Deep Cover (6 page)

Chapter
5

It had been three hours since he'd picked her up along the interstate, forty miles outside of Phoenix. She hadn't spoken a word, then or now. The white lines of the road held her with a hypnotic effect. Ed Mulligan, an independent trucker since '68, could stand it no longer.

"Do
you talk, kid?" he asked.

"Sure
I talk. What do you want to talk about?"

"How
about the usual bullcrap? Where are you from? Where are you going? Some simple conversation, for crissake. We still got six hours before we get to Brawley. It would go a lot quicker if you'd lighten up a little, sweetheart. You said your name was Christy, right?"

The
girl sighed.

"Right.
I'm from Phoenix. I just got out of the Saint Agnes Home for children. I have no idea where my parents are and they don't give a fuck about me anyway. I'm going to California to get a job and enjoy myself for a while. You know—sun, fun, all that good shit. Okay?"

The
tone of her voice sent a clear message: Leave me alone. Mulligan decided not to push it. The pretty, mysterious teenager could remain in her private world.

Christine
Glidden, seventeen years old, born in Phoenix. She was the younger of two girls. She still remembered that day when she was eight years old. The screams. Her sister lying dead in the driveway, crushed by the wheels of her mother's car. Her mother being restrained and taken to the mental hospital. It was more like a dream now than a real memory. The months of being tossed around between relatives while her mother recovered and her father struggled to make a living as a bus mechanic.

She
pulled an old photo from the pocket of her denim jacket, then quickly returned it. She massaged her temples as she thought of the day her parents had left her at Saint Agnes'. It had been a cloudy morning, just two days short of her ninth birthday. "I'm sorry, darling," her weeping mother had said. "Seeing you every day, I can't get over what happened to Laura. It won't be long."

She
spent the next eight years yearning for a family, never understanding why her mommy and daddy had left her. Never understanding why they never came back.

Mulligan
pulled into a truck stop twenty miles outside of Brawley. It was a mecca for drivers taking southwestern routes into California. A gas station, diner, and tavern, it was the most popular trucker's spot in Southern California. The Henchmen-owned establishment also catered to the honest trucker's need for a little boost to help him drive through the night. And it catered to the dishonest trucker's need to dump a load of hot TV's or stereos.

"Wait
here," Mulligan ordered the teenager.

"Hey,
where you going, man?" she asked.

"I
have to talk to a couple of people inside. You just sit tight. Here, light up." He handed her a joint and a book of matches.

"Shit,
man, you should have told me earlier you had smoke. Thanks."

Mulligan
smiled as he shut the door to the cab. Once inside the bar he ordered a beer for table number six.

"Sure
thing," said the bartender, as he wrote a note on a small tablet and placed the sheet of paper on the waitress's tray. "There's two ahead of you."

"This
one's too hot to wait," said Mulligan.

"I'll
see what I can do."

Victor
"Crazy" Crawford and Henry "Savage" Rivers were sitting at the rear table with a trucker from Wisconsin. The trucker rose abruptly and left with his two hundred dollars of methamphetamine as the waitress handed the note to Savage.

"It
better be worth it," said Savage. "Tell him to come over."

The
waitress waved him over and Mulligan sat down with the expressionless bikers.

"What
you got?" asked Crazy. The clean-shaven biker had piercing green eyes that looked deep into Mulligan's. It was like looking into the eyes of Lucifer.

"I
got a sweet young thing sitting in my rig. She can't be no more'n seventeen or eighteen. I told her I could take her as far as Brawley. Interested?"

"How
much?"

"Three
hundred," said Mulligan.

"Fuck
off. One-fifty," countered Savage.

"Make
it two. Come on, she's a
pretty
young thing."

Savage
looked at Crazy, who shrugged indifferently.

Mulligan
returned to his rig to retrieve the pretty teenager.

"That
was good weed, man," she said happily as Mulligan climbed into the cab.

"Listen."
Mulligan lowered the radio. "How would you like to party with some cool guys from a motorcycle club? They'll take you all the way to Los Angeles if you want, or San Francisco, or wherever."

"Wow.
Who are they?"

"The
Henchmen."

"Oh
man, fuck yeah. Those guys are the coolest. Thanks. Thanks a lot, man."

"Don't
mention it, kid. I'm glad to help out."

Mulligan
drove off with two hundred dollars in his pocket. Christine drove off on the back of Savage's bike. As they glided gracefully between lanes on the highway, her hair lashed wildly around her face. A
princess
on
a
white
knight's
horse
, she thought.
Imagine
,
the
most
famous
motorcycle
club
in
the
country
taking
me
to
Los
Angeles
. She had never felt so free.

The apartment was exactly what I had expected. A crapped-up one-bedroom in a run-down part of town. Leverick had even been thoughtful enough to furnish the damn thing for me. A mattress, no box springs or covers, on the floor to sleep on. A chest of drawers that looked like it belonged in a museum and a cracked mirror completed the scene. An old easy chair with a couple of springs broken sat next to a table and lamp in the living room. An open sleeping bag served as an area rug, and a milk crate supported a black-and-white TV set. The kitchen and bathroom should have been condemned. Maybe a few tons of Brillo could have made a dent. There was beer in the refrigerator. Christ, he even had empty pizza boxes on the floor. In short, it was perfect.

My first ride on the Harley was a little unnerving. The bike I'd trained on hadn't had its handlebars quite so high. It would take a few days of cruising around the neighborhood before I could master the chopper.

I
made frequent trips past Mike's bar and the clubhouse. By this time, I figured, they must know exactly where I lived and who I Was. After two and a half weeks my hunch proved correct. It was a Saturday morning. I was just about to settle down to some Saturday morning TV when there was a loud bang at the door. When I opened the door I was tackled by an animal whom I'd briefly had the pleasure of meeting while in prison.

"Hey,
brother, how the fuck are you?" he asked as he pinned me to the ground. He then gave me a big, wet kiss on the lips.

"I'm
great, Dog. How the hell are you, man?" I asked, as I slipped out of the position with a move any high school wrestler could have managed. I then climbed on his back and attempted to get him in a headlock. He dumped me off his back with ease and we both laughed at our childish reunion. I didn't immediately notice the other biker who'd come in with Dog until he yelled at us from my easy chair.

"Shut
the fuck up, you guys! Pee-wee Herman's coming on!" The three of us watched the humorous opening of the kid's show. I found out later that it was a favorite among bikers. Shortly before Dog got sent away, he and few of the other Henchmen had gotten bit parts in one of Pee-wee Herman's movies.

"I'd
like you to meet Little Vinney, Doc," said Dog, as he yanked him out of the easy chair and took the choice TV seat.

"Would
you jump in my grave that fast, Dog?" Vinney protested.

"If
it was this comfortable and had TV I would."

"Moron,"
Vinney mumbled. He extended his hand to me. "How are you, Doc? I heard about Boldero. Fuckin' hacks are always tryin' to fuck with the inmates." Vinney and I continued our conversation as we walked to the kitchen to get a beer. Dog continued to watch
Pee
-
wee's
Playhouse
. I found it amazing that people so capable of violence and terror could turn into five-year-olds at a moment's notice. Or maybe the opposite was true. Maybe these fun-loving kids-at-heart could turn themselves into psychopaths at will.

"The
word is you were approached by someone from The Medinos while you were inside," said Vinney. Vinney was one of the most unassuming-looking of The Henchmen. At five-eight, and slim, he looked more like a gymnast than an outlaw biker.

"Yeah.
I wasn't sure if the guy was full of shit," I said.

"He's
not. The Medinos control a lot of hardware imports. The trouble is, they can't distribute without our permission. And we ain't gonna give it."

"Let's
make sure we're talking about the same thing, Vinney."

"Niners,
man. He did tell you he had niners for sale?"

"Yeah,
man, niners. For sure." I'd had to get him to say it. If something went wrong and we had to shut down the operation early, the case for conspiracy to buy weapons wouldn't stick if the language wasn't specific. He could claim he'd been referring to motorcycle parts rather than firearms.

"Here's
the deal, Doc," said Vinney. "Make the call. Set it up for the day after tomorrow. We'll meet you at Mike's tomorrow night to go over the details. Okay?"

"Sure,
Vinney. One thing," I asked. "How did you know I was approached by the Mexican?"

"The
Henchmen have long arms and big ears, man.
Big
fuckin’ ears. Let's go, Dog."

I
was excited as I waited for them to ride away. It was all coming together beautifully. Integrity and brains. That's what it takes to succeed in law enforcement. After a few more minutes of congratulating myself I rode my bike to a deserted spot under Highway 64. During the construction of the highway, a public phone had been installed across the street from the workers' favorite diner. The diner had long since closed, but the phone company had never bothered to disconnect the phone. It was the perfect spot.

My
conversation with the Mexican went smoothly. But I was uneasy. This group held a blood vendetta against the Henchmen, yet they were anxious to do business.
Who's
more
dangerous
, I wondered,
the
bikers
or
the
Medinos
?

Molly
Samuels was on duty at Base I when I called in the information on the weapons buy.

"Do
you want backup on this one, Martin?" Samuels asked.

"No
need, Molly. Thanks. The Mexicans are eager to do the deal and The Henchmen eager to buy. The price is already worked out, so it should be a simple deal."

I
was lying. Something wasn't right with the deal, I could feel it. But I didn't want some over-anxious agent making matters worse by moving in too soon and blowing the whole case. I'd rather take my chances alone. Besides, I was going to have the most powerful motorcycle gang in the country with me. Samuels took down all the information and wished me luck. Before I left I called home to check in with Amy.

My
calls had become few and far between, since leaving the training facility. Contact with Amy interfered with my ability to stay in character. She and I had agreed I wouldn't speak with her too often while on the assignment. She could call Atwood's home in case of any emergency. This was upsetting for both of us, but it was better that way.

As
I rode back to the apartment, my thoughts were with Amy and Alex and not on my riding. I accidently cut off a pickup truck at an intersection, forcing the driver to the shoulder. I rode up alongside the truck and peered in at its shaken passengers.

"You
all right?" I asked.

"You
fucking freak!" the driver bellowed, a balding man in his early fifties. His wife sat next to him, silent but visibly shaken. "You could have killed us. Where the hell do you come off riding like that? Don't you have any goddamn respect for law and order?"

"I
guess you're all right," I said as I rode away, the driver of the pickup still cursing and shaking his fist. I laughed to myself about what I must have looked like to him. I rather enjoyed it that my appearance and my apparent disdain for the law had rattled him so much. If he only knew...