Deep Cover (14 page)

"You'd
better hurry," said Leverick. "You're gonna be late for work."

Leverick
left as he had arrived, via the front door.

We had been sitting since five A.M. Smitty's chain-smoking was getting on my nerves.

"Look,"
said Smitty. "That dude's coming out now."

"He
looks like a fed if I ever fucking saw one. These motherfuckers are so hungry for information they'll lean on a dude for life. Squeezing him for every last bit of shit they can get," I said. Leverick and I had discussed whether or not he should go to McBright's while I was scoping out his place in the company of one of The Henchmen. We decided it would add credibility to the story about McBright rolling over, so we went with it.

"That
fucking rat. Let's do him now, man. Let's fucking do him now," insisted Smitty, lighting another cigarette from the butt of the last one.

"Patience,
my man Smitty. Patience. The day after tomorrow his rat mouth will be permanently shut." Smitty took a deep drag on his cigarette, as if he were taking in my words along with the smoke.

"Yeah,
yeah." Smitty turned to me, hand in the shape of a pistol. "Pop him one for me, Doc."

"Sure,
Smitty, sure thing," I said. I was finding out that, next to pissing on someone's colors, the worst thing you could do to The Henchmen was turn rat. A rat could not avoid retribution. The Henchmen's arm is long, and their memory longer. And this poor fuck wasn't even going to turn in the first place. He was just a victim of the gang's paranoia. And of our manipulation of his life.

Chapter
12

"
After
the
beep
,
leave
your
name
,
your
chapter
,
and
a
telephone
number
where
you
can
be
reached
for
the
next
four
hours
…."

"This
is Lieutenant Kyle, LAPD. We found this number in the wallet of one of your members. There's been a shooting. You can reach me at 644-7—"

"What
shooting? Who?" said Counsel, hastily picking up the receiver.

"Edward
Burns," said Kyle coldly. "We've already called his wife. She's at the morgue now, identifying the body."

"Then
why call me? All of a sudden the police department calls every number in a guy's wallet?"

"No,
Mr. Benson?"

"Jesus
Christ, what makes you so sure my name is Benson?"

"This
telephone number is registered in your name. It's unpublished, and you've had it since 1977. You give it to all L.A. chapter members and all presidents and vice-presidents of other national chapters."

"All
right, all right, I get the point. The man has friends at the phone company and knows a little something about the club. Big fuckin' deal. Who killed Popeye?"

"Don't
know. He was shot by the turnoff from 44. I was hoping you might have some idea."

"I
don't. You be sure and let me know if you find out anything, officer," said Counsel bitterly.

"Sure,
sure. So you and your gang of merry men can take the law into your own hands and cut his balls off. That's not the way it works in our society, Mr. Benson."

"We
don't live in your society, Mr. Kyle. We have our own laws, our own rules."

Counsel
was certain that this was an Outcasts hit. He had warned members not to fly colors solo. He had also warned all the California chapters that members of the Seattle chapter of The Outcasts were rumored to be visiting associates near the Mexican border. Extra caution was advisable.

"Look,
I know this is probably falling on deaf ears, but I implore you to let us handle this."

"We
take care of our own. We don't ask anything of the police. A brother is dead. Some fuckin' lowlife slime took him away from us. If you get him, fine. If I get him, fine. That's all I have to say."

Counsel
hung up the phone. He depressed the speed-dial button for Hank the Skank. Counsel's vice-president wore a pager so he could be reached twenty-four hours a day. Within minutes Hank had returned the call. Counsel instructed him to go to Popeye's wife and make all the funeral arrangements. All members within one hundred miles would attend, wearing full colors. The next call was to Crazy. As the security officer, Crazy would handle surveillance and secure routes to the cemetery for all attending chapters.

The
immediate business handled, Counsel sat in his easy chair, looking through old snapshots of the club's run to Sturgis, South Dakota, in August, 1986. Each August some fifty thousand bikers descend on this small town on the edge of the historic Black Hills. The Henchmen are treated like royalty whenever they attend a major run like Sturgis. Counsel laughed to himself as he looked at Popeye chugging beers with a couple of college kids. The Henchmen never paid for a drop of beer the whole time they were there. Everyone wanted to be seen partying with a Henchman, and Popeye ate it up. He would get fifteen bucks a photo from anyone wanting a picture. He came home that year with over three hundred dollars.

"So
long, brother," said Counsel. "You lived free and you rode hard. I hope heaven is a highway and you're on it, man."

Counsel
was filled with feelings of regret and anger as he finished his second six-pack. He crushed the empty can and threw it without aiming toward the wastebasket. It lay on the floor with the other eleven.

Counsel had been asleep for about four hours when he was awakened by the distinctive ring of his cellular phone. Very few members and club associates had the number. Since cellular phones are more difficult to trace than regular phones, Counsel could talk openly only on this tine.

"Yeah,"
said Counsel groggily. His throat was scratchy and his mouth dry

"Counsel,
this is Pat." It was Patrick Helmsford, police captain at the 7th Street Station in East L.A. Helmsford had been on the Henchmen payroll for the last seven years. He would feed information on roadblocks, drug busts, warrants, movements of rival bike clubs, and anything else his status in the department made him privy to. For fifteen hundred dollars a month, Helmsford used his influence to take pressure off the Henchmen's businesses. The massage parlors and strip joints needed the police to keep a blind eye to a list of violations a mile long. In July of 1987, he had warned The Henchmen of a major sweep that was about to take place on the strip. Every other massage parlor and strip joint was closed for a week because of violations. Only the Henchmen establishments had their houses in order on the night of the raids.

"What
is it?" Counsel. Impatient.

"Look,
I heard about your boy, I'm sorry."

"Send
me a sympathy card. What do you got for me?"

"It's
the San Pagano chapter. They've really fucked up this time. A couple of high school girls were found on a street corner Saturday morning. They were in shock from what the examiner describes as 'a night of rape and torture.' Witnesses at the Bobby Jones concert said they saw them leave with bikers."

"So
what?" interrupted Counsel. "Don't other bike clubs attend concerts?"

"Not
this one, Counsel. Your guys were paid bodyguards that night, hired to work the crowds near the stage. They definitely left with Henchmen. What's worse, one of the girls is the niece of the lieutenant-fucking-governor of California. We've got orders right from the chief to pressure you guys any way we can. That includes raids on your clubhouses, harassing your strip joints, bars, and parlors. Even your goddamn body shops and restaurants are going to get the once-over."

"Those
fucking assholes. So what the fuck can we do?"

"They
gotta come in, man. The girls are too scared to talk, or arrests would have been made already."

"Forget
it. They're Henchmen," said Counsel defiantly. "They would die before they fuckin' came in."

"Well
then, you better get ready for the biggest harassment campaign since 1975, because it's gonna come down hard if I don't have some Henchmen meat to throw to the wolves."

"I'll
see what I can do," said a disgusted Counsel. "You just get the info on the raids and shit if it starts to happen soon."

"As
always. But it may be bigger than both of us this time."

Counsel
placed the phone back in its holder and walked slowly to the bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face and looked at himself in the mirror. His head ached as he thought to himself: I'm
the
one
who
has
to
make
it
all
work
out
.
Those
fuckin'
idiots
.

He'd
always known that sooner or later the San Pagano chapter would go too far. It was only two months ago that Red Tonnelly had beaten two people nearly to death for honking at him at a red light. And Slip Zatela almost had the whole chapter busted three weeks before that, when he raped the waitress at an all-night donut shop in Reno. Only fear of the club's retaliation and intimidation of the witnesses had saved them from being arrested. They had to go. They were too wild and bad for business. Counsel returned to his chair, drank another beer, and went back to asleep.

Christy put the twenty in her purse and laid it on the end table. She removed her shirt and climbed onto the bed. Her customer, a pudgy man in his early forties, sat up in bed with his boxer underwear and black, calf-high socks still on. "You're gonna have to relax if you wanna have a good time with little Christy now, baby."

"Well,
I.... er... I don't relax very easy," said the nervous john. The blinking VACANCY light of the motel sign cast an eerie shadow on the wall. He stood up and walked to the window. "Do you mind if I close these blinds? The blinking lights are distracting," he said.

"Sure
thing, sweetie," said the now naked Christy, her arms stretched above her head. She crossed her knee over her left thigh, giving the john a view of her shapely buttocks. He fumbled with the drawstring and managed to get the blinds about three-quarters of the way down. Christy moved to a kneeling position as he turned toward the bed. She gently placed her hand between his legs and began stroking his penis until it protruded from the awkward-looking underwear. She then gently pulled his shorts to his knees and took his organ deep into her mouth. The john moaned as she moved her head back and forth with increasing intensity. Then she moved her mouth away and continued to stroke hard with her hand.

"I
can keep this up all the way, if you'd like," she said as she looked up at him, her eyelids half-closed, licking her lips slightly.

"Yes,
oh Jesus, yes, don't stop," said the trembling customer. Christy reached to the side of the bed, where she had carefully placed an opened condom. She slipped it in her mouth before continuing the fellatio. She moved her head back and forth while she gently squeezed his testicles. "Oh God, oh God, oh yeah. Here it is…. Here it is." He held his breath and his body convulsed. Christy removed the filled condom and discarded it in the bin next to the bed. The john never noticed. He collapsed on the bed, his boxer shorts wrapped around his sock-covered ankles.

"You
were great. You were the greatest," he said, out of breath.

"Sure
I am, honey, it's what I do. Now get dressed and get going. I got a full night ahead of me."

Christy
watched from the window as her john crossed the street. The flashing lights from the motel sign began to produce a hypnotic effect. She began to reflect, to soul-search. She remembered the night she'd come to Los Angeles on the back of Savage's motorcycle. He had made her feel special. He took her out for Chinese food and brought her around to all the biker spots. People turned their heads to get a look at the Henchman and his date. She felt special having this strong, manly specimen pay so much attention to her. Attention she had previously known only as a small child. She also remembered Savage taking her to this motel. To this very same room. He had made love to her for what seemed like hours. Anyone she had ever slept with before was just a boy compared to this strong biker.

She
moved to the bed and lay down, continuing to replay scenes from the past in her mind. She remembered another Henchman coming up to the room in the middle of the night and Savage saying, "Now it's time to take care of my friends," and how he had beat her almost unconscious when she refused. She began to cry. The memory of that night was still vivid. One after another they had piled into the room. There must have been six. Or was it eight? She couldn't remember for sure. They all had her. Some of them twice. Savage told her it was part of her "training" and that she was now working for them. The only way out was by her death.

Her
heart started to beat faster as she relived the fear she'd felt that night, and she replayed Savage's words in her mind: "If you ever try to run away or go to the cops, we'll eventually find your ass. And when we do, we won't stop beating and fucking until you're stone-cold dead." The only solace she could find was in a crack pipe. The Henchmen generously supplied all their addict girls with drugs. In fact it was a requirement, part of the "training" process. Through fear and drug addiction these slavemasters controlled their stables.

The
sadness and emptiness slowly turned to unbearable pain. Christy opened her purse and removed the only picture she had of her family. She walked toward the window, still crying, looking at the pictures of those she remembered once loving. Her father, mother, and sister. A picture taken before Christy was born. Her heart beat faster. The flashing lights seemed to match the tempo of the beats. The knock at the door meant the next john had arrived. She would perform once again and hand over her earnings to her captors. They would throw her some drugs, the way a farmer feeds his pigs. "No! No more!" she cried. "Mommy, Daddy... I love you!" were her last words as she leaped to the only option for freedom available: her death.