Under and Alone Read Free Page A

downhill from there.
    As Sue rambled on, I glanced over and gave Ciccone a little nod of gratitude for his expert selection. The three of us agreed to split up and meet at a joint called In-N-Out Burger on Foothill Boulevard in Tujunga. Sue would get on my bike, and we would ride over to The Place from there. So that was that. With a loose game plan, we headed out.
    Tujunga is a bedroom community within the boundaries of Los Angeles proper, on the northeasternmost edge of the San Fernando Valley. It borders Glendale and Pasadena, nestled quietly into the surrounding mountain range. The residential terrain runs the gamut from beaten-down shacks to palatial custom-built homes on substantial horse property.
    Tujunga, per capita, has more than its share of white trash and rednecks as well as an ever-present biker element. In police circles, Tujunga is referred to as The Rock, after Alcatraz’s beloved nickname. In my tenure as a criminal investigator, I’d participated in many cases on The Rock, and in this community I began my odyssey.
    I rolled into the parking lot of the In-N-Out Burger followed by Sue and Ciccone. Sue parked her truck and got herself ready while Ciccone waited in his car and I sat on my idling bike. Ciccone and I looked at each other across the parking lot and gave a thumbs-up.
    Sue walked over to my bike and then, like something out of an old western, hopped onto one of the back passenger foot pegs as if it was Trigger’s stirrup. For the uninitiated, any Harley-Davidson could rightfully be called heavy metal, and an FLHTC is heavier still. There was no way I was going to be able to hold up that bike with her big glow-in-the-dark white ass hanging off one side. Though I held on for dear life, down we went with a horrific crash in the parking lot—me, my CI, and Steve Martin’s revered Harley. It was a less than auspicious start.
    From the ground where I lay, I looked up at Ciccone. It’s impossible to describe the look on his face. I think he wanted to laugh, wanted to apologize, and was praying to the ATF gods that this was not a harbinger of things to come. I picked up the bike and my ego and prepared for round two. As if I were talking to a six-year-old, I explained to Sue that there was no way I was going to be able to hold up a thousand pounds of motorcycle and her at the same time. She was going to have to use a different technique to get on the bike. She looked at me with a wounded expression but then took a deep breath and carefully got on.
    With its reputation for casual violence, The Place was the worst of the many biker bars that dot the Tujunga landscape. There had been frequent assaults and mêlées involving a variety of weapons both inside and outside the bar, and there was no way in hell I would have set foot in there under normal circumstances, at least not without a warrant, a gun, and maybe a backup unit. As we approached, I felt something in the pit of my stomach. Something I’d felt before on other undercover assignments. The edge, I guess. Keeping me sharp, appropriately nervous, greasing the skids for bravado to move front and center, if necessary.
    There were six or seven bikes parked at the curb out front. As I got closer I could hear the hard-rock tunes blaring through the front door. A disheveled patron, who had obviously consumed more than his fill of alcohol, stood by a pay phone mounted on the front of the building. I rolled past the bar and turned around in the street to get in a position to park my bike. No one paid us any attention, which was fine by me. Although I carried my gun, I still felt uneasy. I was about to meet some of the infamous Mongols for the first time.
    I stopped the bike just short of the front door so Sue could get off. With the In-N-Out incident fresh in my mind, I held on to the bike for dear life. Dropping it in front of The Place would have made one hell of a first impression. Sue managed to dismount without pulling the bike and me down to the