Jerry Langton Three-Book Bundle (10 page)

Boom! Cadorette was blown into a number of unrecognizable pieces. McLean was badly hurt.

If the border between the clubs was between the west and east sides of Montreal, Hells Angels violated it on April 25. Although it may be hard to believe now, two Hells Angels — Denis “Le Cure” Kennedy and an unnamed associate — actually knocked on the door of the Outlaws' Montreal clubhouse at 144 rue Saint-Ferdinand and, unbelievably, were let in. Kennedy didn't look like most of the other ex-Popeyes. He was clean shaven, had relatively short hair and was thin. He was also considered talkative and charming. But he wasn't there to make friends. He and his associate pulled out a couple of handguns and started firing. Kennedy's gun jammed, but his friend kept on shooting until he'd spent his entire magazine. Then they ran. None of the Outlaws inside were seriously injured, but they were too shocked to pursue the gunmen. And they got the message.

At about 11 p.m. the day after, a short but tough Outlaws prospect named Anathase “Tom Thumb” Markopoulos was sent out for smokes. The nearest convenience store, Dépanneur Paul, was closed, but the owner was still in the store, cleaning up and getting ready for bed. Markopoulos pounded on the door. She looked up and recognized him. The Outlaws — two buildings over — brought in a lot of business, so she thought she'd open up for the young man. She also knew he'd get in trouble if he came back without whatever they sent him for. So she put down her broom and headed towards the door. Before she got there, she saw a big, pale-green car pull up behind Markopoulos. The passenger window opened, and she could see a handgun sticking out. The man in the car pumped six bullets into Markopoulos, who fell and died before the woman could get the door unlocked.

The Outlaws who'd sent Markopoulos out heard the shots and interpreted it as the beginning of a police raid. Instead of coming to their prospect's defense, the members inside grabbed all the weapons, drugs and cash they could and fled in various directions.

The Outlaws were spooked, and Hells Angels kept the pressure on. The night after Markopoulos was murdered, full-patch Outlaw François Poliseno took his 19-year-old girlfriend Suzanne Harvey out for a drink at Brasserie Industriel on busy rue Notre-Dame. The place was bustling, but that didn't prevent a masked man from barging in and spraying Poliseno and Harvey with bullets from a handgun. Both were very seriously injured.

Other bar patrons described the car to the cops when they arrived. Soon thereafter, they stopped a large, pale-green car just outside the Hells Angels clubhouse. In it, they found Kennedy, a friend he called “Gross Plotte,” a mask, a toy gun, binoculars and a bulletproof vest. Later on, the police determined that the bullets fired at Poliseno and Harvey were from the same gun that shot up the Outlaws' clubhouse.

It was a sloppy move, and one they would learn from. In the future, Hells Angels shooters got into the habit of disposing of their weapons at the scene of the crime, reducing the chances of being caught with it or having two crimes associated with each other.

The Outlaws eventually struck back — but ineffectively. On May 12, 1978, a then-minor Hells Angel named René “Canisse” Hébert stepped out of the clubhouse. Someone shot at him from a car. Three bullets missed, one lightly grazed him.

Later that month, Paul Ringuette, a Hells Angels associate, beat Jean Gonthier, an Outlaws supporter, to death in Saint-Vincent-de-Paul prison. Corrections officials told the media that the two argued over a hockey game, although both were Canadiens fans. In addition to assault and bank robbery, Riguette had murder tacked onto his crimes. He served 18 years. And it was later determined he was involved in the notorious Hanna Buxbaum murder plot in St. Catharines, Ontario in 1984.

In the next few months, two Hells Angels associates and one Outlaw died, but it's unlikely they had anything to do with the war. René “Balloune” Francoeur wasn't with Hells Angels, but had been talking to president Yves “Le Boss” Buteau about joining. Before he could, he was beaten to death by an unidentified drug dealer when he tried to pay him with counterfeit U.S. currency. Similarly, Hells Angels member Adrien “Pistasche” Fleury was shot when he tried to steal an unaffiliated biker's Harley. The aggrieved man just happened to have a shotgun handy. Not long after, Outlaw François Ouellette died when his car rolled over after losing a wheel as he drove to his Chateauguay home. Maybe a Hells Angel loosened his rim, but there's no firm evidence to support it.

Up to this point in the war, the Outlaws had taken it on the chin. They were attacked and killed all over Montreal. They had lost a president, their very clubhouse had been violated and shot up. But in October, they pulled off a victory that may have seemed minor at first, but put the Hells Angels' overall effort back for many years.

On October 12, two Americans — one from Miami, the other from Detroit — showed up at Le Tourbillon, a Rosemont bar frequented by Hells Angels. The men were tall and muscular, but their clean-shaven faces, short haircuts, lack of tattoos and outfits (innocuous khaki canvas slacks and nylon windbreakers) indicated they weren't bikers. In fact, the Hells Angels inside the bar were absolutely convinced the two men, who had made only token attempts to hide the fact they were following them all week, were undercover cops.

A hush fell over the bar as the two stepped into the bar nonchalantly, and looked around. They spotted a bunch of bikers in a booth, and approached. On one side of the booth, there were three big toughs who were wearing full Hells Angels colors. They were with three other, less impressive-looking biker types. One of them was actually so small, the Americans weren't sure if he was actually with the others.

The biggest and oldest of the Hells Angels, Louis “Ti-Oui” Lapierre, got up to confront them. He was tired of being followed by these two and wanted to get rid of them before his meeting. Besides, he hadn't done anything wrong and they didn't have anything on him.

He didn't get a single word out before one of the Americans he was confronting pulled a handgun from under his jacket and shot Lapierre in the chest from point-blank range. The other pulled out a sawed-off shotgun and started pumping lead pellets into the men in the booth. He and his partner continued firing and firing until they were sure all the men in the booth were dead. Then, like professionals, they dropped their weapons and ran.

Of the three Hells Angels in attendance, Jean Brochu died immediately. Lapierre and Bruno Coulombe were badly injured, but survived. Their guests — a trio of Wild Ones from Hamilton, who were in Montreal to talk about a working agreement at the very least — fared little better. George “Chico” Mousseau was also dead by the time police showed up. Gary “Gator” Davies lingered a while in hospital, but later died. The only one of the Wild Ones who survived was the little guy, their leader, Walter “Nurget” Stadnick. He had managed to slide under the table, a fact that escaped the assassins' notice.

He rode back down the 401 to Hamilton, alone and frustrated at his inability to make a lasting connection with a big-time club. Hells Angels had been foiled in their attempt to forge a beachhead in Ontario. With the Outlaws and Satan's Choice still large and in charge in that province, they — in particular, Buteau — were looking for smaller, unaffiliated gangs to deal with. One of them was the Wild Ones. The incident set back their plan, but they remembered Stadnick, and reached out to him frequently after the Le Tourbillon massacre.

The war went on. Hells Angels sent their wild beast, Trudeau, after Brian Powers, a well-liked and respected former Outlaws president who was still on good terms with the club. On November 10, Trudeau found out where Powers lived, waited until he knew he was at home, and knocked on the door. Powers answered. Trudeau shot him nine times, mostly in the head, dumped the gun and ran.

Again, the Outlaws tried to make a show of force at the funeral. Of particular interest to Hells Angels (and police observers) was the fact that among the mourners were members of two major Toronto gangs: the Para-Dice Riders and the Vagabonds. The police and media took that as an alliance between those clubs and the Outlaws in an effort to keep Hells Angels out of Ontario.

At the funeral, an informant identified Outlaw Roland “Roxy” Dutemple as the instigator behind the Le Tourbillon shootings. As was now becoming habit, Hells Angels sent Trudeau out after him. On December 8, while walking around in the west end, Trudeau and a friend spotted a man they thought might be Dutemple. They weren't entirely sure, so Trudeau walked up to him to get a better look. The man looked at him angrily. Trudeau asked him (in French): “Are you Roxy?” But before the man could answer, Trudeau shot him in the head.

In the clubhouse the next day, the other members showed him a newspaper article that identified the man he murdered as William Weichold, a non-biker who just happened to look a lot like Dutemple. Trudeau is said to have laughed at his mistake and argued that he should be paid for the hit anyway.

He eventually killed the real Dutemple on March 29, 1979, by planting a bomb in his car. Five days later, Trudeau traveled to the Fabreville neighborhood in Laval, just north of Montreal, and knocked on the door of Robert Labelle, president of a Laval gang called the Huns. There had been a rumor that the Huns were going to patch over to the Outlaws. As soon as Labelle opened the door, Trudeau shot him twice in the face, killing him.

He struck again on May 9. Outlaws rising star Robert McLean — who had survived the car bomb that had killed Cadorette — and his girlfriend Carmen Piché went down into the alley between their Verdun apartment and climbed onto his customized 1963 Harley. The spark of the dynamo that flashed when he kicked the starter activated a bomb that blew the bike and both riders into a million pieces. It had been planted by Trudeau, fellow Hells Angel Jean-Pierre “Matt le Crosseur” Mathieu and president Buteau himself.

The war was not going well for the Outlaws. Other than the Le Tourbillon incident, they had inflicted little pain and suffering on Hells Angels, while they had been gunned down like targets in a shooting gallery.

It was insanely cold as I drove into Hamilton. Still, I parked a few blocks away from the Hamilton Police Service's central station on King William Street, just so I could walk and see how my old hometown was looking. To be perfectly honest, it looked rough.

There were some new restaurants, but it mostly looked run-down and bereft of truly sustainable money-making businesses. I was reminded of a conversation I had with Luther when we were deciding where to meet that day I met Parente in Burlington. Since it was centered geographically between all of us and we were familiar with it, I had suggested meeting somewhere in the Hammer. He audibly scoffed, and asked “Why go into the toilet if you don't have to?” As a native, I was a little offended. But as someone walking through downtown about a week later, I had to admit he had something of a point.

I was there to meet Sergeant John Harris. He's the biggest, most intimidating cop I've ever seen. At six-foot-seven, the former University of Minnesota defensive end towers over lawbreaker and law-abider alike. Other cops talk about seeing him emerge from his car and watching everyone in a vicious confrontation immediately fall silent and still. He relishes being the biggest man in the room, says it makes his job a lot easier, but his quick wit is probably a better weapon. It puts everyone, on either side of the law, at ease.

And he's the most knowledgeable person I have ever met in law enforcement when it comes to biker gangs, especially in Ontario. I called him to tell him I was in town. Rather than talk to me in a coffee shop, conference room or interrogation room like other cops do, Harris prefers to have me interview him while he's working. That means I have to wait for him to arrive in his giant white Suburban. And it also means that we will occasionally stop at crime or emergency scenes.

Once I was inside the huge SUV, he asked me if I had a few minutes before we start. I told him I did. He called down another sergeant who wanted me to sign a copy of my book
Fallen Angel
. Harris signed it, too. Apparently, the sergeant had a friend in Liverpool who, like many non-Canadians, thought Canadian streets were crime-free. And he wanted my help in proving him wrong.

After his friend left and before we started off, Harris told me that Parente had recently called him to check me out, to see if I was okay. He wanted to know if I was honest. Harris told me that he assured him I was. He also warned me not to cross Parente.

Harris knew that I already knew a great deal about the history of outlaw biker gangs in Ontario, so he concentrated on Parente and other goings-on in the Hammer. According to Harris, Parente had joined the local chapter of Satan's Choice in the late 1960s at the age of 18. In an earlier interview, Parente confirmed this. It was a good time to get established in that particular gang. They were big and still getting much bigger. So I asked Harris what Parente was like back then.

He was the exact opposite of hesitant in his answer. “Unlike a lot of guys, as soon as we started noticing him in Satan's Choice, he'd talk to us,” Harris said. “Always had something to say, usually tried to be funny.” But as personable as he was, Parente also had a darker side, Harris pointed out. “He got in fights, and could sometimes be confrontational.” Parente himself told me his first conviction was for assaulting a Hamilton police officer he witnessed beating up a man he'd already handcuffed. Harris confirmed that.

I asked Harris what Parente looked like in those days. He told me that the bikers all dressed alike back then, with leather (or even more often, denim) jackets or vests, jeans and T-shirts. They also favored long hair and beards, and Parente was well stocked in both departments. “He had this huge mop of black hair and a big, long beard,” he told me, then thought about it for a second. “He kind of looked like Rasputin.”