeated my undercover mantra: “Suck it up, Billy, it’s game time. You’ll come out of this one day and watch all these bad guys parading in handcuffs.”

I took my helmet off and placed it over the mirror on my handlebars. I pulled down the bandana I’d been wearing over my mouth like some black-hat gunslinger in a John Wayne movie. I got off the bike hoping my legs wouldn’t betray my nerves.

I could feel dozens of Mongols staring at me from a heavy darkness my vision couldn’t penetrate. Trying desperately not to be conspicuous, I took a quick look around for Ciccone’s Pontiac. He was nowhere in sight, but I knew he was out there somewhere keeping an eye on me. All I could feel was the pounding of my heart and the fear that my T-shirt would show the vibration. I was truly alone. But there was no turning back.

For an undercover agent, fear can be a good thing—when you’ve got it under control and can make it work in your favor. It keeps your guard up and your edge sharp. However, if you let it control you, fear quickly becomes your worst enemy. With my mission clear but my plan tenuous, I didn’t need any more enemies.

As I walked toward the bar, the music got louder and the shadowy figures more distinct. I walked as if pulled by a force I couldn’t see, past Mongols in their full regalia of black leather vests with the assortment of patches that can be read like an outlaw’s road map. There were small rectangular bars stitched on the left chest, reflecting the various chapters and the club officers’ ranks; the “purple heart” patch, meaning that a member had been shot while in combat for the gang; the skull-and-bones patch, signifying that a member had committed murder for the gang; and a multitude of colored wings that I recognized to be club-sanctioned trophies indicating that a member had engaged in acts of group sex and varieties of cunnilingus while being observed by other members of the gang.

I had almost reached the front door when a huge Mongol warrior blocked my path and shouted: “Private party, dude!”

Since my options were few—largely due to his size and my desire to see another day—I stopped in my tracks and looked up at him. Bravado kicked in. “I’m Billy—I’m a guest from San Fernando Valley.” The gateway guard took my meaning: I’d been formally invited by the SFV Mongol Chapter.

“Where’s Domingo?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I thought he was here.” I could have been Christ at the Second Coming, but my words would’ve meant nothing without the validation of the San Fernando Valley Chapter president.

“Wait here,” he said as he turned to walk back toward the pack of Mongols I’d passed.

I looked at his colors as he walked away. Worn, dirty. In a way that only outlaw bikers and those who know them can understand, his colors gave up his secrets. They spoke of who he was and much of what he’d done. In the same way a soldier or cop’s uniform can be, his patch was intimidating in its own right. His size and surliness did nothing to temper that effect.

With the mariachi music blaring behind me, I could see him talking to a figure cloaked in the street’s darkness. He was looking back and forth between me and whoever he was talking to. The longer he talked, and the more he looked back and forth, the more nervous I became. I steeled myself for whatever came my way. As much as I was hoping he’d just come back and say, “Okay, man, go on in, have a good time,” I knew an ass whipping, or worse, was just as likely. Mongols think nothing of hurting people: men or women; friends or foes. Here I was, an unknown, solitary dude claiming to be a guest. For them, kicking my ass would have taken about as much forethought as lighting a cigarette.

He finally turned and walked back toward me. After an agonizing pause, he looked me up and down and said: “Come on, dude. You gotta talk to Red Dog.”

Red Dog.
Little did I realize that those two words were the beginning of a constant misery that would last for the next two years.

Somewhere between despair and terror, I followed like a hound on a leash back to the group of Budweiser-swilling Mongols I’d been watching a minute before. They were assembled in a semicircle around one figure. He stood out like a neon stop sign on a deserted highway; obviously this was Red Dog. Six feet tall and muscular, he wore his Mongol patch slung over a long black duster. His hair was a fiery red, and his face had that ruddy, alcoholic complexion and a thick red mustache that extended well below his chin. He had a bandana around his head and wore sunglasses. That, along with a ton of prison tattoos, made his appearance all the more sinister.

I was ushered forward like a peasant before his king. Knowing this was no time to show any signs of weakness, I extended my hand. “Hey, I’m Billy from San Fernando Valley.”

There was no indication that Red Dog even considered returning the gesture. He just stood there and stared at me. This was a tactic, as I would later learn, that he routinely used to intimidate friends and enemies alike. I dropped my hand and waited. The ensuing silence was a good tactic, too. It kept me on edge. After a long wait, Red Dog said: “You know a chick named Sue?”

He might as well have been screwing a gun into my ear.
Shit.

I’d known from that first glance in the Rose Bowl parking lot that my tweaker-chick CI was going to be trouble down the road. And just a few days earlier Domingo had told me that Sue was shooting off her mouth about being pissed off at the Mongols, that she’d said she was going to pay them back big-time. Domingo thought that she might try to bring an undercover cop into the gang. Domingo had turned to me and said, “Billy, you might be that undercover cop.” And then he waited, staring, studying my face for a reaction.

If good news travels fast, bad news travels faster. The Mongol grapevine about Sue’s bad intentions had obviously gotten back to Red Dog.

“Yeah, Red Dog, I know Sue, but not any better than anyone else at The Place. Hell, I met her at a funeral. That’s all I know about her.” It was pretty close to the truth. “Look, if this chick is gonna be a problem—”

Red Dog cut me off. He took a step toward me, got right down in my face so I could smell the stench from his stale beer breath. “Billy, if
you
turn out to be a problem, I’ll cut your motherfuckin’ throat.”

It was like getting hit in the face with a wet squirrel. I wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so I didn’t say anything. Then, to my relief, Red Dog nodded to his soldier. “Let him in.”

“Thanks, Red Dog.”

As I turned away, I wondered if I was thanking him for letting me in or for not cutting my throat. Either way it didn’t seem to make much difference.

I walked through the door of Tony’s. It was standing room only. A live band blared some mongrelized, unrecognizable amateur rock. Mongols were shouting their profane conversations over the blare of Fender guitars. One percenters were everywhere. And there were plenty of ladies who looked willing to become the property of the patches. I couldn’t help but notice one chick in particular who was obviously quite proud of her half-covered breasts. They were big, and apparently really hers, but they matched the huge gut that hung over her belt. Both were prominently displayed for all to see. If I was going to be spending much time with this gang, I hoped that they occasionally attracted better-looking women.

I moved toward the bar, being careful not to step in front of any patches. I hollered “Budweiser!” at the bartender. It was becoming painfully obvious, at least to me, just how out of place I was. A white boy in the middle of a hundred Hispanic bikers. I shook off my self-consciousness and decided to try my best to mix in.

I drifted through Tony’s, Budweiser in hand. I was picking up pointers quickly. Such as when I patted a Mongol on the back and congratulated him on a good pool shot. He looked at me, grinned his outlaw grin, and politely told me that if I ever touched his patch again, he’d wrap his cue stick around my head. I believed him. Lesson learned—don’t touch a Mongol’s colors.

Shooting pool is a mainstay of the biker lifestyle. So is getting shitfaced on Jack Daniel’s and being an asshole, but I decided to try pool first. It could be either my ride in or my ticket to the intensive care unit. I’d been shooting pool since I was a kid and figured I could handle the competition. But I couldn’t help wondering if beating a few Mongols at pool would constitute some kind of disrespect. The first Mongol patch I played was good, but he only got off one shot before I ran the table. After sinking the eight ball, I looked up to see him coming straight for me with his cue stick clenched in his fist like a club. I straightened up and tightened my grip on my own stick. To my shock, he lowered the cue and extended his free hand. He was the first Mongol to do so all night.

“Good shootin’,” he said. “Name’s Lucifer.”

“Billy—from San Fernando Valley. I’m a guest.”

He nodded. “Where’s Domingo?”

Shit, how many times was I going to have to dance around this question?

“I’m not sure,” I told Lucifer.

Luckily, it was only a few minutes before Domingo and Rocky and the rest of the San Fernando Valley Chapter strolled lazily into Tony’s. I was never so glad to see a group of Mongols as I was at that moment. Instantaneously, the entire atmosphere changed. Domingo introduced me around, and things settled down, including what was left of my nerves.

I shot pool with Rocky and Domingo, downed beer, told jokes, talked motorcycles, and was actually having a pretty decent time until Red Dog—who, I had by now learned, held the official rank of national sergeant at arms—came in from the street. Things went downhill fast when he showed up at our pool table. Not content to just make me feel uncomfortable, Red Dog was on a campaign to let as many Mongols as possible know that he was going to be taking a personal interest in riding my ass. He loudly told Domingo that if an undercover cop was brought into the club, it wouldn’t be just the cop’s ass, it would be Domingo’s as well. He said it as much for my benefit as Domingo’s.

I watched Domingo as he racked up the balls. He was pretty good at letting Red Dog’s abuse roll off his back. Although perhaps a little bit suspicious of me, Domingo didn’t really believe I was a cop. He patted me on the back as we shot pool. “Relax, Billy. Just have a good time tonight.”

Last call in California is two
A.M.
No Mongol party in a licensed bar winds down before then. I looked at my watch and assessed the evening’s progress: I was still in one piece, my body parts hadn’t been rearranged, I was convincingly holding my own in conversations with hard-core 1 percenters. People were drifting and staggering through the exit, and I figured it was as good a time as any to do the same. I shook hands with Domingo, Rocky, and the San Fernando Valley guys and headed for the door.

I made it to the sidewalk just in time to see Red Dog standing by my Harley. He wasn’t even trying to be discreet: He had a pen and paper out and was copying down the license number on my motorcycle. I had no place to go without looking like I was avoiding him, so I kept walking straight to my hog. Red Dog looked up when he saw me. He gave me a brazen stare; it was like catching a bear rummaging in your trash can. He took a few steps toward me and hissed: “I’m gonna find out who you really are.”