Free Gods of Mischief by George Rowe Page B

mechanic built himself a motorcycle, took off to raise hell and never looked back. He followed his stepbrother, Parts, into the Vagos and became the San Gabriel chapter president in the early 1970s.
    While Tramp inspired a good deal of fear and awe among his subjects, those he terrified most were chapter presidents like Big RoyCompton. Green Nation thrived on the weekly dues that members forked over at the chapter level, a percentage of which went to Tramp at national. But whenever a larger injection of cash was needed, Tramp found reasons to fine the chapters for every conceivable offense—fines that could run into thousands of dollars. For this reason, Big Roy was constantly on guard against pissing the international P off. Not only did he fear those hefty fines but Tramp had the power to confiscate a man’s motorcycle and convert it into quick cash.
    Not coincidentally, the largest fines seemed to hit the membership around the holiday season—right after Thanksgiving and during the weeks leading up to the New Year’s Run. There was good reason for this. Tramp had a big gambler’s itch, and to scratch it that high roller needed lots of cash. God’s ignorant flock didn’t have a clue back then, but their shepherd was pocketing tens of thousands of dollars and blowing it on slots and blackjack.
    The New Year’s Run to Buffalo Bill’s offered even greater opportunity for Tramp to line his pockets. As members arrived after a long day of riding through the Mojave Desert, they’d find stands set up with all kinds of Vagos merchandise for sale—from Green Nation T-shirts to Vagos-branded jewelry. And every member was encouraged to spend freely. After all, it was for the good of the club . . . and what was good for the club was even better for Terry the Tramp.
    Buffalo Bill’s casino stands on the California-Nevada border in a town identified on maps as Primm but which we called “State Line.” Buffalo Bill’s and two other casinos had been erected in that desert wasteland for a singular purpose—to snag Southern California gamblers before they could spend all their money in Las Vegas, forty miles to the north.
    Nevada’s dens of iniquity were always popular destinations for motorcycle gangs like the Vagos, and huge magnets for trouble. Only eight months earlier, members of the Mongols and Hells Angels found themselves rubbing elbows at Harrah’s Laughlin. Wasn’t long before that elbow-rubbing led to brawling, which led to killing. When thechips stopped flying, two Angels and a Mongol lay dead. Just to even the score, a third Hell’s Angel was murdered on his way back to California. Meanwhile at Harrah’s the cops doing cleanup recovered nine guns, sixty-five knives, and assorted bats, hammers and wrenches.
    On Tramp’s orders, the Vagos descended on Buffalo Bill’s from all directions: Northern California, Oregon, Nevada, Arizona, Mexico—even Hawaii. I knew for a fact a lot of those boys hated making that New Year’s Run, especially the poor bastards from the Northwest, who froze their nuts off, forced to ride their Harleys through snow and ice.
    Terry the Tramp wasn’t about to suffer that kind of discomfort. No fuckin’ way, man. Braving the elements was strictly for the peons. Instead the international P came motoring into State Line behind the wheel of his big ol’ Cadillac. And when Tramp wasn’t driving that boat, chances were you’d find him cruising along in a brand-new Corvette the suckers of Green Nation had bought him for his birthday.
    Without a motorcycle to call my own, I was also four-wheeling it to Buffalo Bill’s that afternoon, same as Tramp. And that was just fine with the Hemet chapter. Whenever one of their bikes broke down they knew George would be there to roll it into his truck bed and haul it home. Besides, no fuckin’ way did I want to ride a bike through the Mojave