Deep Cover (20 page)

The
next morning I called in to Base I again. My Harley needed gas, so I made the call from a gas station near the highway. I told Dalton about Patrick Helmsford. Again, as with the police assistant, they would not move on him immediately. He would be watched and a case built against him. He might even be fed some disinformation to keep him from getting suspicious. When the operation was over, so would his life be as a free man.

When
I'd hung up with Dalton, I took to the road for a thirty-mile solo trip down 425. With the wind in my face and The Henchmen colors on my back, I began to think about the ideal that had helped to forge the club in the late forties. That a man could ride free and do what he pleased, and never have to worry whether his brothers were behind him. As long as you wore those Henchmen colors on your back, you were respected and feared—two words that were synonymous in the world of the outlaw biker. Society's rules and morals meant nothing to you. You were part of a subculture that had its own laws.

I
felt great. At that moment I wanted to be a Henchman. Living fast and furious and never worrying about tomorrow. My fantasy ended with the silencing of my engine in the driveway of my apartment. I was an agent. Trained and sworn to uphold the law. Integrity and brains. But now, a part of me was also Dr. Death, the Henchman.

During
the next few days most of the activity centered around The Henchmen's movie. The documentary crew conducted several interviews with club members under Counsel's watchful eye. The members seemed to get a charge out of it all. Footage was even shot of an evening trip to an amusement park, where we rode roller coasters standing up, shot pellet guns in the shooting gallery, and rode bumper cars like twelve-year-olds during their summer vacation.

At
one point six of us were playing the balloon-race game. The object was to fire a water gun into the mouth of a plastic clown head, thus activating a pump which filled the balloon on top of the head with air. Whoever's balloon popped first won. Dog led the conspiracy by tapping Iron Man with his elbow and motioning his head toward the attendant. Iron Man, in turn, did the same to me, and all the way to the end where Counsel was poised, ready to fire. As soon as the attendant rang the buzzer we fired at her, soaking the poor woman from head to toe.

She
must have signaled for the park security somehow, because two security guards came running up to see what the commotion was all about. When the two young men turned the corner and saw us six grinning bikers, they looked like they wished they'd never gotten out of bed that morning. We teased those poor guys until they had tears in their eyes. Counsel grabbed one of their nightsticks and held it between his legs like a huge erect penis. Dog got on his knees and pretended to suck it off. The camera crew got the whole thing on film. A crowd started to form around us, and we knew it was time to end the little game before any real cops came on the scene. Before letting the guards walk, Iron Man took the handcuffs from one of them, a short, muscularly built guy in his mid-twenties, and kept them as a souvenir. I was troubled by how much fun I was having with the club. The renegade I-don't-give-a-shit attitude was infectious. I had to remind myself that I was here to put these guys away, not become one of the brethren.

The
day before we were to strip the San Pagano chapter of their colors, The Henchmen threw a chili bash at the East L.A. clubhouse for the officers of the Paterson and Philadelphia chapters, to celebrate their victory over the Toritellis. Judging by all the boasting and backslapping that was going on, I guessed that the win had been a decisive one. I wondered what the hell could have gone wrong. I was sure Molly would have found a way to tip off the local police. Again, this was one of those times when I didn't actually regret that the incident had taken place, but was confused as to why. As far as I was concerned, if The Henchmen and Mafia wanted to destroy each other, so be it.

I
also learned at the party that the New Jersey chapter was planning a huge rip-off of military equipment from the army base at Fort Dix. Dirty Dan, the chapter president, had cornered me. My back was to the wall and he had one arm over my shoulder, supporting himself.

"It's
gonna be a tit... a fuckin' tit." He belched right in my face. I could smell the unsavory combination of chili and beer. "My ole lady," he continued, "she's been working as a sec'tery... sec...." He shook his head to clear his thoughts. He was slurring so badly I could hardly understand him. "Sec... re…tary." He winked at me, proud to have finally blurted out the word. He then turned abruptly away, walked over to a corner, and sat on the floor. I found out later that he was trying to tell me about his girlfriend, who worked in the records office at Fort Dix.

Before
I left the party I wished him well on the heist.

Chapter
18

"Yeah?"

"This
is Counsel. Who's this?"

"Yo,
Counsel. How ya doin', bro? It's Slip. What's up?"

"You
guys having your meeting tonight?"

"Sure
as shit. Same time every week. Why?"

"I'm
coming by. We have to talk about this Bobby Jones concert thing."

"Hey,
man. Those babes wanted a good time and we showed them one. It got a little wild at times, but—"

"Wait
a second," Counsel cut in. "I don't give a shit about the two cunts. We have to talk about handling the cops now. You brothers collect a lot of bread from the businesses in your neighborhood, and that's all going to dry up if the man turns up the heat." The San Pagano chapter had a flair for extorting money from local merchants. Fifty dollars each week bought them protection. Most of the merchants paid it enthusiastically. Once the word was out that an establishment was under Henchmen protection, robberies dwindled. San Pagano contributed an average of ten thousand dollars each month to the national coffer from this business alone.

"Sure,
Counsel. Everyone'll be here. Later."

"What'd he say?" asked Iron Man

"They'll
be there." Counsel walked from behind his desk to the wall, where a map of the United States was displayed. He removed the pin from the area of San Pagano. Looking at it pensively, he recalled how six years ago eighteen members of The Commandos had approached him for a Henchmen charter. They prospected for the club for six months. Of the eighteen, only nine got their patches. Two were killed, and one was jailed when three bikers botched a bank robbery. The rest just weren't man enough to don Henchmen colors. Counsel had personally given Beef his Wild Bunch patch for taking out two Outcasts in Nevada. He tossed the pin in the trash.

"Who was on the phone?" asked Sandy.

"Counsel,"
said Slip curiously. "He's coming over tonight. Wants to talk about how we're going to handle the heat from the cops." The two bikers were sitting at a large table in the main room of the clubhouse. Slip was drinking a beer and casually flipping through the pages of
Iron
Horse
magazine.

"Is
he coming alone?" Sandy's sharp instincts caused him to feel uneasy.

"He
didn't say." Slip's attention remained on the magazine.

Sandy
picked at his tooth with his fingernail and looked thoughtfully at the floor. "You still got that little .25?" he asked, still looking down.

"Sure
do, Prez. Right here." Slip lifted his boot to the table and pulled up his pant leg, to expose the handle of a .25 semiautomatic pistol secure in its holster. "You think something's coming down?"

"Nah.
Probably not. Just a feeling, man." The shrewd biker thought for a moment about Counsel's visit. The chapter had been in bad situations with the law before. Counsel had never ordered a sitdown with the entire club.
What's
on
his
mind
? he wondered. He looked at his Henchmen colors hanging across the back of a chair. "Would you die for that patch, Slip?" "Hell, yeah, wouldn't we all?"

Twenty minutes east of St. Paul, Little Ferry is one of the most pleasant neighborhoods in Minnesota. Tree-lined streets, single-story ranch-style homes, and small-town hospitality give it the charm of a Norman Rockwell illustration. Frank "Dave" David, president of the Henchmen chapter in St. Paul, was working on the club's books in a small room in the rear of his home. Henchmen paraphernalia and trophies from his motorcycle racing days decorated the walls. An eight-hundred-pound safe, containing many years' worth of sensitive information, stood next to the desk.

An
astute bookkeeper, with two years of business training, Dave did many of the duties normally reserved for the secretary/treasurer. He insisted that it be that way. The club's secretary could handle the files on members and associates. Bookkeeping and all other financial matters would be handled by the forty-four-year-old president. Partly gray and a little overweight, Dave was well suited to his white suburban surroundings. Although he didn't socialize with his neighbors, they all considered him a typical family man, albeit a rather reclusive one. While many men in the neighborhood sported Jaguars and Ferraris, a bright yellow Harley was Frank David's display of boyishness.

There
was a timid knock on the door. "Come on in," said Dave with a sigh. He closed the ledger and pushed it to the side of his desk. His fourteen-year-old son, Mark, opened the door slowly.

"Dad,
I'm sorry to bother you. Can I talk with you a minute?" Dave nodded and smiled at his first-born. Mark sat on the floor.

"I
got a little problem," said the blue-eyed, redheaded youngster. "There's this guy. This big guy on the baseball team. Well, he's giving me a real hard time. You know, pushing me around and stuff. He's bigger than everyone else, and nobody's ever stood up to him. You know it really bugs me, because if I was allowed to tell him my dad was in charge of The Henchmen, he'd be real scared and—" Dave gently placed his finger on the boy's lips.

"Every
man has to stand on his own, Mark. The members of my club would do anything I'd ask of them. That doesn't mean I don't have to stand up for myself. I've told you and your sister that under no circumstances are you to tell any of your friends about Daddy's club. Your mother doesn't even talk to her friends about it. Besides, even if you scared him with that you'd never get his respect, and you would never respect yourself."

"What
should I do?" the boy asked forlornly. "This guy could kill me."

Dave
chuckled and hugged his son, lifting him off his feet. Still sitting in his desk chair, he held Mark by his shoulders with his huge hands. "Mark, I love you. You know that. But if you don't stand up to this... What's his name?"

"Joseph."

"Joseph... Joseph will never respect you, and he'll continue to treat you like crap. I'm not saying you have to fight him, although you may. I'm saying that you've got to make him believe in his heart that every time he bothers you he's going to have to fight you, regardless of how it turns out. My guess is he's not looking for a fight as much as he's looking to intimidate people." Mark smiled. "Understand, son?"

"Yeah,
I guess so. Hey, Dad... Will I lose self-respect if I kick him in the balls?" Dave laughed until he almost lost his breath. "No," he said, wiping a tear from his eye. "Whatever it takes."

"Thanks.
Oh, I almost forgot, Mom told me to tell you Uncle Jimmy's here. He's waiting for you outside. Bye." The youngster left his father's office. The Henchman put the ledger in the safe, locked the office door, and left the house. He walked to the curb, where James "Jimbo" Hill was standing next to his blue Chief Cherokee jeep.

"Hey,
Jimbo! How ya doin'?" The two bikers shook hands.

"I'm
good. We got a new shipment of merchandise. It's a lot larger than we expected. I think the guys need a little help on the distribution of this one. You ready to go?"

"Yeah.
Let's take my car. I don't trust that piece-of-shit jeep of yours."

"Fine
with me, man. Use up your gas, fine with me. You got a smoke?"

Dave
handed Jimbo a pack of Marlboro cigarettes from his shirt pocket. Jimbo took one and handed the pack back to Dave.

"Got
a light?" asked Jimbo.

"Christ,
you want me to smoke it for you too?" Dave lit the cigarette with a small yellow disposable lighter. "It was the same shit when we started out in '72, you were always grubbing stogies." Dave's mind quickly returned to the days when he and Jimbo had started the Iron Riders together. Broke, owning only their clothes, boots, and motorcycles, Dave and Jimbo had gone to work recruiting bikers and building up the club's business. They'd built the club into a force of almost fifty members by 1977. By that time the two founders had amassed a fortune selling drugs, and running one of the largest fencing operations in the northern United States. It was that end of their business that had caught Counsel's attention. Using the club's women, they would lure unsuspecting truck drivers with smiles and promises. What the truckers received were beatings and the loss of their cargo. It didn't matter what—electronics equipment, clothing, even produce.

Dave
remembered how he had built up such an elaborate network of contacts around the country that he could unload anything his people could highjack. He also remembered how The Outcasts had become interested in his club as well. For months both The Outcasts and The Henchmen had competed for the assimilation of The Iron Riders. Finally, to thwart off a "hostile takeover" from The Outcasts, The Iron Riders buried their colors and put on the hooded executioner insignia of The Henchmen. Dave smiled as he thought about the contrast between his life in the early seventies and his life now, almost twenty years later. He had gone from sleeping on the clubhouse floor to a three-hundred-thousand dollar home in suburbia.

As
the two men walked toward the garage, Dave suddenly put his arm out, stopping Jimbo. "Wait, Jimbo. Somebody's been in this fucking garage."

"How
do you know?"

"Look."
Dave pointed to the top of the door frame. "See that broken piece of masking tape? Every time I close the garage door, I place a small piece of masking tape between the door and the frame. It's a habit I got into when Mark was younger and always wanted to get in to fuck around with the bike. The only way it could get broken is if someone has opened the fucking door."

"Maybe
it was Mark," Jimbo offered.

"No
way. Look at this." Dave pointed to the lock on the center of the door. Tiny scratches, evidence of a picked lock, were very barely visible.

"Get
Mark and Gloria out of the house," Dave ordered, and Jimbo immediately moved off to comply. Moments later he emerged from the house with Dave's wife and son. He told them to get into his jeep, then joined Dave by the garage door.

Dave
slowly opened the overhead doors. Jimbo stayed at Dave's side, holding his breath until the door rested in its open position. "Look over the bike, Jimbo. I'll check the car." Seconds later, Dave found it. "Jimbo, it's fucking wired." Both men examined the bomb, which was taped to the car's steering column. Four sticks of dynamite, armed with an electronic blasting cap, were wired to the spark plug. Dave would have been killed as soon as he turned the key.

Jimbo
carefully disarmed the bomb, first clipping the wire to the spark plug, then separating the blasting caps from the dynamite sticks. He handed the caps and the sticks to Dave. He then locked the sticks of dynamite and the blasting caps in the trunk of his car.

Dave
walked over to the jeep to speak with his wife and son.

"Babe,
I'm gonna have Jimbo take you and Mark to your mom's. Stay there until I tell you it's safe to come home."

Gloria
said nothing. In the sixteen years she'd been together with Frank David, she had learned to expect disruptions in her life. She looked over at her son. Mark was busy tuning the jeep's radio and playing with the steering wheel. The thirty-eight-year-old wife of the Henchmen leader remembered vividly the day she'd married Dave, ten years ago. It was the same day the club threw a party to celebrate the second anniversary of their Henchmen charter. They had rented a boat, packed over three hundred people in it, and cruised Lake Superior for ten hours. She thought about how she'd stood next to a smiling, slightly drunk husband-to-be, while Counsel performed the ceremony.

"Do
you, Gloria, take Dave, to be your husband... promise to polish his bike... not question his every move?" asked Counsel, reading from a book of Henchmen law that he had authored.

"I
do," she said.

When
the boat docked, Frank David and four other Minnesota Henchmen were arrested for having beaten a trucker in a bar the night before. The Henchmen were out of jail in twenty-fours hours, and the charges were eventually dropped.

Now
Gloria stared out the window as Jimbo drove them away.

Dave called the clubhouse and spoke with his security officer, John "Jack The Ripper" Kendall.

"Jack?
Dave. Listen, I found a bomb in my fucking car. It could have been The Outcasts. They killed a brother from the Los Angeles chapter a week ago, and they may be launching a new offensive. I want the word put out on the street that The Henchmen are to be notified of any sighting of an Outcast or associate club member." At least five other motorcycle gangs in Minnesota were Henchmen affiliates, with another two hundred or so people working for them in various capacities. If The Outcasts were responsible, Dave would find out.