The Last Chicago Boss Page 2

  “Your cousin has a job for you.” She sounded breathless, excited.

  “I don’t want a job.”

  “Please.” She was near tears. “You can’t live like this forever.”

  I hated that she worried. Truth be told, I didn’t think I could ever get a job. I flunked a psych test once for a big corporate firm.

  “We would never hire you,” the recruiter said. “Your scores are off the charts.”

  “Too smart?” I hoped.

  “Too scary.”

  “Scary good?”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  The problem, he elaborated, was that I could not be controlled. I relented. I accepted a position in a quality control lab in a chemical plant. The company made wax additives for the printing industry, for magazines like Playboy and GQ, so the ink wouldn’t smear.

  After several months working alongside chemists, I became the plant’s manager and earned a decent salary. But I atrophied; I was not destined to be Ordinary.

  “You don’t fit in this place,” a coworker remarked one morning.

  “Sure I do.”

  He shook his head. “Nope. You’re resting. I know people like you. You’re waiting for the right time to escape.”

  He had a point.

  I called a lawyer buddy of mine. “I need an adventure.”

  “Is that code for new motorcycle?” He laughed.

  The Evolution engine had returned to the Harley-Davidson. No more “Shovelhead” trouble heads. I bought a new bike, and for the first time in years I exhaled.

  Then fate intervened.

  “You should come to the Moose Lodge,” a friend suggested. What the hell was that?

  “The Loyal Order of Moose; it’s a fraternal service organization. They’re having a dinner.…”

  The Lodge, a palatial two-story building with a spacious dining area, kitchen, and bar on the first level and offices tucked upstairs, made a perfect clubhouse.

  But first things first: I had to become a member of the Loyal Order of Moose—the LOM.

  And so, after several more dinners at the lodge, I participated in a forty-five-minute initiation ritual for the Order.

  I wore a loud Hawaiian shirt and boat shoes; the Moose wore matching yellow suits and ties and eyed me warily. The governor of the lodge asked the sergeant-at-arms to administer the Moose obligation.

  “Do you believe in a Supreme Being?” he began.

  Sure.

  “Place your left hand over your heart and raise your right. Do you promise not to communicate or disclose or give any information—concerning anything—you may hereafter hear, see, or experience in this lodge or in any other lodge?”

  Sure.

  I was then directed to face Mooseheart (Illinois), bow my head, and mumble a silent prayer in what members called “the 9 O’Clock Ceremony.”

  “Suffer little children,” I mindlessly repeated under my breath, “to come unto me and forbid them not, for such is the Kingdom of Heaven. God bless Mooseheart.”

  “The children of Mooseheart are supposed to kneel at their bedside in prayers as well,” the lodge chaplain explained before he launched into the ten “thou shalts.”

  “Thou shalt believe in God and worship Him as thy conscience dictates,” he ordered. “Thou shalt be tolerant to let others worship each in his own way.” Other “thou shalts” pertained to patriotism, service to fellowmen, protection of the weak, avoidance of slander against a brother Moose, love of the LOM, faithfulness, and humility.

  The governor grasped my hand while the members sang “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” Meanwhile, my thoughts spun into forming my own club, and how I could best gain control of the Loyal Order of Moose to accomplish this goal. The governor administered the second part of the obligation: “Do you promise to support Mooseheart, Moosehaven [a retirement community in Florida], help fellow Moose, settle disputes within the Order, and not join any unauthorized Moose organizations?” Absolutely. The prelate offered another prayer at the altar, and I joined in singing “Friendship We Now Extend.”

  Being a Moose was all well and good, but if I was to control the lodge and, more important, the treasury, I had to hold an officer’s position. And that was only going to happen if I had sufficient votes. Typically only five members ever decided anything of importance (the same was true when I interned for the state legislature). The same five people showed up and formed “the Majority.” I couldn’t risk five people deciding my fate. So I recruited thirty-five of my loyal friends and indoctrinated them into the Loyal Order of Moose.

  “How long do we have to do this?” one of them complained.

  “Long enough to vote.”

  The governor was perplexed. It was “unheard of” to attract so many Moose in such a short period of time. The lodge had an incentives system: If a member recruited three prospects in a month he received a pin; five, a watch; thirty-five, a Palm Beach sports jacket. I quickly became a marvel in the Moose world—“exemplary Moose material.”

  Thirty-five votes later, I became the governor.

  “I’m forming my own club,” I announced one night at dinner.

  “You mean a club within a club?”

  “Yeah, something like that. I’m going to call it the Loyal Order, like the Loyal Order of Moose.”

  I had already designed the colors. The top rocker was going to be black and embroidered with “The Loyal Order,” the bottom rocker silver with “Illinois” (because The Outlaws already claimed “Chicago” and would never approve), and on the centerpiece, a gold crest. I added intrigue with swords and skulls, a random #8, and a death card.

  “Who’re you going to recruit?”

  “Moose.”

  “And Women of the Moose?” Debbie, my ol’ lady, chimed in.

  Well, it could never be 50/50. In any organization or partnership it could only ever be 49/51. In fact, Debbie would only ever make 49 percent of all significant decisions; 51 percent of the time the hard calls, the unpopular votes, the truly gut-wrenching judgments would be mine.

  Equality didn’t exist. It couldn’t.

  Women of the Moose received a special handbook with resources to help them become independent and productive. But broads didn’t need a handbook. They, like everyone else, got what they earned.

  2

  LET THE GAMES BEGIN

  A word of advice: We’re in Chicago, just don’t kill anyone.

  —GREASED LIGHTNING

  The Spanish word “adios” means “goodbye.” In Outlaw-speak, it means “Angels Die in Outlaw States.” The American Outlaws Association (AOA), established in 1965, has chapters worldwide and throughout the United States, with most grouped according to color-coded region: white for Illinois, gold for Wisconsin, orange for Florida, gray for Kentucky and Tennessee, silver for Georgia and Alabama, copper for the Carolinas, black for Ohio and Indiana, blue for Pennsylvania, red for New England and a few chapters in Philadelphia (because Philadelphia also has Angels, Pagans, and Warlocks). The Chicago Outlaws Motorcycle Club (aka OMG) is split into three parts: the South Side (the mother chapter), West Side, and North Side. “Patching in” to the Outlaws involves sponsorship, months of probating (a fancy word for slavery), and mastering the club’s playbook.

  The goal of every game, after all, is winning. The rules are simple: Stop (insert: kill) any player (insert: enemy) whose mission interferes with complete domination. The roles: pawns (insert: expendables), soldiers (well trained), enforcers (insert: loyal robots), and kings (insert: leaders; insert: Boss). The Fight: turf. Cripple or Kill. Cripple or Kill. Hells Angels. Simple enough. The slogan encouraged a hunter/prey (human/animal) mentality. Outlaws viewed life through the sights of a rifle.

  In fact, the escalating violence was reported as a series of “conflicts between Chicago-area Outlaws and Hells Angels motorcycle clubs. This growing feud [was] the result of a territorial conflict involving the conversion of Hell’s Henchmen Motorcycle Club to Hells Angels. The Outlaws [were] vehemently
opposed to the Hells Angels’ establishing a Midwest chapter and [were] aggressively protecting their territory. To date, as a result of this feud, there have been three documented homicides and six bombings in a three-state area.”1

  By 1994, Taco Bowman, the Outlaws international president, led the charge when he ordered Outlaw Regional Boss Peter Rogers, aka Grease or Greased Lightning, to bomb the Hell’s Henchmen, a Hells Angels–backed biker gang based in Illinois. But when Grease hesitated, Taco moved to “Plan B” and commissioned other Outlaws to launch the assault “as soon as possible.” He ordered more firebombings against Hells Angels clubhouses.

  And for his small part in Taco’s campaign of violence, Grease took a bullet in the leg and gut as he rode his Harley-Davidson on the Dan Ryan Expressway in Chicago. And though there were no suspects, word of the shooting spread throughout the Midwest, and the next day, the Outlaws targeted Rockford, Illinois, and a motorcycle shop owned by a Hell’s Henchman. Kevin “Spike” O’Neill, the president of the Wisconsin/Stateline chapter of the Outlaws, gave the prospective assailant specific instructions to “do what you can,” if “opportunity arose.”

  Spike’s recruit, a wannabe Outlaw from the Insanity Motorcycle Club, understood completely. He entered the motorcycle shop, opened fire with his .45, then bludgeoned the victim with the butt of his gun. He then stabbed the victim again and again in the throat with a screwdriver and later reported to Spike that the “head gasket was blown … [and] leaking like a sieve.” Spike rewarded him with membership and a belt buckle engraved with twin SS lightning bolts.

  That kind of loyalty was rare, found only in fraternal groups, among like-minded brothers who pledged allegiance to one another to honor, respect, and kill if necessary for the privilege of wearing the patch. It was an honor among thieves.

  An honor I understood and aspired to achieve. But first, I needed a way in. As president of the Loyal Order, I had instant legitimacy in the OMG world. The fact that I also had an intimate knowledge of the drug trade was a bonus. But being a member of my own club was not going to land me the position of Boss of Chicago. For that title, I had to control the club that controlled the city. I needed to fortify my position, align with the Outlaws, occupy territories, eliminate opponents, and befriend the leader.

  I paced Grease’s dirty, gray hospital room. Recessed lights flickered on the ceiling. Blood spotted his sheets. Part of his guts seeped out of his stomach. Feeding tubes snaked through his nose.

  “We’re going to get the motherfuckers who did this to you,” his guards promised him.

  I offered to drive. It may not have been the most glamorous entry into the Outlaws’ “inner sanctum,” but the position kept me close to Grease.

  “I could use your help,” Grease said once he’d recovered, though plumbing was not exactly the job I’d envisioned.

  We drove into Chinatown past rows of dried fish heads and blue live crabs. Red paper lanterns spun in the wind. We pulled up to a framed bamboo restaurant with a red dragon fountain. The owner waved us in. “Water everywhere,” he said in broken English.

  “Get the router.” Grease headed to the basement. The ceiling buckled.

  The doors to the van swung wide over a deep puddle. My boots filled with debris. I retrieved the equipment and joined Grease inside. Smells of raw sewage and food waste made my eyes tear. Grease drained the pipes and twenty minutes later announced, “I fix it.”

  He ordered a plate of chicken dumplings and a side of white rice. The owner slapped cash into Grease’s hand and I returned to the van with the router, wading back through the puddles, my socks sucking like sponges inside my boots.

  Grease hobbled into the passenger’s seat, his legs skimming the floor, and I clicked on the engine. “Get my lunch.”

  The owner looked agitated “You no fix.”

  “Grease?”

  He winked at me. “I fix.”

  “I pay you but you no fix.”

  I shut off the engine; Grease struggled out of the van. “Get the router,” he said. “Watch and learn,” and disappeared inside. Again, I waded through mud puddles and retrieved the equipment, then brought it inside and watched as Grease injected special drain-cleaning enzymes into the clogged pipes.

  “Now it’s fixed.” He demanded payment.

  “I already pay you.” The owner shook his head.

  “Take care of this, will you?” Grease grabbed his bag of steamed dumplings and white rice and headed back to the van.

  “That was for the first job.” I figured this was my learning curve.

  The owner opened his mouth to protest, but I shut him up. “Look, if you don’t pay, I’ll beat your fucking brains in and then I’ll just take your money anyway.”

  Chinaman blanched. Suddenly he understood perfect English. He reached into his pocket for another wad of cash. I didn’t need to count the money—every bill weighed a gram.

  Grease popped a dumpling into his mouth, chewed slowly, noted the “slippery texture,” and snatched the cash from my hand. No “Thank you.” No percentage for my help. He ate his dinner in silence, counting the dumplings, alternating them between bites of rice. And when he finished, he carefully folded the empty bag and tucked it into the crack in his seat next to several other folded paper bags.

  “You should come to dinner next week.” He licked his fingers, and I knew that was the closest he would ever come to gratitude.

  * * *

  We met in Chinatown, 6:30 sharp. Serious gangsters dined at the Ling Ling restaurant—Outfit, Outlaws … even, on occasion, cops. We occupied the upstairs. We were an unusually large crowd, ten couples squeezed into a corner room draped with red velvet curtains. As the only non-Outlaw at the table, I felt privileged and honored to be included among Grease’s elite.

  But this wasn’t just “dinner” for me—it was opportunity. I needed to know just how much control over Grease I really had. Phrases from The Godfather rolled like credits in my head, including something about “Control the man at the top and you become the man at the top.” As my first test, I suggested Grease change the channel on the television to the Stanley Cup Finals. Sports provided a natural bridge, a universal code among men, with an immediately applicable vocabulary: “teams,” “rivals,” “rules,” “goals,” “turf,” “weapons.” In ice hockey, as in the Outlaws, as in life, each player had a specific position and job. The job of offense, for instance, was to score goals. The defense was there to protect the goal. I hadn’t yet decided my role.

  Grease snapped his fingers at the waiter, whom he called “Tom” despite his name tag. The same principle applied: “defenseman,” “right wing,” “left wing,” “center”—didn’t matter. It was “Tom’s” job to switch the channel. “Score.”

  The couples ordered a feast: twelve entrees, including crabs, shrimp, and lobster tails dribbled with plum sauce. Tom repeated the orders back, asking at least twice about white rice. He jotted nothing down. His large glasses slipped to the edge of his nose. Grease handed him the menus.

  “Your buddy’s back in town.” Dominic played with his chopsticks. His beard skimmed his plate. A scar on his right cheek puckered like a butthole. He wore a smashed bullet on a chain around his neck.

  Backlash, Grease’s enforcer, studied Dominic as if he were a fly he wanted to pop.

  “I’m just the messenger.” Dominic put up his hands. And I learned quickly that in his world “messenger” meant target practice.

  Backlash zoomed from zero to fifty in seconds. “Want to deliver one from me?”

  Click.

  Fear skittered across Debbie’s face. I felt a little guilty. Chinatown was about making connections, face time over dinner with important Outlaw chapter officers and high-ranking soldiers.

  “You mean the one who looks like a Keebler Elf?” Debbie remarked once about Grease.

  “Yes. That one.”

  Click. Click. Click. A chorus of revolvers resounded underneath the table. Adrenaline shot through me. My first Chi
natown dinner over in seconds, like some weird sequel to Chicago’s “Bloody Valentine Massacre.”

  “Knock it off.” Grease tapped his fork against his porcelain teacup. He seemed strangely unfazed by the violent outburst—odd, considering he was still recovering from bullet wounds.

  Dominic threw down his napkin, stood, his gun cocked in one hand. He tapped his date with the barrel. “Let’s go.”

  Backlash shot to his feet. “We’re leaving too.”

  The last couple scraped back their chairs, folded their napkins, and promptly left. Grease seemed unconcerned by the sudden departures. Debbie squirmed a little, sipped her warm water, and nibbled on the lemon rind. “Tom” filled the awkward silence, balancing several trays of food on his arms and placing the silver-covered dishes on the table. Grease lifted each lid, billowy steam enveloping him as he sampled them, seemingly oblivious that Debbie and I remained.

  “There’s too much food.” Grease ordered “Tom” to pack up the leftovers in “takey homey” boxes.

  “I insist you have some.” He handed me several containers.

  * * *

  “Grease never shares,” I confided later to Debbie. “This is huge.” It was a major breakthrough. Grease trusted me, considered me a friend.

  She unpacked the boxes on the counter. “What do you want me to do with these?”

  “Is anything salvageable?”

  She peered inside the cartons, stiffened, and said with her back to me, “We might have a problem.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He gave us ten boxes of white rice.”

  This was bad. This was really bad. My path into the Outlaws hinged on this. If Grease thought for one minute we had taken his rice …

  * * *

  “Don’t say a fucking word,” I cautioned Debbie as we headed to Chinatown the next Friday.

  “You think he’s even going to ask?”

  “He’s going to ask.”

  “Why would he care?”

  “Trust me, he’s going to care.”

  We sat down at 6:30 sharp again. The guests at the table had thinned, mostly Outfit guys with their ol’ ladies. Grease insisted “Tom” switch the channel on the television to the game. He caught the waiter by his elbow and said, “You makey mistakey.”