Deep Cover (18 page)

I
felt almost pleased. Although it's rarely acknowledged openly, most agents feel a certain dark delight when one member of the underworld kills another. One less bad guy for us to worry about.

It
wasn't long before Dog cornered me. "Congratulations!" he said heartily. He kissed me and gave me a hug. "Hey, Doc, what say we go downtown next week and get your Henchmen tattoo?"

"Sure,
Dog. Whatever." I turned toward the mirror at the far corner of the clubhouse to get a look at the back of my vest.
Henchmen
colors
, I thought.
Goddamn
Henchmen
colors
. Then I laughed to myself.
It's
more
like
the
colors
of
Judas
.
That's
me
,
the
Judas
goat
—
accepted
as
one
of
their
own
,
my
only
purpose
to
lead
them
to
slaughter
.

"I'm
gonna go find something to fuck. See you later, Doc."

Dog's
comment made me think of Christy. I wondered about her, where she was, if she was all right. I figured it wouldn't seem strange for me to ask about her.

"Hold
it a sec, Dog," I said. "There's a cute little chick... Chris or Christy. Know who I mean?"

"Too
bad, Doc. You'll have to find a different cunt tonight. I heard she did herself a couple of days ago. Jumped out a window or some shit." He shrugged it off coldly and walked away.

I
was furious. It had meant something to me—to save her from this life, from The Henchmen's grip. There was nothing I could do for her now—except grieve. Grieve for someone whom I'd never really known. Someone whose life had never really gotten started.

I
got absorbed into the party. We drank and carried on until about three-thirty. I slept on the floor.

Chapter
16

"Mr. Toritelli says everybody gets a bonus of five thousand dollars on this job," said Famantia to his troop of nearly fifty men. They were lined up inside the pier building on Front Street, two miles from Penn's Landing. Pier 20, owned by the Toritellis, was one of the last old piers slated to be renovated into waterfront condominiums. Today it would serve as barracks for a loosely-banded fighting force. A force with a mission. To destroy The Henchmen.

The
men stood in rows of five. All wore black jeans, sweatshirts, and running shoes. All were armed with either 9-mm. pistols or Uzi submachine guns. All were hungry to impress the Toritelli organization and make a name for themselves in the underworld. They would be known as the hit squad that had brought down the Philadelphia chapter of The Henchmen. Calvecci stood in front, his own Uzi resting on his shoulder, barrel pointing toward the ceiling.

"Listen
up!" ordered Famantia. "We make the hit in six hours. All of you designated Group A will go with Ricky Moose." Famantia motioned his weapon toward the burly, six-foot-nine enforcer. "You'll be hitting the building from the rear. There's a fire escape that leads to the roof. You'll pick off anyone attempting to leave the building by way of the escape or the back doors and windows." Eight men were assigned to Ricky Moose's team, twenty-four to Calvecci's. Famantia would lead the remaining men in a frontal assault of the building. "Mario's group—Group B—will split up and enter the houses on each side. From this one"—Famantia pointed to a sketch of the structures—"he can blow a hole through the wall if there are problems getting in through their roof. They won't know what hit them. My group will assault from the front. Any questions?"

"What
about cops?" someone yelled from the rear.

"Handled,"
said Famantia confidently. He thought about how easy it was to give instructions to the desk sergeant at the local precinct. Sergeant Barry, on the Toritelli payroll for the last ten years, would delay all calls regarding gunshots or disturbances in the area between nine and nine forty-five P.M.

"Now,"
Famantia continued, "report to the head of your team and review the attack plan. Remember, we're out of there by nine-thirty. The moving van leaves at nine thirty-five. Sharp. You miss the truck, you take your chances with the cops."

The
men hurriedly grouped together to review the attack plans.

We rode two abreast behind the hearse. The twenty-minute ride to the cemetery was my first as a full patch-wearing member. The San Pagano, Riverside, Elmwood, Downey, and Culver City chapters were already at the gate when we arrived. Since Popeye was from our chapter, we rode behind the hearse and entered the cemetery first.

A
canvas tarp was set up next to the grave site. Chairs for Popeye's immediate family were arranged next to the grave. All the motorcycles were lined up impeccably along the side of the road. Every wheel was turned to the right. Counsel, Dog, Monk, Snake, Smitty, and Popeye's brother John Burns were the pallbearers. John wasn't a member or associate of the club. Counsel permitted him to carry the coffin out of respect for Popeye's mom, who sat next to Popeye's wife and daughter, crying for her lost child.

I
found it unsettling to watch this small, fragile woman gently dabbing at her tears with a tissue. Tears she shed for the child she had brought into the world, full of hopes and dreams for his future. I looked around at the hulking, raunchy-looking bikers. It was hard to believe that every one of these menacing figures, with their leather vests, their beards, their sinister reputations, had once been somebody's little baby. I laughed to myself as I remembered something Dog had said: "We come into the world from between a woman's legs and spend the rest of our lives trying to get back in."

When
the eulogy had ended, the pallbearers lowered their brother into his grave. A colorful wreath, with a ribbon that read OUR BELOVED BROTHER POPEYE, lay on top of the coffin. Counsel shoveled in the first spade of dirt. The Henchmen strictly forbade anyone other than a Henchman to bury a brother. The local grave diggers union offered no resistance. After the funeral, all the attending chapters returned to the clubhouse in East Los Angeles. Once there, Counsel took me aside and led me upstairs to his office.

"I
want to give you some instructions for the pickup tonight in New Jersey. Your flight leaves at three-fifteen. This will get you into Newark eleven-thirty East Coast time tonight. There's a reservation for a car at the National counter under the name Stewart Miller. Here, look at these."

Counsel
showed me a set of phony ID's. A driver's license and two credit cards. They were some of the best I'd ever seen.

"Smile,"
said Counsel as he snapped my picture. He took the photo to a cutter, the kind you see in passport photo shops, cut it out, and laminated it to the driver's license.

"We
get about three hundred for one of these on the street." He handed me the license and the cards.

"Pay
cash for everything. Only use the credit cards as ID if you need them."

"Who
am I going to meet?" I asked.

"A
dude named Sam, and his old lady Louise. They'll be there in the RV I told you about. New Jersey is their last stop."

"Where
else do they stop?" I asked casually. I figured this would be a natural question for someone to ask.

"Several
places," answered Counsel. "They left the lab with shipments for chapters in Houston, Philadelphia, New York, and New Jersey. A lab in St. Paul supplies its own chapter, as well as Chicago, Des Moines, and Detroit."

"Do
we always do it through Sam?" I asked.

"No.
Sometimes we fly it out if it's a small quantity. Or if it's an emergency. With Sam and Louise we can ship a lot, and they're reliable. They make the whole run in about six days."

It
made sense. Keeping the manufacture of crank in just two locations gave them quality control. Henchmen didn't burn people in drug deals. They didn't sacrifice long-term customers for short-term profits. A philosophy some U.S. corporations would do well to keep in mind.

My
instructions were clear. I was to drive the car to the turnpike rendezvous and pick up the crank. Then on to Paterson, and delivery to the clubhouse on 33rd Street. No need to check if someone would be there to receive. A Henchmen clubhouse is never left empty. There would be at least one prospect there.

Counsel and his wife, Elaine, drove me to the airport. I was surprised to see her, because he had never mentioned her before that afternoon. She was a nice-looking lady. Plump and light-skinned, with straight golden-brown hair. She had a beautiful tattoo of a rose on her left shoulder and another above her breast, which I couldn't quite make out under her sun dress. Elaine talked a lot about their two kids, Andy and Katherine. They were seven and five respectively. It all seemed so normal. Except for their biker-and-old-lady appearance it was as if I were talking to Mr. and Mrs. Middle America. They even talked about retiring one day to a ranch in Southern California. Either Elaine was unaware of The Henchmen's illegal activities or she simply didn't care.

They
dropped me off in front of the terminal building forty-five minutes before my flight to Newark was scheduled to depart. Counsel had to drive on into Hollywood for a seven P.M. meeting with a producer who had approached him about a movie deal. Apparently they had a script all prepared for a film called
The
Henchmen
Ride
. In addition to a consultancy agreement, they were offering some minor parts to Counsel and other club members. Counsel was a bit apprehensive, but had decided to hear him out. I told him I thought it would bring too much national attention to the club. Elaine didn't offer her opinion.

I
called Amy before I got on the plane. She was doing her best to sound calm and in control. I could tell she was worried as hell, with just a touch of pissed off and lonely. Alex was awake, and we had a little talk. He reminded me about my birthday promise to buy him the karate turtle with the orange mask. I assured him I would keep my promise. I hoped I would be able to.

I
told Amy that the investigation was moving forward rapidly, and that she shouldn't worry. She said she'd seen a report on the news that an ex-member of The Henchmen had been murdered outside his home. I changed the subject, then told her I had to go. I didn't tell her I was traveling east, just that I had to get back to developing my reports.

"Martin,
you don't sound like yourself," she said. I wasn't. I could never describe to her what I had been through. The feeling of guilt was strong.

"I'm
fine. Really. Just a little tired."
I
was
raped
by
a
biker
slut
the
other
day
,
and
it's
killing
me
not
being
able
to
say
anything
to
you
, I thought.

"I
love you," she said.

"I
love you too, Amy. I'll call you soon. Bye." "Bye."

Next,
I called Base I. Molly Samuels was on duty. "Nice going on the McBright thing," I said.

"Hey,
same to you, Martin. Dalton told me you used a double-barrel. Knocked McBright on his rear pretty hard," she said. I could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yeah.
A last-minute change of plans, courtesy of our friend Counsel. Just between you and me, I wasn't a hundred percent sure I didn't kill him. How is he?"

"He's
fine. A little difficult, but fine. We'll have them settled with their new names within a week or so. They're in a safe house for the moment. Dalton is staying with them until their case agents arrive."

"That's
great," I said. "I've been given instructions from Counsel to go to New Jersey." I gave Molly the details of the drug pickup. She said she would arrange for a surveillance team to take photos of the meeting. Pictures of this Louise and Sam, as well as their vehicle, would prove to be useful after their arrest. Photos or videos of drug transactions always help support an agent's testimony in court. Atwood would have enough pull in the Bureau to get the surveillance done without bringing the team in on our investigation. They would photograph the individuals, then ship the pictures and reports directly to Atwood's office. I also told Molly that something was coming down in Philly. She said she would alert the desk sergeant at the local precinct.

I
slept through most of the flight. As instructed, I paid cash for the car at the airport and followed the signs to the New Jersey Turnpike. It took me about thirty minutes to drive to the drop-off point. I spotted the RV parked near the east side of the lot, right where Counsel had said it would be. I parked in front of the RV. No one was sitting in front. I walked around the side and peered through the window. "How ya doing?" said a deep voice behind me, which startled me momentarily. "Say, you must be Dr. Death." He wasn't exactly what I had expected. His three-hundred-plus-pound frame took me a little by surprise. I'd been expecting some slick-looking drug-runner. Instead I got Baby Huey in a Hawaiian shirt.

"That's
me," I said. "You must be Sam." He put his hamburger in the bag he was carrying, wiped his hand on his shirt, and offered me a handshake. "I was just getting a couple of burgers. Want one?" I shook my head no. "Glad to know you, Doc," he said. "The Mrs. is inside. Hey, Lou!" he yammered, as he pounded on the side of the vehicle. "We got company!"

I
heard the click of the door being unlocked, and it slowly swung open. Sam motioned for me to enter. His wife Louise was sitting on one of the built-in couches opposite the door. Her girth took up most of the tiny seating space, and once Sam had squeezed his way in behind me there wasn't too much room left for me to sit. The camper smelled of body odor and rotten food. Louise was eating some sort of sandwich with melted cheese. Sam opened the bag and started to devour his hamburgers. This was almost as disgusting as having that biker chick sit on my face. I sat opposite the rotund couple, my back to the door. Sam finished a burger with two bites and a gulp and, while he shoved a second in his mouth, motioned toward two green plastic bags. "There it is, Doctor," he said, talking with his mouth full of food. Louise sat there, munching away.
God
,
these
two
were
made
for
each
other
.

"They
told me in Philadelphia that you'd be here," Sam continued. "The Jersey boys had to go down there to help them out tonight. But I guess you know all about that, Doc."

"They're
gonna kick some ass," said Louise. "If me and Sam were a couple of years younger," she said, patting her husband's belly, "why, we'd we turn 'round and head back there tonight. Wouldn't we, Sam?"