Deep Cover (15 page)

Chapter
13

Jerry Robinson ran halfway home from school. He wanted to be home by three-thirty to watch his favorite cartoon shows. Jerry was a good student. All A's and B's on his last report card. He always resisted the pressure from his friends at school to do drugs and drink alcohol. The local pushers were even harassing him to deal crack for them. Using minors to deal crack was becoming a popular vehicle for inner-city pushers. Kids weren't immediately suspect, and they wouldn't have to do hard time when caught. Jerry spotted Billy Ray Collin's limousine as he turned up Broadway.

"Oh,
shoot!" cried Jerry. "It's Billy Ray!" Jerry started to run faster. Only two more blocks and he would be home. Home, the sanctuary where he had lived with his mother and father since his birth twelve years ago. Home, on the very same street where The Henchmen had had their clubhouse for the last ten.

The
Paterson police say that 33rd between Broadway and Fourth Avenue is probably one of the safest streets in New Jersey. During the last ten years only six burglaries and four muggings have been reported. All of these incidents had taken place while The Henchmen were away on bike runs.

Billy
Ray was fairly new to Paterson. He had made over a quarter million dollars selling crack in Astoria, New York, until a local mobster turned up the heat and forced him to seek his fortune elsewhere. Eight months ago he and his gang had set up shop in Paterson. He used mostly neighborhood kids to sell his drugs, but occasionally recruited people from Newark and West New York. Most of the neighborhood feared him. It was rumored that Billy Ray and one of his goons had butchered a deli owner for refusing to sell crack for them from his store. His body was found in a dumpster behind the store. They'd cut him into several pieces with a chainsaw. The chainsaw was recovered at the scene. No fingerprints.

Billy
Ray spotted Jerry running down the street and ordered his driver, JJ Smith, to head him off at the next corner. The huge car stopped just short of hitting him. Jerry froze for a moment. As soon as Billy Ray stepped out of the car, Jerry darted again toward home.

"Get
in, you stupid little motherfucker!" ordered Billy Ray. Jerry kept running. Billy Ray slipped back into the car and ordered JJ Smith to continue the pursuit. They caught up with Jerry outside his home. Billy Ray jumped out of the limousine and grabbed Jerry by the back of his shirt, almost choking him. Jerry began to cough. "You're all right. Don't be such a little pussy," said Ray.

"I
didn't do nuffin. What you boderin' me fo?" asked Jerry.

JJ
Smith turned off the engine, walked to the left side of the car, and stood, arms folded, while Billy Ray continued to badger Jerry.

"Look
here, you stupid niggah, you ain't got no choice in the matter! You gonna deal for me at school or you gonna get yo ass busted!" threatened Billy Ray.

"You
doan scare me, Billy Ray!" said a tearful Jerry. "Da Henchmen are my friends! They kick yo butt good!"

Billy
Ray laughed out loud. "You think those white motherfuckers give a shit about a little niggah like you? Boy, if this was Alabama or Mississippi, they'd call themselves the KKK instead of The Henchmen! You
are
a dumb-ass kid, ain't ya?"

Billy
Ray had good reason to believe The Henchmen hated blacks. His brother-in-law, Barry Roosevelt, had done time in Folsom Prison. He used to tell Billy Ray stories at Sunday afternoon barbecues. Stories about jailed Henchmen and other bikers who would quickly align themselves with white supremacy groups like the Brothers of Arian and the American Nazi Party. In fact, a Canadian motorcycle club called The Devil's Chosen had been denied access to a Henchmen-sponsored run because they had a black member. Billy Ray was confident that The Henchmen would never interfere with his recruiting process for young dealers.

"I
won't do it, Billy Ray! You're a bad man, and I hate you!" Jerry started swinging his arms wildly, trying desperately to punch Billy Ray. JJ Smith, still leaning against the car, laughed at Jerry's futile effort. Jerry's mother, returning from work, spotted the men confronting her son and began to run up the street.

"You
let go of my boy!" she screamed, dropping her bag of groceries as she ran. She was intercepted by JJ Smith, who threw one arm around her waist as she struggled and screamed at Billy Ray, Windows started to open, and neighbors began to poke their curious heads out to see what the commotion was all about. The yelling came to an abrupt halt with the thunderous roar of four Henchmen motorcycles turning up the street. Jerry kicked Billy Ray in the shin and bolted across the street to The Henchmen's clubhouse as the four bikers pulled up. "I'm gonna laugh when they smack that little niggah in his face and send him home crying," said Billy Ray.

Billy
Ray watched anxiously as Daniel "Dirty Dan" Goldman stood listening to Jerry's whimpering explanation. Billy Ray's anxiety turned quickly to genuine concern as the hulking six-foot-four, two-hundred-ninety-pound biker gently patted Jerry on the head and shot a menacing glance across the street. Dirty Dan clicked his fingers in the direction of his cohorts and pointed toward Billy Ray and JJ. The four bikers began to walk slowly across the street.

"Shit,
JJ, let's get the fuck outta here, man! Those fuckers are coming over here!" said Billy Ray, as he leaped into the back of the limo. JJ immediately let go of Jerry's mom, who ran to greet her son halfway across the road. Before they could get the limo rolling, two Henchmen, Bobby "Bones" Blackwell and Dirty Dan, climbed into the backseat with Billy Ray. Henry "Grease" Bartley, a jolly-looking sort with a huge belly and hands as big as a gorilla's, stood by the driver's window. Only The Henchmen insignia and the bottom rocker of his colors, which read NEW JERSEY in bold black letters on a white background, were visible through the glass. The Henchmen used to have city names as the bottom rocker of their colors, until Counsel gave instructions to all national chapters to strip the city names and use only the state. Counsel figured that in states with multiple chapters it would be harder for the police to narrow down their suspects when Henchmen colors were spotted.

The
fourth Henchman, Edward "Stoned Eddie" LeCamp, followed JJ into the front seat and sat beside him, one arm over his shoulder. "Hiya, pal! Nice day, eh?" said the Canadian-born biker. Stoned Eddie had been a member of the Montreal Sinners before moving to the U.S. He'd been a member of The Henchmen since 1982. Henchmen lore had it that Stoned Eddie had killed three Outcasts by beating them to death with a motorcycle kick-stand during a rumble in Binghamton, New York. This feat earned him his Henchmen colors, as well as the vice-presidency of the Paterson, New Jersey chapter two months later. Stoned Eddie placed the cold steel of a six-inch hunting knife to JJ's throat.

"You
just sit tight, eh, and maybe I won't cut your neck. Okay, brother?"

JJ
said nothing. Just a few short gasps for air, and a wide-eyed look that begged for mercy.

Bones
pulled a .25-caliber pistol from his boot and held it to Billy Ray's temple. Billy Ray gasped, held his breath for a moment, then let it out in short, stuttering bursts. "What the fuck you want with me, man? I ain't done shit to you," said Ray, his voice high-pitched. Dirty Dan held up a five-inch combat bayonet in front of Ray's face. "See this, you stupid nigger? This is the steel that's gonna cut off your balls." He slowly moved the blade down Billy Ray's body and stuck the point lightly against his crotch. The smell of human excrement filled the air as Ray's sphincter muscle loosened.

"Oh
shit, man," said Bones. "This motherfucker shit his pants." Dirty Dan didn't laugh. He leaned over and spoke softly to Billy Ray. "This is
my
block, shithead. Don't fuck with anybody. Clear?" Ray nodded, out of breath, embarrassed, and beaten. "Now get the fuck off my street."

The
limousine drove off as the four Henchmen returned to their bikes. Dirty Dan turned and met Mrs. Robinson's grateful eyes. He nodded. She took her son by the hand. "Let's go, boy. You have homework to do before you can watch TV."

***

Joseph Famantia bit his nails as he waited outside Don Toritelli's office. His right-hand man, Mario Calvecci, waited with him, sharing his nervousness. They both knew Toritelli's temper well, and they were the bearers of bad tidings. "Give me another smoke, Mario. I hope he's ready to see us soon. I want to get this over with."

"You
and me both," said Calvecci. "What do you think he's gonna do?"

"Don't
know. He's gonna want to get even real bad. Real bad." Famantia brushed some cigarette ashes off his tie. "You know, Mario, a cunt in Barbados bought me this tie. You like it?"

"Sure
thing, boss. I always like a yellow tie with a blue jacket."

"Think
so?"

"Yeah."

Both men turned toward the mahogany doors as Toritelli's
consigliere
, Jack MacDonald, emerged from the office. "Don Toritelli will see you now, gentlemen," said the young lawyer. Calvecci stood by the door as Famantia moved forward. Famantia stopped three feet from Toritelli's desk.

"Don
Toritelli, I'm sorry to have disturbed you this evening."

"Tell
me, Joey, what is so important that it cannot wait?" said Toritelli, his Italian accent thick and his voice deep. For a man of sixty-seven he stood tall and strong. His gray hair was well groomed. His dark, sunken eyes hid many of his wrinkles, and although some said he never smiled, he still possessed all of his teeth.

"It's
Angelo, Don. He's... he's dead."

"Dead?
Who? How?"

"They
hit the lounge. Tonight. Some kind of explosion. We're not sure who, but we think..." Famantia hesitated. He had set up the deal. He knew Angelo wouldn't give The Henchmen their twenty G's, but he never thought they'd do anything about it. Never thought for a minute they'd have the nerve to hit a Toritelli-owned establishment. "We think it's the motorcycle club. The Henchmen."

"Why?"
inquired Toritelli, his face starting to redden.

"One
of the cocktail waitresses survived. She told Mario that two of The Henchmen argued with Angelo minutes before. She said she thought Angelo was going to shoot them right there in the lounge."

Toritelli's
eyes widened and he began panting. "
Dead
!" he bellowed, as he pounded the top of his oak desk.

"Dead!
Dead! Dead! Dead!" he shouted, as he hammered the desk again and again. "I want all those fucking slimy, hippie bastards dead! I want that fucking clubhouse of theirs burned to the ground! Take a hundred men if you have to! I don't want a single Henchman left alive in this goddamn city!" He shook his fist at the air, then bit his forefinger as he growled away his anger. He fell back into his chair. Exhausted, he motioned for Famantia and Calvecci to leave.

"What
do we do first?" asked Calvecci, as the two men left the office building at 18th and Broad.

"We
put the word out. Only guys who are in line to get made. Everybody gets their bones after we hit them." Famantia knew that many of the old blood might not be up for a hit on The Henchmen. He also knew that the younger guys would be willing to accept the job. For a guy to "get made" was the Mob equivalent of a Henchman getting his colors. Ever since FBI agents like Joseph Pistone had infiltrated the Mafia in the late seventies, mob families across the United States had tightened up on procedures for accepting new members. Now you had to "earn your bones" by making a hit. Famantia figured that young men, hungry to become members of the Toritelli family, would jump at this chance to bring down The Henchmen.

"Talk
to Ricky Moose. He's got the best line on available guys."

"When
do we hit them, Joey?" asked Calvecci.

"Not
sure. We need to find out when they have their club meetings. I'll have one of our people inside the police department check it out. I'm sure they have files on these guys. Let's meet at Eddie's tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock."

"Sure
thing, Joey. Three o'clock."

Calvecci
walked down 18th Street to catch the subway at Market. Famantia hailed a cab.

He tapped the flashlight against his hand to give it some more juice. "Damn, I should have put new fucking batteries in this," grumbled Peter "Pete" Jacobs, as he made his way through the dark tunnel underneath Front Street in North Philly. He was looking for the junction box that tied in the buildings between Westmoreland and Lippincott to the Philadelphia Power Company electrical network. "Come on, baby, just a few more minutes," Jacobs pleaded with his fading light.

As
he came up to the rusted, metal cover, the light died again. One more whack against his hand gave him enough light to read the tags near the terminals: 1118 FRONT STREET. "That's it," said a pleased Jacobs. He then removed the rubber-handled wrench from his tool bag and proceeded to loosen two of the hot wires that provided the building with electrical service. Once the bolts had been loosened, Jacobs removed the wires from the terminals and tapped the circuit opened and closed six times. He repeated this procedure a half-dozen times within ten minutes. "This ought to give them a little flicker," he said. He then returned the wires to their secured position and tightened the bolts. The flashlight held out until he had made his way through the tunnel and back onto the street.