I had to maintain that level of outward confidence, aggression, and surliness that’s expected from men in the world of 1 percenters; I couldn’t let the possibility of being found out overshadow my performance. If I ever appeared too nervous or jumpy, the Mongols would read it instantly as weakness and sniff me out as a cop or, at least, as a guy pretending to be someone he wasn’t.
For weeks as I fired up my Harley, I kept talking to myself:
Hey, Billy, chill out. They like you. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have asked you to join the club. If they really thought you were a cop, they’d have fucked you up a long time ago.
Plus, I didn’t have any solid evidence against Domingo or Rocky or Rancid, and therefore, I told myself, they had no reason to kill me even if they did find out who I really was.
Of course, that was the logical analysis, and didn’t take into account the irrational, hotheaded, and often psychotic behavior I knew that members of the Mongols were capable of.
I kept up the ritual for the next couple of weeks: I’d get myself good and psyched up, ride into Tujunga on my hog, hang out with the Mongols, buy beer for them, and shoot pool. We would ride to an event or another bar, and Rocky, my designated mentor, would teach me some more time-honored Mongol tradition. I checked the guys’ faces and demeanor each time I met with them. I tried to catch any tiny nuances or tics that might signal that I was in trouble.
Then, one lazy midmorning, I was hanging out at my UC pad when I got an unsettling call from Rocky. “Hey, Billy,” he said. “Why don’t you come on over.”
It wasn’t a request; it was a command. But it didn’t sound like Rocky. His voice was distant, suspicious, spacy.
“What’s goin’ on, Rock?”
In a long, drawn-out way, completely out of character, he said: “Just come on over here, dude. We’re gonna go and pick up your colors. We gotta go see Bobby Loco first. Then we’re going to Luna’s place and pick up your colors. So come on over.”
I didn’t know quite what to say. I knew that Bobby Loco was the Mongol who was in charge of checking out the background information in my application. Luna was the Mongols’ national secretary-treasurer, a very high ranking officer within the organization. Both men were patched in with the Mother Chapter, which was down in Commerce. Bobby Loco and Leno Luna were old-timers—veterans from the days of the original war with the Hells Angels—and as hard-core as they come.
As a prospect, you are entitled to wear the rudimentary colors of the club; you are allowed to wear the leather vest with PROSPECT on the front and a lower rocker that reads CALIFORNIA on the back. Eventually, having proven yourself by engaging in criminal activities like hauling drugs and guns, and after a unanimous vote by the chapter membership, you can earn the right to a center patch of the club’s official logo. But you could never wear the coveted top rocker—the MONGOLS patch—until you were a full-fledged member of the club. When Rocky mentioned getting my colors, I was taken aback; I knew I wasn’t scheduled to be picking up any colors and figured Domingo would have mentioned it to me if I had. As Rocky droned on in his spaced-out voice, I began to fear that what I’d really be picking up was a bullet in the back of my head.
Still, I couldn’t stall Rocky without raising suspicions. I told him to hang in there; I’d be over in a bit.
“Get on the stick,” he said, then abruptly hung up.
I dialed Ciccone right away. “John, I just got a call from Rocky.”
“Yeah, what’s up with Big Rock?”
“Some weird shit. He’s acting really strange. He says he wants me to come over—says we’re gonna go pick up my colors. It doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds like they may have found out something. I don’t like it, John. I don’t like this shit at all.”
John respected my intuition and knew that the call under these
For weeks as I fired up my Harley, I kept talking to myself:
Hey, Billy, chill out. They like you. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have asked you to join the club. If they really thought you were a cop, they’d have fucked you up a long time ago.
Plus, I didn’t have any solid evidence against Domingo or Rocky or Rancid, and therefore, I told myself, they had no reason to kill me even if they did find out who I really was.
Of course, that was the logical analysis, and didn’t take into account the irrational, hotheaded, and often psychotic behavior I knew that members of the Mongols were capable of.
I kept up the ritual for the next couple of weeks: I’d get myself good and psyched up, ride into Tujunga on my hog, hang out with the Mongols, buy beer for them, and shoot pool. We would ride to an event or another bar, and Rocky, my designated mentor, would teach me some more time-honored Mongol tradition. I checked the guys’ faces and demeanor each time I met with them. I tried to catch any tiny nuances or tics that might signal that I was in trouble.
Then, one lazy midmorning, I was hanging out at my UC pad when I got an unsettling call from Rocky. “Hey, Billy,” he said. “Why don’t you come on over.”
It wasn’t a request; it was a command. But it didn’t sound like Rocky. His voice was distant, suspicious, spacy.
“What’s goin’ on, Rock?”
In a long, drawn-out way, completely out of character, he said: “Just come on over here, dude. We’re gonna go and pick up your colors. We gotta go see Bobby Loco first. Then we’re going to Luna’s place and pick up your colors. So come on over.”
I didn’t know quite what to say. I knew that Bobby Loco was the Mongol who was in charge of checking out the background information in my application. Luna was the Mongols’ national secretary-treasurer, a very high ranking officer within the organization. Both men were patched in with the Mother Chapter, which was down in Commerce. Bobby Loco and Leno Luna were old-timers—veterans from the days of the original war with the Hells Angels—and as hard-core as they come.
As a prospect, you are entitled to wear the rudimentary colors of the club; you are allowed to wear the leather vest with PROSPECT on the front and a lower rocker that reads CALIFORNIA on the back. Eventually, having proven yourself by engaging in criminal activities like hauling drugs and guns, and after a unanimous vote by the chapter membership, you can earn the right to a center patch of the club’s official logo. But you could never wear the coveted top rocker—the MONGOLS patch—until you were a full-fledged member of the club. When Rocky mentioned getting my colors, I was taken aback; I knew I wasn’t scheduled to be picking up any colors and figured Domingo would have mentioned it to me if I had. As Rocky droned on in his spaced-out voice, I began to fear that what I’d really be picking up was a bullet in the back of my head.
Still, I couldn’t stall Rocky without raising suspicions. I told him to hang in there; I’d be over in a bit.
“Get on the stick,” he said, then abruptly hung up.
I dialed Ciccone right away. “John, I just got a call from Rocky.”
“Yeah, what’s up with Big Rock?”
“Some weird shit. He’s acting really strange. He says he wants me to come over—says we’re gonna go pick up my colors. It doesn’t sound right to me. It sounds like they may have found out something. I don’t like it, John. I don’t like this shit at all.”
John respected my intuition and knew that the call under these
Similar Books
