A Delicate Matter. Don Easton
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jackets. Prospects generally took part in the riskier areas of Satans Wrath’s criminal activity and then, after they’d been thoroughly screened for a couple of years, Satans Wrath members would vote on whether to allow the prospects entry into the club. If accepted, a prospect would receive the top rocker and complete logo, which was known as getting the “full patch,” or “colours.” Currently, the Gypsy Devils had nine full-patch members and three prospects.
What surprised Jack was that the Gypsy Devils tended to represent the more degenerate and filthy image of what outlaw biker clubs were thirty-five years ago. Although Satans Wrath didn’t hesitate to use extreme violence to protect its turf or expand its criminal tentacles, the members generally wore clean clothes and tried not to attract police attention and thereby jeopardize the financial gains from their criminal activity. The Gypsy Devils had not displayed the same intelligence.
In the past clubs like the Gypsy Devils would receive a warning from Satans Wrath to shut down, and if they didn’t the ramifications would involve lengthy hospital stays — if they were lucky.
Jack felt that Satans Wrath had displayed a friendlier attitude toward the Gypsy Devils than it had other puppet clubs. He believed the Gypsy Devils had something Satans Wrath wanted and he intended to find out what. All bikers were well aware of police wiretaps and seldom said anything of value over their phones. Biker informants were also a rare commodity, as loyalty and devotion to their respective clubs was extremely high.
Today Jack hoped that surveillance might lead to his discreetly busting someone the Gypsy Devils dealt with. He intended to try to turn that person into an informant and work his way up from there.
Laura eyed the cluster of Harley-Davidson motorcycles in the pub parking lot. One of the bikes, which had the logo of the Gypsy Devils painted on the gas tank, belonged to the club president, Carl Shepherd. “Looks like we’re in luck today,” she said.
Jack gave a satisfied nod. “This is their favourite watering hole. They were bound to turn up sooner or later.”
“You sure you want to go in there alone?”
“I’ll be fine,” Jack assured her. “These guys don’t know me. Besides, I’ve got Smith and Wesson to help, if need be. Stay put, collect the plate numbers, and act like the paparazzi.”
Laura frowned. “These guys don’t know you, but some of Satans Wrath do. What if they show up? I know you used to have a goatee, but even with your beard and longer hair, they could still recognize you.”
“I doubt any full-patch members of Satans Wrath would lower themselves to hang out with these yokels. Maybe one or two of their prospects might show up to conduct business, but those guys don’t know me. Besides, even if Satans Wrath members do show up, they aren’t stupid. They’d probably send me a beer to let me know I’d been spotted.”
“Yes, a beer with the date-rape drug so they could bend you over a table and … do you.”
Jack smiled to himself. Despite the years on the job and the type of work Laura did, she seldom used foul language. “Don’t worry if they do show. It’s the Gypsy Devils we need to be concerned about. They’re more dangerous because of their lack of cerebral development. I’ll call you if I need a hand. Speaking of which, time for a radio check.”
Laura flicked on a portable police radio and Jack whispered, “Test, test, test,” into a microphone hidden in his sleeve. His words echoed over Laura’s portable radio. He then tucked a receiver into his ear and covered it with his hair. Laura clicked her portable and Jack heard the click on his receiver. He gave her a thumbs-up and reached for a ball cap.
“The cap makes you look like Forrest Gump,” Laura noted. “You look meaner and tougher without it.”
“I know,” Jack replied. “Looking tough around these guys is inviting trouble. They’d want to find out who I am — or worse, how tough I really am.”
Moments later he wandered into the bar. It was relatively small and well lit. The Gypsy Devils had been forced by law to not display their colours in the pub, but were still easily identified by their appearance. They, along with an assortment of other representatives of the criminal element, occupied one side of the pub, while the other side was favoured by people from local businesses who often came in for lunch.
Jack found a small table on the fringe of where the bikers were and ordered a beer. Sitting alone tended to make him stand out, but Laura was a very attractive woman and he feared she’d attract unwanted attention from the Gypsy Devils. Unwanted attention that’d require a bare-knuckled response … or the need to use the 9mm Smith & Wesson pistol tucked in the back of his jeans and thereby blow his cover.
He’d only taken his first sip when he saw that he’d caught the attention of two women at the next table. One was a brunette in an outfit that looked like a chauffeur’s uniform. The other had her blonde hair in a braid over her shoulder and wore a blouse and slacks. She looked like an office worker.
The women gave him a friendly smile, then each said, “Hi.”
Jack nodded in response.
“You look lonely sitting there,” said the blonde. “My name’s Roxie.”
Yeah, and I guess I look stupid, too. Jack gave a curt nod and stood up. “Excuse me, I have to find a quiet place to make a call.” As he glanced around for another place to sit, he thought, Okay … the ripple effect … fourth table away should be okay. A Gypsy Devil by the name of Thorsen, who was the sergeant-at-arms for the club, was talking to a couple of his buddies at a nearby table. Ah, the guy they call Thor … looks like a gorilla and only half as smart. I better pick five tables away.
The women exchanged annoyed looks as Jack picked up his beer and moved five tables away from the bikers. He was no longer able to hear any of their conversation but he still had a good view.
Some minutes passed and Jack discreetly radioed Laura the descriptions of the few men who’d left the pub after sitting with the Gypsy Devils. He then saw two men enter and walk past him. Both were clean-cut and one was wearing a black leather bomber jacket and the other a light windbreaker. Jack noticed that the man with the bomber jacket had a jailhouse tattoo — a Celtic cross — on the crux of his thumb and forefinger. So his nice-boy image hides a sinister past, he thought.
Once, on an undercover assignment in prison, Jack watched a group of convicts use a lighter to melt a green plastic comb, then dip a pin into the melting plastic. Next they used the pin to make a row of prick marks on the recipient’s arm. The resulting tattoo was less than what one might call professional, but it did the trick.
Both men looked around the bar for a place to sit. It didn’t appear that they knew anyone. They then opted to sit at the table where Jack had originally sat.
Jack whispered into his sleeve, “Laura, you see the two guys who just entered? Black bomber jacket on one and a blue windbreaker on the other?”
“Ten-four. I got close-ups of both their faces. The driver is the one wearing the bomber jacket. I ran his name. He’s got a record for armed robbery and sexual assault.”
Jack grinned when he saw the two men being chatted up by the same two women who’d spoken to him minutes before. Oh, yeah, here it comes.
“You copy, Jack?”
“I copied. Sexual assault, eh? That’s perfect.”
“Why is it perfect?” Laura asked.
“I’ll explain later.”
“Are they with the GDs?”
“Definitely not,” Jack whispered. “Talk to you later.” He picked up his beer and held it above the table without taking a sip.
“You trying to fuck our women?” Thor roared at the newcomers, shoving himself back from his table.
Before the two men could respond, Thor lunged out of his chair, along with the other bikers, and attacked. Chairs and tables tipped over, sending drinks