Under and Alone (8 page)

As I climbed onto my bike I noticed another Mongol standing in the dark watching me as I prepared to leave. All kinds of thoughts started running through my head. Do they know who I am? Are they going to follow me home? I cranked my bike and headed for the freeway, looking more in my rearview mirror than at the road in front of me. There was no way I could even consider risking a meet with Ciccone. I headed back to my undercover apartment, giving any Mongol who might be following me a run for his money. Seventeen years of working undercover assignments gave me an edge on shaking tails. I wove in and out of traffic, running at over 100 miles per hour every now and then, sure to unnerve even an experienced tail.

By the time I made it to my undercover apartment, I was positive no one had followed me. I cruised on in, parked the bike in the carport, went upstairs, and collapsed onto my sofa, still wearing my leather jacket and motorcycle boots.

At the start of the Memorial Day weekend, Domingo told me to meet them at The Place at nine in the morning. This would be my first official organized outing with the Mongols. At nine sharp, like a well-disciplined soldier, I was standing in front of The Place. My sleeping bag and the accoutrements I’d need for the weekend were tied on my bike. By the time nine-thirty rolled around there were still no Mongols at The Place. I knew that there wasn’t anything that the SFV Chapter did punctually, so I killed some time talking to my buddies Roy and Johnny at the R & J Motorcycle Shop.

Sometime after ten, Carrena’s dad showed up to open The Place for business. There were already a handful of Tujunga locals craving their morning spirits. The only appropriate thing to do was to go in and join them. I’d been inside for about thirty minutes when I heard the unmistakable roar of mechanical thunder outside. In just a matter of seconds the street in front of The Place was filled with black-clad Mongols on their iron horses.

A loud voice pierced that thunder: “Yo, Billy, let’s roll!”

I went straight to my bike, grabbed my helmet off the mirror, put it on, and mounted up all in one motion. I gave the kickstand a nudge with my boot. The blast from my pipes matched those of the pack, and with a roar like that of a squadron of F/A-18s, we were off. The pack moved in unison, and as a lowly hang-around, I assumed my position at the rear, sucking up the requisite amount of burnt motorcycle oil and exhaust. Every now and then I would have to duck out of the way of mirrors and other motorcycle parts that flew off the bikes ahead of me.

I was awed by their stunning display. We made our way across Los Angeles to a cemetery on the southeast side of town, where we met up with what seemed to be the entire Mongol Nation. As we parked amid the rows of bikes, other Mongols welcomed our pack with the traditional loud-clapping Mongol handshakes as well as hugs and kisses. To outsiders, Mongols are as deadly as a pride of lions, but among themselves, they can be remarkably loyal, kind, and affectionate.

After the greetings, everyone moved toward a particular gravesite. They surrounded the headstone of a fallen brother who’d been killed two decades earlier during the original war with the Hells Angels, and with reverence, the Mongols’ national vice president conducted roll call for the members of Chapter 13—the brothers who have died and whose memory is revered by club members. Strict military-style decorum was maintained until the ceremony concluded. As a Vietnam vet, I was moved by the respect and sincerity shown by these wild-haired, tattooed, knife-scarred men. The silence was broken when a solitary Mongol screamed: “Who are we?”

Everyone responded with the Mongol fight song:

We are Mongol raiders

We’re raiders of the night

We’re dirty sons of bitches

We’d rather fuck and fight
—HOOAH!

We castrate the sheriffs with a dirty piece of glass

And shove our rusty buck knives up their fuckin’ ass
—HOOAH!

Hidy—hidy—Christ Almighty

Who the fuck are we?

Shit—Fuck—Cunt—Suck—
Mongols M.C.
—HOOAH!

The memorial ceremony broke up and the Mongol Nation erupted in a frenzy of life. We were headed to Simi Valley for a massive party weekend. Directions were handed out only when Mongols were mounting their bikes. Ever vigilant of being tailed by the law, the Mongol leadership had decided that no one was allowed to know the run’s destination prior to this moment. And who but an overeager cop would want to crash a Mongol party?

“Fire ’em up!”

And there was a thunderous roar of Harleys—Panheads, Shovelheads, Evos, Softails, FLHTCs, and so on—as we began to roll out of the cemetery. More than 150 bikes formed into ranks, winding through the streets of Los Angeles like a great anaconda. Under Red Dog’s direction, the sergeants at arms from the various chapters blatantly blocked intersections like rent-a-cops as the procession moved through the city. With impunity we blew right past real cops—stunned LAPD officers, overwhelmed California Highway Patrolmen—as well as red lights, stop signs, speed limits. No law had any bearing on this outlaw army. As we rode through one intersection after another at breakneck speed I realized that the Mongol Nation—like those shrieking warriors on horseback terrorizing the known world under Genghis Khan—were in absolute control of any territory they occupied.

After a trek of some forty miles, the procession rolled into a campground on the west side of Simi Valley, an upscale bedroom community on the easternmost edge of Ventura County, at the border with Los Angeles. After such a well-orchestrated caravan from the cemetery to the campground, I expected something similar in the selection of camping areas. What actually took place, though, was a kind of Chinese fire drill. We rode around the area looking for what we felt would be a good area for the SFV Chapter to set up shop. Like a prognosticator with a divining rod, Domingo stopped and declared a specific territory as ours. We all began to stake out our particular spots. Assuming my rightful position, I had to defer to all the patches and their women before choosing any leftover spot. I laid claim to an area underneath a scrub tree.

While laying out my camping gear, I noticed a black Chevrolet El Camino driving into the SFV area. A woman who looked to be in her late thirties got out and approached the group. She was definitely a typical biker chick. Then I heard Bucket Head, as casual as could be, tell Domingo and Rocky that the guns had arrived.

Bucket Head was our chapter’s sergeant at arms. He told Domingo that he was heading for the sergeants’ meeting. I would have given my right nut to go with him, but instead I headed to the common area with Rocky.

Music blared and the barbecue was fired up. Mongols were milling around, booze was flowing, and the smell of marijuana filled the air. Domingo, Rocky, and I had moved to the parking lot when a guy named Evel rode up on a black Harley Wide Glide. He smiled as he pulled up next to Domingo.

“Here it is,” he said. He shut down the engine as a group of Mongols started to gather around the motorcycle. “Stolen last night—right out in front of the bar. I told the prospect to take it.”

What bar and what prospect I didn’t know. I was surprised that this frankly criminal conversation was taking place in front of me, since I had no official standing in the gang. They were usually very cryptic around me. I think Rocky had the same thought because he shot a glare in my direction and told me to go away for a while. I did, but not before getting a good look at the stolen motorcycle. I would see it again later at Domingo’s house.

The run was shaping up well. I was gathering solid intelligence on the Mongols’ firearm and stolen-motorcycle activities—intelligence that would prove valuable to a federal racketeering prosecution down the line.

I filled my plate with carne asada and moved to the common area near the barbecue, where Rancid, a talented tattoo artist, was putting the finishing touches on a full-patch tattoo that covered the entire surface area of Crazy Craig’s back. As I watched Rancid work I realized that Crazy Craig would now have to be a Mongol for the rest of his life, because if he went out in bad standing with the club, the Mongols would insist on burning that tattoo off—customary practice for outlaw motorcycle gangs—and a burn that big would surely kill him.

Daylight had given way to night. I was drinking a cold Bud in the common area with six or seven Mongols, exchanging war stories, when a Ventura County Sheriff’s unit rolled into the parking lot not fifty feet from where we were standing. No big deal. We’ll be cool. He’ll be cool. He’ll drive away, no trouble. But for the Mongols, a jubilant and carefree atmosphere turned deadly serious. They began to stash their firearms. Drugs were being discarded everywhere. Like a pack of wild dogs, the Mongols had zeroed in on the deputy. But two Mongols didn’t hide their guns. I heard one of them whisper that there was no way he could take a shakedown. If he got picked up, he’d be going to prison for a long time. He looked at the other armed Mongol and said something that would rock my night: “If he comes up here, we’ll take him.”

I was adrift, back on an exploding hill just outside the Cam Lo Valley surrounded by the enemy. How could I possibly warn the deputy? Nightmare scenarios ran through my brain as the two Mongols talked casually about the cold-blooded murder of this unsuspecting officer.

The plan to take out the deputy became more specific. The deputy stopped his car now and looked over in our direction. In my head I was shouting at this officer to keep moving, to hit the gas and, whatever he did, to not step out of that car. I heard one Mongol say, “You talk with him. Keep his attention and I’ll take him from behind.”

I looked around desperately for an out. There was no way that the deputy and I could win a fight here—we’d both end up dead. I saw a phone booth with a light directly over it near the basketball area. Maybe I could make it to the phone. I could call Ciccone and have him call the sheriff’s department. Then they could radio the deputy and tell him to get the hell out of there. I felt the sweat beading up on my forehead. If was going to make a move, I had to do it now, before the deputy got out of his car.

I had started to move toward the phone when the deputy’s car began to roll.
God, make him stay in the car; don’t let him get out,
I kept saying to myself.

The patrol car kept moving, continued on out of the park. I just stood there, stunned. I regained my composure and stumbled back to my campsite. The party was over for me. I lay down on my sleeping bag and stared up the black sky, which now matched my mood. I was painfully aware that I was an ATF agent surrounded by outlaws.

I couldn’t get the image of the Mongols planning the murder of a deputy out of my head. I knew that if these guys learned the truth—that I was not Billy St. John but Bill Queen, special agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms—they wouldn’t hesitate one millisecond to put a bullet between my eyes.

6

Deep-undercover assignments are always going to wreak havoc on an agent’s nerves. But there are many undercover roles—even working inside such organizations as the Mafia or the Aryan Nations—where violent criminal activity is going to come in spurts. The undercover is inevitably going to have a few days or weeks of downtime, some moments when the criminality takes a backseat. Not with the Mongols. I quickly saw that their entire lives were a blur of potential rapes, beatings, extortion, even murder.

Unlike the Mafia, gangs like the Mongols do not exist for profit. They have various illegal moneymaking activities, ranging from drug dealing to armed robbery to trafficking in illegal guns and stolen motorcycles, but the criminal enterprise is not the glue holding the organization together. For gangsters like the Mongols, membership means a twenty-four-hour-a-day commitment to The Life. They despise legitimacy and have no desire to look like anything other than what they are.

Women play a complex role in these bikers’ lives. They’re called “mamas” and “sheep” and “ol’ ladies” and are designated the sexual “property” either of an individual member or of the gang collectively. Women like Vicky, Rocky’s legal wife and the mother of his children, were granted a measure of respect within the gang, meaning no one would dare disrespect her or put a hand on her. Rocky, on the other hand, could beat the hell out of Vicky and no one would think to say a word to him about it.

Probably the most infamous example of this twisted male-female dynamic, reported in
Newsweek
in 1967, was the case of an eighteen-year-old named Christine Deese, the girlfriend of a member of the Outlaws Motorcycle Club named Norman “Spider” Risinger. For violating the rule of not giving her ol’ man all her money, Christine was sentenced to a “punishment ceremony.” She was publicly crucified by Spider and his Outlaw brothers. According to
Newsweek,
she stood passively and “didn’t scream” as the bikers nailed her to a tree and left her there for several hours. When they finally brought her down and dropped her off at a West Palm Beach emergency room, she told the incredulous doctors that she’d fallen on a board with exposed rusty nails. The horrifying incident led to a national manhunt to capture the gang members involved and prompted a dire warning to both the bikers and their women from Florida governor Claude Kirk: “This bunch of bums has got the word they’re not welcome in Florida. . . . I hope young, thrill-seeking girls who go with them know they can get their fingers burned—or in this case, their hands nailed.” But after recovering from her wounds, Christine not only stayed with Spider, she reputedly wore the nails from the crucifixion on a necklace as some kind of perverse trophy.