Gods of Mischief (36 page)

Right away Slinger said, “I knew it wasn't anyone in this chapter.”

He had plenty of patches agreeing until Roy threw a wet blanket.

“Tramp still thinks there's a cop or informant in this chapter, so let's not congratulate ourselves just yet,” he told the boys. “He wants all of you to submit new paperwork and photographs for background checks. We'll be taking pictures after church. It's all going back to national. Everyone's being reinvestigated.”

I couldn't count the number of “fuuuck”s I heard. I added one of my own.

“And one more thing,” Roy cut in. “We need someone to videotape when we make the run to Warner Springs. Tramp's looking to identify anyone who doesn't fit in. Anybody have a camera and want to volunteer?”

I raised my hand immediately.

Warner Springs in San
Diego County is an area of scrub pine and chaparral tucked between Mount Palomar to the west and Anza-Borrego Desert State Park to the east. At the turn of the century the place was a stage coach stop, but in the years since it has become a resort area known for its hot springs. On the outlying acreage were the cheap seats—a campground with RV hookups, a country store and a bar, perfect for a bunch of saddle-sore outlaws looking to party hearty at the end of a long run.

I packed my things, including a video camera on loan from the United States government, climbed into the truck with Jenna and hit the road hauling our fifth wheel to Warner Springs, leaving Old Joe behind to watch little Sierra. By now my fiancée had become a true VOL, fully embracing Green Nation and the outlaw lifestyle. Jenna had made friends with most of the Hemet patches and their old ladies, sported a Property of George jacket and went to bed wearing black VOL pajamas with green stripes down the legs.

We arrived at the campground to find the party already in full gear. I grabbed the camera and immediately headed out to do some videotaping. Here was a golden opportunity, courtesy of Terry the Tramp, to put names to some faces the ATF had never identified as gang members before, especially those Northern California boys who were mostly anonymous to law enforcement. While a prospect worked the camera, I shook hands and collected names.
Hey, thanks for the ID, brother. The ATF might be in touch later.

As I'm glad-handing my way through the crowd, the sound of catcalls and whistles grabbed my attention. A young girl, no more than thirteen years old, was passing a group of shitfaced Hemet boys on her way to the general store.

“Hey, sweet thing! Come here and gimme some!” shouted one moron.

“Oh, baby, I could fuck you up the ass right here, right now!” yelled another.

And it only got raunchier. The terrified kid put her head down and kept walking into the store.

As I turned away, I spotted a familiar face. Bubba was coming my way with a beer in his hand and a big grin. I took the camera from the prospect and shooed him away.

“Still alive, huh?” said Bubba, watching the prospect walk off.

“Still breathing, man. Aren't you worried being seen with me?”

“Should I be?”

He slapped my back and turned to study the pride of Green Nation mingling across the campground, smoking their weed, getting drunk and raising hell.

“So how you making it, brother?” Bubba asked.

“Doin' okay,” I told him, lighting another cigarette.

“What's it been now? Two years?”

“Closer to two and a half.”

“Long time.”

“Sometimes it feels longer.”

“Try doing it as many years as I have, young man,” Bubba grinned, then took a long pull on his bottle. “Must be getting close to the end, though. These cases usually don't go beyond two or three years.”

“Well, I'm ready whenever the fuck they are.”

“Are you?” Bubba said cryptically, then nodded toward the Vagos. “It's not so easy for some people, brother. I'll bet you're friendly with some of those boys. But when the takedown happens, a lot of the guys you think are cool are gonna go down. That's always the tough part. Taking down your buddies.”

As Bubba spoke I was scanning the campground, picking out the faces I'd hate to see busted. Like JB over there. I liked that dude. Slinger and Ready were cool too. I hated to think of them getting caught up in the net when the feds hauled it in. Then there was Blackie, 37, and JJ—forever brothers who were no longer full of the same piss and vinegar as in the early days. Those old-timers were just hanging out, smoking weed and laughing at the world going by.

I knew what Bubba meant. As much as I'd enjoy seeing assholes like Big Roy and Todd bite the dust, at the end of Operation 22 Green there was bound to be collateral damage. Both friend and foe would crash and burn together.

“You just have to remember who you work for,” Bubba was telling me. “And sometimes that's not so easy. Guys lose themselves. I've known undercover cops who infiltrated and had that problem.”

Bubba glanced over at me and took a swig of beer, looking for a reaction.

“Like I told John. I know why I'm doing this. I know who I am.”

The big man saluted me with his bottle just as a shrill whistle sounded from across the campground.

“Hey, prospect!”

37 was hailing me. No doubt that graybeard was out to bust my balls again.

“Not anymore, brother!” I shouted back at him. “Fuck your tampons, and fuck that fuckin' song!”

The old Vago grinned and waved me over to where he, JJ and Blackie were passing a joint.

“Better go see what he wants,” said Bubba. “I'll see you 'round.”

Blackie offered me a hit as I joined the group, but I waved it off.

“We could use more weed, George,” said 37. “Can you fix us up?”

“Sure. How much you need?”

Jenna had bud for sale. My fiancée had become the de facto pill and weed supplier for the Hemet chapter. As it turned out, though, the forever brothers had no interest in buying pot. Those stoned fools were merely buying time, grinning and winking at each other like grade-schoolers dying to share a secret.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

37 tugged at his belt and nodded me toward Blackie. When I turned, Blackie was removing the silver Loki buckle—the beauty handed down through the years from one Vago to the next.

The belt slipped from his waist, and Blackie held it out to me.

“I know you've had your eye on this for a while, brother. I've been around for a long time, and if anyone deserves this buckle, it's you.”

“Seriously?”

“I want you to have it,” insisted Blackie. “Just make sure the belt comes back.”

I swapped out my own belt so he could hold his pants up, then dug a new hole in Blackie's with a pocket knife and strapped it on. Did I maybe feel a pang of guilt taking that old-timer's prized possession? Me, an informant for the feds? Sure . . . a little, I guess. But not enough to give it back. No way, jack. That buckle was fuckin' cool.

Blackie's belt buckle.

Maybe a half hour
later, the uncle of the young girl that had been harassed by the Hemet boys came charging down in his vehicle. From the moment he jumped from his car the man was giving the Vagos an earful, demanding to know who was in charge of the savages that had accosted his niece.

“Who the fuck you yelling at, motherfucker?” barked Roy as he stepped forward.

“You, if you're one of the jackasses that told my niece you wanted to fuck her.”

Big Roy threw a punch and the rest of the Vagos pounced. Todd was stomping away along with Mickey, Charlie and a few others. It was the usual outlaw gangbang: brutal, overwhelming and unfair. The battered uncle tried to escape, scampering on hands and knees up a small hill, but the Vagos knocked him back down again. The man finally broke free of the frenzy, made it to his car and took off like a wildman. He nearly ran down a few Vagos on the way out. They were goddamn animals, he probably figured. The bastards deserved to be roadkill.

A while later, an older dude, maybe early sixties, showed up on a motorcycle and told the Vagos it wasn't right for them to come in, take over the campground and start beating people up.

So they beat him up too.

Later John Carr tracked
down the uncle who'd been stomped defending his niece. John told him there was a witness to the assault, and that he could have the Vagos prosecuted for it. The uncle was grateful and might have pressed charges if he hadn't gotten shitfaced a few months later and driven the wrong direction on the freeway.

And that was the end of that.

O
peration 22 Green had dragged on for almost three years, and that was enough for John Carr and the ATF. I'd been stumbling my way toward the finish line for months, at times so worn out I was crawling on hands and knees, but when I finally broke the tape and collapsed, I couldn't believe the damn thing was over.

The end came unceremoniously over the usual lunch at the Little Luau. I was talking to John about the assault at Warner Springs when he cut me off.

“I'm shutting down 22 Green.”

And there it was, just like that. ATF was cashing its chips and getting out of the game.

“This has been in the works for three or four months,” John continued. “I just didn't want you thinking about it until the time came. Well, now it's time.”

“When?” I said after a moment.

“If all goes according to plan, we're looking at early March.”

Man, I should have been dancing on the tables at the Little Luau and singing the “Hallelujah Chorus.” I'd been waiting a hell of a long
time for that moment. But now that it was here, I wasn't sure how to feel. I'd been married to the case for years—long enough for it to become a huge drag on my life. And yet there was this insane part of me—one that probably needed to be lobotomized—that still wanted to make the marriage work, to keep 22 Green going and see how far we could take it.

In fact I was just days away from telling Big Roy to go fuck himself and hooking up with a chapter in the San Fernando Valley. Hell, I'd even thought of going after a charter of my own. And with Charles up in Victorville, we'd been making grand plans to bring all of Green Nation to its knees.

But none of that was happening now. Once the plug was pulled, I'd have to be satisfied with whatever washed down the pipe. John could tell I was less than enthused.

“What's up with you? This is what you've been waiting for.”

“I just think there's more we can do,” I said lamely, and the words sounded nuts leaving my mouth. “I've been hanging with Southside. If I could—”

“Whoa, hold on, dude,” John interrupted. “This is my call. We can't go on forever. ATF won't let that happen. I had to pick a date. It's done. So let's just take what we've got and call it a day. It's time to end this.”

“We got enough for a RICO?” I muttered after a long pause.

“So far that's the plan. We've got evidence of racketeering in weapons, drugs and murder. We'll proceed on that basis and see what happens.”

I nodded. “Just remember. When this is over, I want in that cell with Roy and Todd.”

“And just like I told you before, I can't promise that,” he answered.

John went back to his teriyaki.

“I'm about to start pulling warrants,” he said as he ate. “Things will get tricky now, especially on a case this size. There'll be a lot of communication with a lot of different agencies. Lot of paperwork crossing desks.”

The operational security issues would be enormous. John Carr was pulling eighty-six search-and-arrest warrants for Riverside, Los Angeles, San Bernardino, Orange and Ventura Counties, covering Southern California towns and cities as far north as Port Hueneme, south to Murrieta, west to Manhattan Beach and east to the High Desert. Every Vagos president, sergeant at arms and secretary-treasurer in Southern California was on the list to have their homes searched. Operation 22 Green was shaping up as the largest gang takedown in United States history.

Because of its unprecedented magnitude, John's biggest concern was the threat from within the ranks of law enforcement. Cops talk to cops, and there were a shitload of lawmen in my neck of the woods who had grown up around the Vagos, gone to school with them, even got shitfaced with them. There were big question marks about an officer in Apple Valley, a couple from Hesperia and six from San Bernardino—one who was later terminated for passing information along to the Vagos. Charles had once shared drinks with a Barstow deputy who'd tipped him off to a search of Psycho's home over a stolen motorcycle. Because of these operational security concerns, it had been decided that only team leaders would be told of the takedown beforehand. The rank-and-file officers would be kept in the dark until the takedown was under way.

“You might want to think about getting out of the house,” John continued. “If things break bad, you want to distance yourself from Jenna so she doesn't get caught up in it. Spread the word you've split with her. I think it'd be best for all of you, including the kid.”