only a few of what seemed to be regulars were drinking at the bar.
"What can I get ya?" asked the bartender, a short, muscular man in his late forties. His face was hard, stone-like. His eyes were tired. I wondered what those eyes had witnessed in this bar over the years.
"I'll have a beer." He nodded, placed a napkin on the bar, then filled a glass from the tap.
"Hi there," came a female voice from behind me. "You must be Dr. Death."
"Who's asking?"
"I'm Christy. Word is all around the street about you. Used to be a Saint, right?"
"Still am," I said. "Word travels fast, don't it?"
"Sure does, Doc." She sat on the stool in front of me, her legs spread open. A sorry, drug-addicted whore. Her vest bore a PROPERTY OF THE HENCHMEN patch over the left pocket. Her legs and arms bore black-and-blue marks.
"For a twenty, I can make you feel right," she said, as she placed her hand between my legs and gently massaged my crotch.
I pushed her hand away. "I got business. Maybe later." Those terribly sad eyes locked into mine. It was as if she sensed my compassion. Her eyes grew watery.
"Sure, Doc. Maybe a freebee for you. Somethin's different about you, man. I can't put my finger on it. Somethin'."
At that moment I felt incredibly sad. For her. For me. For my wife Amy.
The sudden roar of motorcycles liberated me from my predicament. Christy quickly retreated to the rear of the bar like a frightened mouse. I spun around on my stool and faced the doorway. The rest of the patrons never flinched. They kept drinking and bullshitting as if they hadn't heard the thunderous approach of the outlaws.
Iron Man Morgan was the first to come through the door. It was customary for the sergeant-at-arms to walk into a public establishment first when traveling with the club's president. Counsel was next, followed by Little Vinney, Dog, Hank the Skank Becker, and Henry "Savage" Rivers. I was introduced to the members I didn't know and invited to sit down at the rear booth.
There was a white-tape line on the floor surrounding The Henchmen's table. At the edge of the line was a sign on a short metal post that read: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE UNLESS YOU ARE INVITED. Nobody ever crossed it. Not even a member's old lady could just walk in and run up to her man. Even if she had money to give him, earned from a night of giving blow jobs to horny johns, she would still have to wait outside the line until summoned across.
"Let's have it," demanded Counsel. I couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses. The shades and his long light-brown hair and beard made him resemble a hip, slightly overweight Jesus Christ. Lord knows, the members treated him like a savior.
"The Mexicans are anxious to make a deal," I said. "We can have their entire stock of fifteen hundred pieces and an option on a thousand more. It's set for tomorrow morning at eight o'clock."
"Where?" asked Savage.
"At the warehouse on Pier 40, by the tracks. They'll be waiting in a red pickup," I said, looking into his cold, piercing eyes.
I learned later that Savage and Iron Man were members of The Wild Bunch. About eight Henchmen from the L.A. chapter wore this patch on the front of their vests. It was issued to the club's killers. My cover's reputation was supposed to rival theirs, but they scared the hell out of me.
"All right," said Counsel. "Iron Man, Savage, and Dog go with you. No colors. No bikes. Take the gray van."
The club had three vans, which were kept in rented garages around East Los Angeles. The other two, a 1980 brown Caravan and an '86 blue Ford, were available on a first-come, first-served basis to all members. All three trucks were registered in the name of Alison Green, Victor Crawford's girlfriend.
"Do you have a piece, Doc?" Counsel asked.
"No. Not yet."
"Meet at the clubhouse at seven-thirty. Savage will give you one. What's your pleasure?"
"Doesn't matter really. A twelve-shot niner like the ones we're getting tomorrow would be nice."
"You got it. Let's have a
"What can I get ya?" asked the bartender, a short, muscular man in his late forties. His face was hard, stone-like. His eyes were tired. I wondered what those eyes had witnessed in this bar over the years.
"I'll have a beer." He nodded, placed a napkin on the bar, then filled a glass from the tap.
"Hi there," came a female voice from behind me. "You must be Dr. Death."
"Who's asking?"
"I'm Christy. Word is all around the street about you. Used to be a Saint, right?"
"Still am," I said. "Word travels fast, don't it?"
"Sure does, Doc." She sat on the stool in front of me, her legs spread open. A sorry, drug-addicted whore. Her vest bore a PROPERTY OF THE HENCHMEN patch over the left pocket. Her legs and arms bore black-and-blue marks.
"For a twenty, I can make you feel right," she said, as she placed her hand between my legs and gently massaged my crotch.
I pushed her hand away. "I got business. Maybe later." Those terribly sad eyes locked into mine. It was as if she sensed my compassion. Her eyes grew watery.
"Sure, Doc. Maybe a freebee for you. Somethin's different about you, man. I can't put my finger on it. Somethin'."
At that moment I felt incredibly sad. For her. For me. For my wife Amy.
The sudden roar of motorcycles liberated me from my predicament. Christy quickly retreated to the rear of the bar like a frightened mouse. I spun around on my stool and faced the doorway. The rest of the patrons never flinched. They kept drinking and bullshitting as if they hadn't heard the thunderous approach of the outlaws.
Iron Man Morgan was the first to come through the door. It was customary for the sergeant-at-arms to walk into a public establishment first when traveling with the club's president. Counsel was next, followed by Little Vinney, Dog, Hank the Skank Becker, and Henry "Savage" Rivers. I was introduced to the members I didn't know and invited to sit down at the rear booth.
There was a white-tape line on the floor surrounding The Henchmen's table. At the edge of the line was a sign on a short metal post that read: DO NOT CROSS THIS LINE UNLESS YOU ARE INVITED. Nobody ever crossed it. Not even a member's old lady could just walk in and run up to her man. Even if she had money to give him, earned from a night of giving blow jobs to horny johns, she would still have to wait outside the line until summoned across.
"Let's have it," demanded Counsel. I couldn't see his eyes behind the sunglasses. The shades and his long light-brown hair and beard made him resemble a hip, slightly overweight Jesus Christ. Lord knows, the members treated him like a savior.
"The Mexicans are anxious to make a deal," I said. "We can have their entire stock of fifteen hundred pieces and an option on a thousand more. It's set for tomorrow morning at eight o'clock."
"Where?" asked Savage.
"At the warehouse on Pier 40, by the tracks. They'll be waiting in a red pickup," I said, looking into his cold, piercing eyes.
I learned later that Savage and Iron Man were members of The Wild Bunch. About eight Henchmen from the L.A. chapter wore this patch on the front of their vests. It was issued to the club's killers. My cover's reputation was supposed to rival theirs, but they scared the hell out of me.
"All right," said Counsel. "Iron Man, Savage, and Dog go with you. No colors. No bikes. Take the gray van."
The club had three vans, which were kept in rented garages around East Los Angeles. The other two, a 1980 brown Caravan and an '86 blue Ford, were available on a first-come, first-served basis to all members. All three trucks were registered in the name of Alison Green, Victor Crawford's girlfriend.
"Do you have a piece, Doc?" Counsel asked.
"No. Not yet."
"Meet at the clubhouse at seven-thirty. Savage will give you one. What's your pleasure?"
"Doesn't matter really. A twelve-shot niner like the ones we're getting tomorrow would be nice."
"You got it. Let's have a
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