Deep Cover (13 page)

Chapter
11

He woke at the same time every Saturday, six-fifteen A.M., happy as a child on Christmas morning. This was the day that Eddie "Popeye" Burns took his solo rides from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. He'd ride for four hours, only stopping at a gas station to use the bathroom or have something to drink. That was the way it had been every Saturday for the last ten years. Unless he was in jail, or part of a major Henchmen run.

"Popeye?
That you, honey?" mumbled his wife, Dierdre, as she placed a pillow over her head to block out the morning sunlight. Popeye said nothing. She went back to sleep. He pulled his road-beaten Levi's over his thin, well-toned legs and clasped his "Hooded Executioner" insignia belt buckle. Over his jeans went his leather chaps with Western fringes. Next his steel-toed, seventeen-inch-high leather boots, complete with cigarette pocket and knife-holder. It was already seventy-five degrees out, so a T-shirt would do it. Lastly, it was time to put on a biker's most prized possession, his colors. The leather vest always sat on the back of a chair, patch facing the bed. He carefully removed it and placed his arms through the holes. First right, then left. Then a slow twist of his body toward the mirror to view his coveted uniform.

Popeye
was as proud of his patch today as he had been the day he got it fifteen years ago. He was now thirty-eight, but his body was as lean as that of a man of twenty. His huge forearms had earned him his nickname, and many opponents in barroom brawls and hamburger-stand scuffles had been sent into oblivion by his thunderous blows. He motioned a strike with his right elbow toward the mirror. He was pumped and ready to roll. He looked in on his eight-year-old daughter, Angel, then left the house.

Popeye
always kept his bike covered in thick plastic, even though it was kept in the garage. A 1955 Harley-Davidson, with a 1957 panhead engine. Candy-red paint covered the frame and gas tank. It had a springer fork, and narrowed sixteen-inch ape handlebars. Ninety percent of the exposed metal was chrome-plated and shone like new. Popeye grabbed a rag off the workbench and cleaned a smudge off the side of the headlight. He carefully escorted his bike to the street, mounted it, primed the ignition, and kicked it over on the first try. "That's forty-two in a row," he said proudly. Popeye held The Henchmen record for the most starts on the first kick: sixty-one.

He
throttled the engine a couple of times, then thundered down the street, grinning, the wind against his face. Only when he rode his bike was he truly at peace. The endless conversations in his head about the way things could be, should be, and might be suddenly came to a halt. The aliveness that in most respects he had cut himself off from since he was a child could be experienced again.

His
pleasure trip was interrupted as he turned onto Route 44, a winding, seldom-traveled road. A dark gray van pulled to within inches of his rear wheel. Popeye accelerated to avoid a collision. "Fucking assholes!" yelled Popeye, as he gave the intruders the middle finger. The van accelerated once again, this time striking him. Popeye was forced over the embankment and into a ditch. He was thrown from the bike, smashing his head and back against the ground. The van stopped. Popeye bounced up, dazed and angered. He looked over at his broken-up hog, the engine still running, then up at the van.

"Cocksucker!
I'll fuckin' kill this asshole!" Popeye started to make his way up the hill as the door on the passenger side of the van opened. Brian "Shooter" Riggs, the sergeant-at-arms for the Seattle chapter of The Outcasts, emerged with a shotgun in his hands. He met Popeye's face with the double-barreled weapon. Popeye stood still, staring down the twin holes. Joe "Skinny Joe" Walters appeared next to Shooter.

"All
right, fuck-nuts, peel that fucking patch
now
!" demanded Skinny Joe.

Shooter
said nothing. The wind was blowing his thin, scraggly hair in front of his dark sunglasses. He bit nervously on his lower lip as he cocked the hammers into position. "You heard the man, dipshit, lose the jacket!" he ordered.

Popeye
looked disdainfully at Skinny Joe. He stepped forward, his nose almost touching the gun metal. "Take it off, asshole!" growled Shooter.

The
barrel of the shotgun was starting to shake. Popeye took a step back.

"Fuck
you, pussy. Pull the trigger, but you ain't getting this," said Popeye, tugging slightly on the collar of his vest. Shooter gave a painful smile and squeezed both barrels, ripping into Popeye's skull. The force of the blast sent Popeye down the hill, where he came to rest on his now stalled Harley. His body lay draped over the bike, his Henchmen patch in full view. The two Outcasts approached the body cautiously. Shooter lowered the weapon and stared at his victim. Skinny Joe began to remove Popeye's colors. "Nice leather vest. I'd like to—"

"Take
your fucking hands off that vest!" Shooter demanded, as he kicked Skinny Joe in the rib cage. Skinny Joe crumpled over, a look of shock on his face.

"What
the fuck is wrong with you, man? We
came
to pull his fucking patch! Let's pull it, and get the fuck out of here!"

"You
dumb, skinny shit! I should blow
your
fucking head off too! You don't know nothing, man! He had balls enough not to give it up. More balls than you'll ever have. Get in the fuckin' van! This dude gets buried with his patch." The warriors left without their scalp. Popeye lay lifeless on his metal horse. It began to rain.

The front doorbell rang a half-hour before Kevin McBright had to wake up for work. "Shit. Motherfucker," he said as he glanced at the clock. "It's only five-thirty. Another fucking half-hour before I have to get up. This fucking shit-for-brains is gonna get his ass kicked." He threw on some dungarees, grabbed the baseball bat he kept by the bed, headed for the door and threw it wide open.

"You
dumb motherfuc—"

"Kevin
McBright? Dalton Leverick. FBI." Leverick flashed his badge.

"Look,
man, my trial ain't started yet. I don't gotta to talk to no motherfucker with a badge about nothing. So get the fuck out of my face, before I shove that badge up your ass!"

"I
need to speak with you, Kevin. It concerns your and your wife's safety," Leverick said in a low, serious voice.

"Listen,
man," said McBright, pointing the bat like a huge index finger. "First of all, my name is 'Irish.' Only my mother calls me 'Kevin.' Second, I can handle any trouble that comes my way, so fuck off."

"Ten
minutes... Irish." Leverick held both hands out in front of him. "Ten minutes, then I'll fuck off if you want me to."

McBright
stepped aside, allowing room for Leverick to pass. "This better not be more fed bullshit."

Leverick
and McBright walked over to an old, dusty sofa. Leverick sat down on the edge of the couch. McBright sat on the coffee table directly facing him. He rested his hand on the end of the baseball bat, tapping his chin against his knuckles, sometimes lifting the bat and tapping the floor.

"Your
old club has put a contract out on you. They think you're going to roll over on them because it will get you off the drug bust."

"Bullshit!
Bullshit, man!" McBright stood up. The bat fell to the floor. Leverick remained calm, watching McBright carefully, knowing the man could reach down for the baseball bat at any moment. Leverick moved his hand slightly toward the inside of his jacket, hoping McBright wouldn't get nutty on him. If he had to shoot him, he could blow the whole operation. He could see it all: paperwork, inquiries. Leverick continued to reason with him.

"I
can prove it, Irish. Right now," said Leverick in a smooth, steady tone.

"How
the hell you gonna prove that bullshit?"

By
this time Sandy was awake and pressing her ear against the bedroom door. Experience had taught her not to interfere in her husband's business. She touched the scar on her upper lip, and thought back to the night in Mike's bar when Irish had smacked her for offering her opinion. Although she had been defending her husband's position in that argument with Counsel, McBright told her that Henchmen women never question and never interfere in a man's affairs. Eight stitches and six years later, she still remembered that lesson.

"Come
with me," said Leverick. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from his coat pocket. "Let's go around back and you can see for yourself." He led McBright out the back door and around by the front porch. From there he could get a clear view of the Henchmen van parked almost - two blocks up the street. "Look through these." Leverick handed him the binoculars. "Look at that blue van about a block and a half down the street on the left-hand side. Recognize anyone?"

"Shit!"
exclaimed a surprised McBright. "It's fuckin' Smitty! Smitty, you fuckin' pirate! I don't know the other dude. You?"

"I
know of him. He used to ride with the Satan's Saints in Canada. They call him Dr. Death. He's the trigger man on your hit."

"We'll
see about that shit," said McBright, his face now red with anger. He dropped the binoculars to the ground and headed toward the rear of the bungalow. Leverick stumbled to pick them up and followed McBright. McBright went to the bedroom and started loading his rifle. Sandy sat on the edge of the bed, naked. She made a feeble attempt to pull the sheets over her body when Leverick entered the room.

"Irish,
wait, man, this is stupid!" pleaded Leverick, his voice soft but intense.

"I'll
blow
both
those mothers away right now! Move aside!" His eyes were wide, his breathing short and quick. Leverick remained in the bedroom doorway.

"Wait
... there's a better way. A way that will guarantee your safety and keep you out of the joint." Leverick shot a glance at Sandy. She remained seated on the edge of the bed, her firm breasts exposed.

"I'm
listening," said McBright hesitantly. His breathing started to return to something a bit more normal.

"I
have it all set up if you're willing to go through with it."

"Have
what
set up?"

"Your
death... and subsequent relocation."

"
What
?"

"Witness
protection."

"Get
the fuck out of here!" McBright bolted the rifle and started toward the doorway. Leverick stood firm, his hand inside his jacket.

"Look,
you don't understand." Leverick placed his left hand on McBright's chest. He continued to keep his right hand close to his service revolver. "We just make it look that way. They think they made the hit. You and Sandy move to a new city with new names and a new job, and we bust the motherfuckers who want your ass dead."

McBright
began to relax. He stepped back and sat next his wife on the edge of the bed. He started shaking his head. "I don't know. I just don't know. Maybe they ain't looking to do me. Maybe I should go talk to them."

Leverick
walked over and looked straight into McBright's eyes.

"A
minute ago you wanted to blow them away." Leverick's voice became harsh, almost abusive. "You know goddamn well why they're there." Leverick pulled a small note pad from the inside pocket of his jacket. He flipped through the pages vigorously.

"Steven
Wilkin. You probably knew him as `Bolt.' " McBright nodded.

"Fat
Dougen, remember him?" Leverick flipped the pad closed and returned it to his breast pocket. "They burned him, his wife, and their two kids while they slept in their trailer. The Henchmen don't have too many ex-members, do they?"

There
was an awkward moment of silence before McBright let out a sigh, then spoke.

"How
you gonna do this?"

"When
the time comes, you wear a bulletproof vest. You leave the rest to me."

McBright
looked over at Sandy. She nodded.

"Okay,"
said McBright, looking down at the ground, defeated. "When do we do it?"

"Our
sources tell us the hit is scheduled for day after tomorrow. They're going to hit you before you go to work. About the same time I came here today. I'll bring the vest over tomorrow night and stay in the house as backup. If the house is being watched at the time, I'll come around back sometime during the night."

"Wow,
I'm feeling safer already," McBright said sarcastically. Sandy laughed.

"Go
to work today. And tomorrow. We'll keep an eye on the house. Sandy will be safe, Irish, don't worry."

"It's
all right, baby, I'll be all right. Let's do it the way he says," said Sandy. She somehow sensed that she wouldn't be beaten this time for offering her opinion. McBright looked at her and smiled with a warmth she had never before experienced.