Gods of Mischief by George Rowe Page B

106-inch motor, drag bars, raked frame, suicide shifter and, oh yeah, fuck the turn signals. Man, I loved that chopper, but I’d needed quick cash to finance a new and expensive hobby . . . gambling. That’s right, ol’ George had swapped one addiction for another. With a personality like mine, walking the straight and narrow was a never-ending struggle. For every two steps forward there was that inevitable step back. And gambling was a monster one.
    A few months before our meeting in Bee Canyon, I’d sold that shovelheadfor chump change to a dentist who rode with another motorcycle club in Hemet called the Bros. That Harley was worth twice what “Doc” paid for it. But, hey, at least I could play the slots.
    I just couldn’t ride with the Vagos.
    â€œNo bike, huh? I can see how that might be a problem,” said Carr, straight-faced. “Funny thing about bikers. They ride bikes.”
    The fucker had a sense of humor too.
    â€œTell you what, though,” he continued. “If we go forward and if you get in—and that’s a pretty big if —we’ll find you a bike.”
    â€œI’ll get in,” I assured him.
    â€œIt’s possible,” replied Carr. “You seem like a likable guy. You’re outgoing. You’ve got a look that fits. And Detective Duffy tells me you know the Vagos in Hemet. That’s no small thing. But the chapters are being cautious right now. The Vagos got burned not too long ago. I know because I was one of the guys that burned them.”
    Carr was talking about Operation Green Nation. Even before Hammer OD’d in that Utah Jacuzzi, Green Nation’s border had been on lockdown. Joining the Vagos now was like being screened through cheesecloth. Fortunately for me, that wasn’t the case in Hemet. Big Roy wanted to lead the biggest, baddest outlaw chapter in all the land—one that would grab the attention of Terry the Tramp up in Hesperia—and he was on an aggressive recruiting drive to make it happen. Like the English press gangs of old, they’d even muscled members away from the Bros MC, including Doc, who owned my old chopper.
    â€œI’ll get in,” I repeated confidently.
    â€œLet me ask you something,” said Carr. “What exactly are you looking to get out of this, George?”
    There was no hesitation.
    â€œI want to catch whoever did David and get those assholes off the street.”
    â€œAnd that’s all?”
    â€œIsn’t that enough?” I said. “People in Hemet are afraid, okay? I’m just trying to do what’s right.”
    Carr swallowed a smile. I knew how I sounded—like an idealistic Eagle Scout taking a break from escorting little old ladies across the street. Thing is, I meant every word.
    Carr was understandably skeptical.
    â€œGeorge, people always want something.”
    â€œLook, this isn’t about money if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said heatedly. “You just asked me what I wanted, and I told you. That’s it. End of story.”
    But Carr still couldn’t wrap his head around it. An agent drew a paycheck while undercover, an informant worked off his case and stayed out of prison. Me, the man with nothing to gain and everything to lose, was asking for nothing and risking everything.
    In his twelve years with the Bureau, Special Agent Carr had pretty much seen and heard it all. But this was a new one for both an agent and an agency with a storied history of busting motorcycle outlaws. No private citizen had ever volunteered for such an assignment, let alone risked their neck without reward. Sometime later, while recalling our first meeting, John Carr said he thought I had to be naive, full of shit or just plain crazy . . . maybe all three.
    There would be times when I thought so myself.
    â€œAlright, George,” he said at last. “You start hanging around with the Vagos, and we’ll