Free Deep Cover by Edward Bungert Page A
Authors: Edward Bungert
brothers supplied a police lieutenant's daughter. The bitch gave us all sorts of info she got from papers and shit her father brought home. We had this gig going till she was busted for possession and sent to a rehab program."
"Tough luck," I said.
"Fuck it. That's why we try not to supply users anymore. We only sell weight, 'cept at some of the truck stops."
Iron Man brought me to the TCB (Taking Care of Business) room. No one was allowed access unless accompanied by the club president, sergeant-at-arms, security officer, or vice-president. This room was alarmed, and you had to know a four-digit code to gain entrance. I tried to see the four numbers as he pressed them, without seeming interested. I could only make out 5-9-2. The fourth was either a 3 or a 6.
This room was reserved for the heavy artillery. Thirty Uzi submachine guns, a 3.5-inch rocket-launcher, and fifteen AK47 Russian-made assault rifles. (I found this a bit ironic. The Henchmen had a reputation for being staunch anti-Communists. Apparently their hatred for the Reds wasn't deep enough to prevent them from purchasing this celebrated combat weapon.) There were also several crates of grenades and about one hundred pounds of dynamite, complete with wiring and timing devices for homemade bombs—all neatly stacked on one side of the room. The other side contained racks of M16's, probably over fifty in all, sawed-off shotguns, eighty .45-caliber handguns, thirty .357 Magnum handguns, and four bazookas.
"Some fucking collection, eh, Doc?"
Iron Man stood with his arms akimbo, lips stiffened, nodding his head in approval.
"Fuck, yeah," I said. "I was impressed with the shit you had in the stash room. But you could hold off a fucking army with the shit you got here."
He activated the alarm again as we left.
When we returned to the first floor, three club members were sitting around a table. Among them was Monk, an ex-soldier and weapons expert. Monk often did guard duty on the roof of Mike's when regular meetings took place. I asked Iron Man why they didn't just meet at the clubhouse each week. He told me it was a tradition for the club's hierarchy to meet at Mike's—that was where it had all started. He also said that real club business was discussed in Counsel's office. The meetings at Mike's were nothing more than routine, except for the occasional deal brought in by outsiders. That's what I had been until this morning. The five corpses we'd left by the dock had changed my status—literally overnight.
"Monk, c'mere, man," said Iron Man. "This is Dr. Death."
Monk passed the joint the trio was sharing and approached us.
"Hey, Doc, heard you had some action this morning," he said.
"A little."
"A little, my ass. You took care of fucking business today, Jack." He gulped down the rest of his beer. "Listen, man, we need more beer for tonight's party. You want to take a ride, brother?"
"Party?"
"Yeah, we planned it as soon as we heard about you guys."
"Always down to party, Doc," Iron Man added. "Specially after a big score."
"What do you say, Doc?" asked Monk again.
"Let's go."
We took the blue Ford van.
"Smoke?" Monk asked as he offered me a cigarette, keeping his left hand on the steering wheel.
"Thanks."
"You looking to join the club, Doc?"
"No one's asked me so far, Monk."
"Somebody will, Doc. You can be sure of that." He cracked a half-smile, the other side of his mouth sporting the cigarette. "Ain't no way Iron Man would show you around like he did today if he wasn't sure you'd be in."
My reputation as a member of the Satan's Saints must have had a bigger impact on these guys than I had imagined. Still, it seemed too simple. Nobody becomes a Henchman that easy.
"I might consider it," I said, knowing full well that this response would surprise him. After all, The Henchmen are considered to be the outlaw's outlaw. The elite of the biker scene. You're either a Henchmen, a wannabe, a mortal enemy, or an outsider. I smiled and gave him a
"Tough luck," I said.
"Fuck it. That's why we try not to supply users anymore. We only sell weight, 'cept at some of the truck stops."
Iron Man brought me to the TCB (Taking Care of Business) room. No one was allowed access unless accompanied by the club president, sergeant-at-arms, security officer, or vice-president. This room was alarmed, and you had to know a four-digit code to gain entrance. I tried to see the four numbers as he pressed them, without seeming interested. I could only make out 5-9-2. The fourth was either a 3 or a 6.
This room was reserved for the heavy artillery. Thirty Uzi submachine guns, a 3.5-inch rocket-launcher, and fifteen AK47 Russian-made assault rifles. (I found this a bit ironic. The Henchmen had a reputation for being staunch anti-Communists. Apparently their hatred for the Reds wasn't deep enough to prevent them from purchasing this celebrated combat weapon.) There were also several crates of grenades and about one hundred pounds of dynamite, complete with wiring and timing devices for homemade bombs—all neatly stacked on one side of the room. The other side contained racks of M16's, probably over fifty in all, sawed-off shotguns, eighty .45-caliber handguns, thirty .357 Magnum handguns, and four bazookas.
"Some fucking collection, eh, Doc?"
Iron Man stood with his arms akimbo, lips stiffened, nodding his head in approval.
"Fuck, yeah," I said. "I was impressed with the shit you had in the stash room. But you could hold off a fucking army with the shit you got here."
He activated the alarm again as we left.
When we returned to the first floor, three club members were sitting around a table. Among them was Monk, an ex-soldier and weapons expert. Monk often did guard duty on the roof of Mike's when regular meetings took place. I asked Iron Man why they didn't just meet at the clubhouse each week. He told me it was a tradition for the club's hierarchy to meet at Mike's—that was where it had all started. He also said that real club business was discussed in Counsel's office. The meetings at Mike's were nothing more than routine, except for the occasional deal brought in by outsiders. That's what I had been until this morning. The five corpses we'd left by the dock had changed my status—literally overnight.
"Monk, c'mere, man," said Iron Man. "This is Dr. Death."
Monk passed the joint the trio was sharing and approached us.
"Hey, Doc, heard you had some action this morning," he said.
"A little."
"A little, my ass. You took care of fucking business today, Jack." He gulped down the rest of his beer. "Listen, man, we need more beer for tonight's party. You want to take a ride, brother?"
"Party?"
"Yeah, we planned it as soon as we heard about you guys."
"Always down to party, Doc," Iron Man added. "Specially after a big score."
"What do you say, Doc?" asked Monk again.
"Let's go."
We took the blue Ford van.
"Smoke?" Monk asked as he offered me a cigarette, keeping his left hand on the steering wheel.
"Thanks."
"You looking to join the club, Doc?"
"No one's asked me so far, Monk."
"Somebody will, Doc. You can be sure of that." He cracked a half-smile, the other side of his mouth sporting the cigarette. "Ain't no way Iron Man would show you around like he did today if he wasn't sure you'd be in."
My reputation as a member of the Satan's Saints must have had a bigger impact on these guys than I had imagined. Still, it seemed too simple. Nobody becomes a Henchman that easy.
"I might consider it," I said, knowing full well that this response would surprise him. After all, The Henchmen are considered to be the outlaw's outlaw. The elite of the biker scene. You're either a Henchmen, a wannabe, a mortal enemy, or an outsider. I smiled and gave him a
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