Gods of Mischief (24 page)

“How 'bout . . . Jenna,” John suggested instead.

I was instantly tongue-tied.

“Jenna?”

“Yeah, Jenna. As in thanks for the blow job, Jenna.”

I hadn't told John about my girlfriend, mainly because I'd known he would disapprove. It was weird, man, but I felt like I was that special agent's snot-nosed kid, and I didn't want to let him down.

“How do you know about her?” I said sheepishly.

John pointed to the recording device.

“Do us both a favor and turn that thing off when you're done for the day, okay?”

I couldn't help the shit-eatin' grin on my face. But my handler wasn't amused.

“So who is she?”

“Just some chick who's been living with me.”

“Is it serious?”

“She's got a kid. I'd say that's serious.”

John's shoulders slumped and he turned away, shaking his head. “Christ, George.”

“Don't worry about it, man. It's cool.”

“Listen to me,” John responded with a touch of anger. “Women are dangerous for someone like you. Women can get a CI killed. Didn't I explain about Hammer?”

“Yeah, you told me, but—”

“Dude. The girl is
living
with you.”

“I haven't told her what I'm doing, and I don't plan to.”

“Yeah, that's what Hammer said. Get rid of her, George. Nothing good can come of this. You need to get rid of the girl.”

I wasn't in the mood for a lecture from Dad, so I climbed out of the car.

“Hold on a second,” said John before I could close the door. He paused a moment before continuing. “Look, you're a grown man. But I have to tell you, George—and this is coming from years of experience—a relationship while undercover is a really, really bad idea.”

“I got it,” I said tersely and slammed the door.

As I headed for my truck I heard the window rolling down behind me, followed by John's mocking voice.

“Suck it, baby. Oh, baby, suck my cock.”

I flipped the middle finger over my shoulder and climbed into the pickup. Then Joe and I drove off toward the farmhouse.

“So what should I do?” asked Joe as we headed down the dirt driveway.

“Don't do anything. Just stay in the truck. If there's trouble, honk the horn.”

“Does it work?”

“Yes, it works.”

We pulled up to the farmhouse and I crossed onto the porch and knocked at the front door. The carpenter answered, looking ragged, like he hadn't slept in a week. As we were about to head inside he spotted Joe sitting in the pickup. The man stepped out on the porch for a better look.

“Who's that in the truck?”

“Friend of mine. He's cool.”

The carpenter considered Joe a long moment, then turned to me.

“I'm not sure we're gonna do this,” he said. “Least not today.”

This wouldn't have been the first time a seller got cold feet, and certainly not the last.

“Might not have the cash tomorrow,” I warned him, waving the envelope.

The carpenter said nothing. I stood on the porch a few seconds longer, then started back down the stairs.

“Okay. Give me a shout if you change your mind,” I told him.

When I was halfway to the truck, he called, “Hey, come on back!” and waved me into the house.

The rifles and handguns were arranged across the kitchen table. I checked each one to make sure they weren't loaded.

“Got something I can wrap these in?” I asked him.

The carpenter disappeared, and I took the opportunity to light a cigarette and look around. The house was quiet and appeared empty. All those tweakers had either cleared out or passed out, but the place still looked and smelled like a pigsty. The carpenter reentered the kitchen carrying some old bath towels.

“Man, I appreciate this,” I told him as I rolled the rifles up. “When you've got a felony like I do, you can't buy these in a fuckin' store.”

“What are you gonna do with 'em?” asked the carpenter.

“Flip 'em and make a little profit,” I answered. “That's what I do. So if you've got more, just let me know, man. Anything you've got I'll be glad to take off your hands.”

I pulled the envelope and started counting out the money on the table.

“One hundred, two hundred, three hundred . . .”

Every bill I counted was going on the record, and it was all adding up to a big fat bust.

A few minutes later we walked out the front door together, with the rifles bundled under our arms. The instant I stepped on the porch, I heard that ATF helicopter buzzing high overhead. Halfway to the truck, the carpenter checked his step and squinted into the bright noonday sky.

“What's that I'm hearing?”

I followed his gaze. You couldn't see the chopper up there—must've
been at a pretty high altitude—but the sound of its rotor was unmistakable.

“You hearin' that?” he asked me.

What was I going to do? Deny it?

“Yeah, I hear it. Could be a water pump. Or maybe someone's got a generator running at one of the farms around here.”

This seemed to satisfy the man, because he shrugged it off and continued toward the pickup. We dumped the rifles into the bed, shook hands, and Joe and I drove away.

I would return three times to that farmhouse to buy weapons. And each time that carpenter pounded another nail into his own coffin.

When I got back
from Winchester, I dropped by Shooter's Food and Brew to have a few beers. By this time Shooter had figured out that Big Roy was never going to let him join the Hemet Vagos, so he'd signed on with The Green Machine, the support club run by Sergeant Crusher, the crooked Cathedral City cop.

I was feeling sorry for myself that afternoon, which might explain why a few beers turned into a few drinks, which led to a fucking fiasco. Almost seven months into my time undercover I was starting to realize John Carr had been right all along. There would be no quick solution to Hemet's gang problem. Any illusions I had about cleaning up my hometown were vanishing with each month that dropped off the calendar. Yes, I was making the occasional gun buy, but Operation 22 Green was slogging along as if through waist-deep mud. Not to mention I was still a friggin' prospect, still stuck in that no-man's-land where I couldn't fight back, couldn't sit in on church meetings, couldn't gather the inside evidence I needed to get out from under the mission that was dragging my ass down. Some kind of spark was needed to get 22 Green's engine cranking, and before long I was convinced it was my responsibility, and mine alone, to make that happen.

For this I blame the whiskey.

There was a time, in my early days undercover, when I was drinking a whole lot of that rotgut. And once I started on Kentucky bourbon, I was going to finish Kentucky bourbon. I'd take a fifth of Wild Turkey and turn it right up . . . and still it wasn't enough. Once I got to where I was going, though, ol' Georgie didn't give a shit about nothin'. Things were even worse with tequila. Two shots of that devil water and I was looking to fight anyone, including my best friends.

Nobody wanted me drinking tequila.

A few beers led to lots of bourbon, and before I knew it the bar was crowded, a lousy band was rocking the joint and Crash and his wife had joined me for drinks. As I sat knocking back Wild Turkey and trying to ignore bad rock 'n' roll, an insane plan began to form in my booze-addled brain.

“I got an idea,” I yelled at Crash over the din.

The brother emptied his glass and turned my way.

“Let's go to Elsinore,” I said.

“What the fuck for?”

I lifted my glass and said, “The Sons of Hell.”

This didn't register with Crash right away—that Vago was more fucked up than I was—but in a moment the lightbulb came on and a slow smile crept over his face.

“I hear you, brother.”

The Sons of Hell was a support club for the Hells Angels, much like The Green Machine ran support for the Vagos. Because of their association with the hated Angels, there had always been friction between the Sons of Hell and Green Nation, but the sparks had never been quite hot enough to achieve ignition and liftoff. I figured if I could get those outlaws in Elsinore pissed off enough, they might retaliate, and if they retaliated, there was a damn good chance the Hells Angels would get involved. If the Angels jumped into the fight we just might be looking at a good old-fashioned gang war. And with a gang war you got criminal conspiracy, and with conspiracy you got RICO. Man, if I
could give the ATF grounds for a RICO charge, I could get out from under Operation 22 Green and die a happy man.

My plan to make all of the above happen was masterful in its cunning simplicity. Crash and I would drive over to the Sons' favorite hangout in Lake Elsinore, a biker bar called The Hideaway, and we'd stir up a little chaos. This half-baked scheme, cooked up on Wild Turkey and executed by a couple of drunken assholes, was doomed to fail. But at the time, with a glass of Kentucky bourbon in my hand, I thought it was fuckin' genius. This was Shock and Awe, baby, and the joint chiefs had nothing on me.

The Hideaway Bar in Lake Elsinore had everything an outlaw biker could possibly want. There was a pool table, a jukebox with good old-fashioned rock 'n' roll tunes, an accommodating bartender willing to pour more shots of whiskey, and walls papered with customers' dollar bills, just like you'd find at the Screaming Chicken Saloon or The Crossroads in Yucaipa.

The only thing that biker bar didn't have was goddamn bikers.

Not a single one of those Sons of Hell was anywhere to be found.

I had to settle for tying a green bandana to a chain over the pool table, just to let those boys know we'd been there, then Crash and I stumbled back out the door.

Nothing had come of our bold probe behind enemy lines. There would be no biker war to end all biker wars. The Sons of Hell had tucked themselves in for the night, and all I had to show for my unrecognized genius was a splitting migraine.

On the drive back to Hemet our cell phones started blowing up with calls from Big Roy. Seems word had leaked that a couple of shitfaced Vagos prospects were cruising Lake Elsinore looking for trouble. We didn't answer those calls, but when we returned to our homes Big Todd was sitting outside my front door, and North was waiting on Crash.

We were both still half-cocked when our asses got dragged over to Big Roy's place in San Jacinto for a reaming.

“Who the fuck told you two clowns you could fuck with the Sons of
Hell?! I'm the P here. I say who goes where. You don't make a fuckin' move without my say-so, understand?!” He turned to Crash and shoved his chest. “Understand, motherfucker?!”

“Yeah, I understand,” Crash answered dutifully but with little sincerity.

Now I spoke up. “It's my fault, Roy. Going to Elsinore was my idea.”

“Your idea?” sputtered Big Roy, beet-faced. “Are you trying to make me look bad, asshole?”

“Hope not,” I replied.

Now Roy shoved my chest too. “Well you are! This shit makes me look bad! Like I don't have control over my own fuckin' chapter!”

As Hemet's P, Big Roy was responsible for the behavior of his mutts, and yours truly had just slipped his leash and bit the mailman. To make matters worse, Roy had recently bought himself a new Harley Sportster and was worried Terry the Tramp might confiscate it—not an uncommon punishment among one percenter clubs.

Roy was pacing now, trying to contain the anger and keep his head from exploding. He stopped and stabbed a finger at the two of us.

“You assholes fuck up one more time and you're out. I'll run you both down the road, you got that?”

I bit my tongue and said nothing. Oh, happy day when I paid that bastard a visit in lockup. Oh, happy fucking day.

It was late when
I got back to the chicken coop and slipped into the bedroom. As I pushed through the beads I almost tripped over Jenna. Sadly enough, buck naked and passed out on the floor was not an uncommon position for my girlfriend.

Neither was the excuse she usually gave for it: boredom.

Chief Thompson always said boredom was his daughter's worst enemy. And I think Daddy was spot-on. Jenna didn't want for anything. All she had to do was go to school, come home and take care of her kid.

But apparently that wasn't enough.

So after she'd gobbled all the pain meds in my medicine cabinet and lost contact with the prostitute who'd supplied speed and heroin, Jenna had hooked up with one of her old tweaker pals and started driving down to Tijuana, Mexico, for bottles of Soma, which are powerful muscle relaxants. She could be across the border and home again in two and a half hours and fucked up in three. And I couldn't stay ahead of her, man. Fast as I flushed those pills, the girl would be on her way to Tijuana to buy more.

Might not have been so bad if Jenna had known how to swallow one or two Somas. Unfortunately that was never my girlfriend's style. In true fashion, she'd pop a handful and end up flat on her back, drooling and vacant-eyed. Man, I hated that look—when you're trying to talk to someone and they're not even there. Old Joe and I would pick her nasty ass off the floor and pour it into bed, where she'd either puke between the sheets or shit in them.

That was the condition I found Jenna in when I came home from Big Roy's that night—fucked up on Somas and spread-eagle on the bedroom floor. I lifted her naked body into bed, then crawled in beside her. A few hours later I awoke to the mattress shaking—not uncommon with an addict like her. Usually when I got tired of the trembling I'd grab my pillow and sleep on the floor or boot her ass out of bed. But something different was happening this time. Jenna's body was twitching as though being poked by a cattle prod and her breathing was ragged. When I tried shaking her awake, there was no response. Her head just flopped around like a rag doll's.