Under and Alone (6 page)

Rocky had the side cover off his bike and was sticking an American Arms .22-caliber revolver under it. Things were looking up. Vicky walked out with her leather jacket and helmet.

Rocky kicked and cursed and cursed and kicked until he hit the right combination and the bike cranked up. Then he stood there for a few minutes, breathing heavily, exhausted from the ordeal. He stood there so long I worried that he’d run out of gas. Then he guided the machine through the maze of dogs, toys, broken Harley parts, and assorted Tujunga trash that littered his yard as he made his way to the street. Vicky climbed on the back, and we were on our way to Laughlin.

Soon I’d be partying with a shitload of the black-and-white bad guys for an entire weekend. We stopped a couple of times for gas and burgers. Each time, I’d look around to catch a glimpse of Ciccone or some other ATF agent attempting to surveil us as covertly as possible. Seeing those ATF follow cars made me a bit uneasy. If I could see them watching us, I knew Rocky or Vicky could do the same.

We rolled into Laughlin somewhere around ten that night and made our way to the Riverside Resort Hotel, the Mongol stronghold in Laughlin. Every bike was adorned with black-and-white Mongol stickers, and at least two Mongol prospects were guarding the roped-off parking area. I killed the engine and dropped the kickstand. Two Mongols approached Rocky and greeted him with Mongol handshakes and hugs. He introduced me as a hang-around, telling them that it would be okay for my bike to be parked in the Mongol circle. The two Mongol brothers welcomed me, which helped to ease some tension. Rocky, Vicky, and I made our way to the hotel.

For some reason the atmosphere seemed to grow more businesslike—like we were a combat unit readying ourselves for an attack. I overheard one of the Mongols telling Rocky that there was a meeting in one of the hotel rooms in about a half an hour. Something was up.

Rocky turned to me, whispering: “Billy, there’s some kinda fuckin’ mixup—we ain’t got a room.” He turned and walked away. Vicky had hooked up with another Mongol’s woman and left me by myself. At least it would be a good chance to put in a call to Ciccone.

Later in the case I had an ATF cell phone I could use in such situations to check in with my backup. But now I had to make do with a pay phone. There was a bank of phones near the hotel entrance, and I quickly made my way there to put in a call. No answer. I called the room where ATF had a small command center. No answer there either. I tried Ciccone’s cell again and left a message. “Yo, I’m here at the Riverside. Something’s up. Rocky didn’t have his shit together, and we don’t have a room to stay in.”

I glanced around, but no one had seen me talking on the phone. I was tired and I wanted a place to sleep. There was no way I was going to stay up all night. Not being a meth-amphibian myself, I was going to have to find someplace to lay my head. I went to the check-in line and waited my turn. I got the standard line about the hotel being booked up, then went down to the manager’s office and told him I was with the Mongols. He turned on his computer, punched in a few digits, then asked me for my credit card.

So the Mongols’ reputation did sling some weight here at the Riverside. With two room keys in hand, I went back to tell Vicky. “Hey, I got us all a room.”

“How’d you swing that?”

“Shit, I’m a VIP around here.” I smiled at her and told her the room number. “Tell Rocky I’m up there gettin’ some sleep.”

When I unlocked the door, I saw that the room had only one bed. Oh well. I’d win a few more points and curl up on the floor, leaving the king-size bed for Rocky and his ol’ lady. I made myself a pallet of blankets and pillows on the carpet and was so tired I fell into a very deep sleep.

Much later in the night, I heard Rocky and Vicky unlocking the door. I kept my eyes closed, pretending to be asleep while listening to what they had to say.

“This Billy’s okay, you know?” Rocky said.

“I can’t believe he’s sleeping on the floor in his own fuckin’ room.”

The next morning I was up around nine. Rocky and Vicky were snoring away as I showered, dressed, and headed down for breakfast. I saw a couple of Mongols at the restaurant but didn’t say anything to them. In the strict but unspoken etiquette of outlaw bikers, it would have been out of place for me—a nobody—to engage a full patch in conversation. I ate a meal of bacon and eggs, put in a surreptitious phone call to Ciccone, then headed back to the room. Rocky and Vicky were up and moving about. It was uncomfortable trying to make conversation and waiting for them to get ready for the day. The TV helped make the time pass.

Then, just as we were getting ready to leave, Rocky reached into his Mongol vest and retrieved a clear plastic bag containing a white powder that appeared to be either coke or methamphetamine. He held it up in front of my face as he reached for a bowie knife strapped to his side. He pulled the gleaming blade, then turned toward a table, cut a hole at the top of the plastic bag, and let the powder pour out onto the tabletop. He used his bowie to separate out two heavy lines. I watched as he bent over and snorted up one of the lines. I was praying that the other was for Vicky.

No such luck. Rocky turned toward me, raising the knife and holding the blade inches from my face. “Is that line too heavy for you?”

It wasn’t an offer; this was a challenge. I hoped Rocky couldn’t see my face turning red as I answered. “No, Rock, looks good to me.”

I walked around Rocky and his knife to the bathroom, telling him that I had to take a piss first. I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. What the hell was I going to do? I couldn’t stall Rocky for long. If I didn’t do the line, there was a good chance he was going to swing that bowie knife. More important, the investigation would be over. On the other hand, if I did snort the meth, I’d have to get out of the hotel as soon as possible, call Ciccone, make my way to the hospital, and start the arduous process of paperwork for an agent who’s been forced to use drugs during an undercover operation. And I could tell that Rocky wasn’t planning to let me just wander off for a few hours in the middle of the Laughlin run. He’d know something was wrong and never trust me again.

The whole operation was coming down to these next few seconds. I left the bathroom and without any further hesitation asked Rocky for his straw.

“Just roll up a fuckin’ dollar bill,” he said.

My hand was shaking as I reached in my pocket for the bill. Rocky and Vicky watched closely as I rolled the dollar up into a thin cylinder. I looked at Rocky, then at the white line waiting for me.

Suddenly, I saw my chance. Rocky and Vicky were near the bed. If I moved right now, I could place myself between the meth and them. With my back to them, maybe I could wipe it off the table without them seeing. But if I calculated wrong, Rocky would put his knife right through me.

I moved between Rocky and the dope. Bending over and holding the dollar bill in my right hand, I snorted hard right next to the dope while wiping it off the table with my cupped left hand. I straightened up fast as Rocky looked around me at the table. The dope was gone, and I pretended to snort through my nose a few more times. Rocky grinned at me, staring at my face hard. “Good shit, huh, Billy?”

“Ooooh-whaaa!”
I let out a loud rebel yell, then shook my head from side to side. “Yeah, Rock. Some good shit.”

“Let’s go.” Rocky, energized by the shot of crank, jumped to his feet.

I looked down to see a small pile of meth on the carpet below the table. Quickly, I put my boot over it, scattering it into the carpet.

“Yeah, let’s go.”

I turned to follow Rocky and Vicky out the door. Had I really gotten away with this sleight of hand? Maybe they’d seen but were just waiting to call my bluff when there were more Mongols present. I couldn’t have pulled off the same stunt if even one more biker had been in the room with me. And I knew I couldn’t keep doing it all weekend. I’d have to figure out another way to get around the dope issue, or this investigation wasn’t going to last another day.

Downstairs in the lobby, we met up with the San Fernando Valley Chapter president, a frightening-looking guy named Domingo. Domingo was a little younger than Rocky, maybe in his late twenties, with long black hair that he wore in a heavy braid that fell all the way to his belt. A light-skinned Hispanic, he was built like a fireplug, only five foot eight but at least 225 pounds. His arms were very muscular, and tatted up pretty good.

I later read up on Domingo’s criminal history: He’d just come out of prison for his involvement in a nightclub mêlée and running gunfight the Mongols had engaged in just outside of Los Angeles. A victim had been found shot dead at the scene, but the police could never bring a charge of murder and Domingo went to state prison on a conviction of felony assault. I also learned that Domingo had originally been patched in with the L.A. Chapter, but with some recent internal turmoil in the San Fernando Valley, he had been sent by the national president to clean up shop there.

Rocky and Domingo greeted each other with the Mongol handshake, and I heard Rocky tell Domingo in a half whisper: “Yeah, he’s okay.”

Domingo nodded at me, didn’t offer me a handshake. We met up with more Mongols as we made our way to the concession and display area in the hotel parking lot. It was warm outside. Rock music was blaring from a live band on the stage. Cold beer was flowing. Nothing makes Mongols happier than loud music and a plentiful supply of beer—except maybe beating the shit out of an enemy. But for now there was nobody to beat up and plenty of beer to go around.

The Mongols began to circle the wagons. And now I learned the reason that everyone was on high alert: The Vagos were in town, and they had put out the word that they were looking for some Mongol ass. It seemed to me that they weren’t looking very hard—the Mongols were gathering en masse, and flying their colors in an awesome public display of force.

Rocky told me to look tough and to stand guard at one of the corners. He said I should do what I was told by other Mongol patches and not ask any questions. “You got that, Billy? Don’t ask questions.”

Rocky was vouching for me now. I stood in the hot sun looking as serious and tough as I could, keeping lookout for any Vagos. I was a legitimate Mongol “hang-around” now, the precursor to being an official prospect, and as such I was trusted with guard duty. On an ATF intelligence report, I’d be listed as:

Billy St. John

Known Associate

Mongols M.C.

On Sunday afternoon it was time to head back to L.A. We had a two-hour delay just outside Laughlin to fix Rocky’s piece-of-shit bike. When we reached the split in the 10 and 210 freeways, Rocky pulled off at the Fairplex exit in Pomona; I followed. At this junction we would go our own ways. Rocky maneuvered his bike into a closed service station. It was dark, and the ride home had taken its toll on all of us. Parking his bike, Rocky went to a phone booth as Vicky and I found an uncomfortable piece of concrete curb to sit on. I remember watching Rocky walking away, his fearsome black-and-white Mongol patch fading into the darkness in front of me.

I reflected on the weekend’s progress. I was sitting in some abandoned service station with a gangster who had taken me under his wing. If he knew who I really was, he would kill me right here. He had the gun to do it. The place was dark and there would be no witnesses. The noise from the freeway traffic would muffle the sound of the gunshot.

Rocky walked back after a couple of minutes and sat down beside me on the curb. “You got any idea what you’re doing?”

The question startled me. “What?” I said, staring at him.

“You heard me. You’re trying to get into something that might kill you. Do you know that?”

I wasn’t sure what my answer should be.

“This ain’t no club,” Rocky continued. “We’re outlaws. I’ve had to do things that would send me to prison for years if I got caught. You ready for that? Would you kill for the Mongols? Because that’s what you might have to do. We’re outlaws, Billy. You need to know that. You need to be sure. You need to understand what you’re getting into.” Without waiting for an answer, he patted me on the back. “I’m outta here. You think about it, Billy.”

I watched as Rocky and Vicky got on their bike and roared away.

The freeway traffic echoed through my head. I was tired. As I fired up my Harley again, I realized that I had no idea what I was really getting into.

5

In the beginning, our investigative goals were relatively modest: We were trying to get next to Rocky, Domingo, and some of the other San Fernando Valley Mongols, buy some methamphetamine and cocaine, and get as many illegal guns off the street as we could. To be honest, if I’d known the way it was going to play out, I’m not sure I would have taken the assignment. Though I’d been through the deep-cover ordeal before, it was usually a matter of days or weeks at a time away from my family. At the start of the operation I’d been divorced for about ten years; my ex-wife and I remained cordial. She lived in Riverside, in a modest suburban community, with our two sons. My boys were then nine and ten years old, and even with the demands of being an ATF agent, I was there almost every weekend, took them to soccer games, went to school plays and parent-teacher conferences. In those months when I began to hang around the Mongols, my sons could see the visible changes in me—my hair and beard growing longer, my unkempt appearance so unlike my usual close-cropped, clean-shaven look. They were just old enough to ask questions but not old enough to understand the sacrifices and demands of a deep-undercover assignment.