The flimsy chair shattered against a smaller Mexican man...
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Danny ducked beneath the razor-sharp, stainless steel blade that slashed at him in the dark. An inch closer, and the deadly edge would have altered the pitch of his voice forever.
Grabbing a rickety wooden chair beside a teetering barroom table, Danny swung it in the direction of the oncoming steel. The flimsy chair shattered against a smaller Mexican man. At the same instant, a beer bottle lit fireworks in Danny's skull, and he collapsed into the sawdust and trash covering the well-worn, concrete floor.
Earlier that evening, Danny and his fellow members of the Night Hawks Motorcycle Club rode into a small Hispanic suburb of Los Angeles. Spotting a chopped Harley parked outside the Red Robin Bar, the club's president, Fast Eddie, signaled to the pack of eight riders to pull up and park in front. As the pack pulled up to the curb, the Harleys sounded like a herd of rhinos on reds, popping and snapping like bullwhips, exploding like rounds of gunfire splitting the warm night air. The club members, each adorned in black and fringe, or roughed-out leather, and toting evil-looking knives on their belts, dismounted hollering, shoving, and threatening to kick the ass of any citizen foolish enough to venture into their path.
The time was shortly after 11:00 p.m. on a Saturday night in May, 1970. Every member was high on his drug of choice. Some were primed with crank, others with pot, still others with beer and whiskey. Although no one knew it at the time, it was the beginning of a very long night.
As the riders entered the bar, a short member of a Mexican motorcycle club, the Dagos, slipped to the narrow hall in the back of the dilapidated saloon. As he lifted the receiver on the marred pay phone, a single red light shone above his head while he dialed the number, then whispered into the cracked mouthpiece. A husky voice at the other end of the line responded abruptly. The biker hung up quietly, as Bo Diddley responded to the quarter shoved harshly into the jukebox. In the few minutes since their arrival, the Night Hawks had taken over the sloppy saloon and were ordering, hollering, and hassling the joint's only waitress. Meanwhile, the small dark man slipped out the back door, and disappeared down the alley.
Within minutes, more motorcycles arrived. Tough-looking Mexican men dismounted their chopped Harleys in groups of two and three. Their rides glistened with excessive chrome and vivid, multi-colored, metalflake paint jobs. The scooters were flashy, but the riders were dead serious. They moved quietly into the bar from both the front and back doors, sliding up against the walls and into the corners. They spoke to no one.
Fast Eddie instantly recognized the infiltration of the other gang. It was one of his responsibilities as the president to stay cool, alert, and on guard.
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The Dagos were new to the urban streets of Los Angeles. The chapter was founded by a group of the original Dagos from the central valley to the north who had moved to Culver City to set up drug operations. They recruited badass local riders or Latinos looking for a group to ride with. The harder, older men taught them the streets, but not the business enterprise they intended to operate on their newly-acquired turf. These newcomers knew that they were on Night Hawks turf, but the older members from 150 miles to the north were playing hardball. Both groups were stoned, and itching for a fight.
Neon hung from the bar's windows, brandishing brands of beer. Cheap paneling lined the dim room. Sawdust and peanut shells covered the unforgiving concrete floor, and battered Formica tables with brightly upholstered chairs were scattered around the pool table. The room smelled of piss and stale beer...and of the fear and hatred hanging in the dank air.
Fast Eddie instantly recognized the infiltration of the other gang. It was one of his responsibilities as the president to stay cool, alert, and on guard. Fast Eddie wasn't big, but he was tough and, at age 33, older and craftier than most members. Eddie projected a certain slickness, wearing leather pants, a black western shirt, and a black contoured vest. He was no more than 5 ft., 10 in., but he was 185 lb. of speed and quickness. And he knew the Buck knife in the black engraved sheath on his hip better than most people know their key rings. His slick, black hair was long, and pulled into a ponytail that accentuated his bony features, the narrow slits of his eyes, and his carefully trimmed goatee.
Unobtrusively, Eddie nudged a couple of the club members sitting near him. They took notice and passed the word. Bent over a pool table, Danny listened intently as one of his brothers whispered in his ear, "Watch the fuckin' Mexicans, man." At an even 6 ft. and 200 lb., Danny was muscular, tanned, and blond. But he was also young, foolhardy, and a born romantic. Thick wavy hair fell over his shoulders and around his eyes, to connect with his bushy mustache and a week's growth of stubble.
Gradually, the bar grew quiet. Then two more bikes roared up to the curb outside, and soon two more armed outlaws swaggered into the bar.
Eddie inhaled the stench of stale suds and old sweat, fully aware of the growing hostility and the diminishing odds inside the little beer joint. Instinctively deciding that offense was better than defense, Eddie deliberately picked out the biggest Mexican, and walked straight toward him. But before he reached the man, the small member of the Dagos who had made the call earlier entered from the back of the bar. Puzzlingly, he strolled directly up to Eddie as if he knew him.
"You people got to leave," the small man said in a surly tone. "I got business to take care of here." The man's narrow eyes glinted in the murky room. Although shorter than Danny, he showed neither fear nor concern as he stared eyeball-to-eyeball with slick Eddie.
"We're not going anywhere, asshole," Eddie fired back, jabbing his index finger into the little man's chest. But the dark-eyed stranger didn't budge, and suddenly Danny saw something leave the man's waistband, glinting momentarily in the night. Grabbing the nearest beer bottle, Danny launched it at the diminutive Mexican. The longneck shattered against the bar, its explosive crash a signal for the brawl to begin.
Eddie reached for his knife sheath with his right hand and blocked with his left. Danny, confident of Eddie's ability to hold his own in any altercation, smiled to himself as he ducked the first chair flying his way. The air in the beer coffin, which had reeked with the smell of puked-up beer, abruptly seemed choked with the eye-watering sting of smoke after a grenade explodes in a foxhole. In the chaotic confusion all around Danny, everyone seemed to be swinging something at somebody.
Near the front door, another Dago trio swarmed all over Jesse, a Night Hawk with the build of a small fire plug.
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Spinning with his cue in both hands, Danny fended off a scarred wooden chair aimed at his head, snapping two of the legs and cracking the cue. He dropped the broken stick, then drove a hard right fist into his opponent's nose, demolishing it in an eruption of blood. A beer bottle spun past like a kicked football, missing his head by a fraction of an inch. Across the room, by the jukebox, two Dagos were pounding on John, Danny's club brother, a muscular former bouncer with massive arms and the club's name tattooed up each triceps.
Fighting well, Danny dodged a trio of attackers, feinting and eluding his adversaries while planting a road-worn engineer boot to the side of a slim Dago's knee. The biker's twig-like kneecap snapped. A thin man with a Fu Manchu mustache and shoulder length, wavy hair, the injured biker screamed, grabbing his destroyed knee and caving to the deck. His partner, considerably heavier and wearing a large, striped T-shirt and a denim cut-off that smelled as bad as it looked, was surprised and infuriated to see his brother go down.
No color remained in the oil-soaked vest worn by the overweight Mexican. The garment was a maze of tattered and faded club patches that stamped him clearly as an outlaw biker, a devotee of drugs, and a veteran of numerous bizarre sexual exploits. Enraged, the Mexican turned in Danny's direction and pulled out a knife. The weapon's rusty blade flickered briefly in the gloom, reflecting the neon and the swinging light fixture above the pool table. But before the Dago could react, a single punch from John's anvil-sized fist drove the man to the sawdust-covered cement floor.
Near the front door, another Dago trio swarmed all over Jesse, a Night Hawk with the build of a small fire plug. Jesse reached inside his cutoff and jerked a countershaft sprocket from a concealed leather pocket and slashed the face of the young Hispanic foe nearest to him. Immediately, blood sprayed his companions, causing them to flinch for an instant. Their hesitation allowed Jesse, aka "The Fireplug," to move within striking distance of another Dago.
Jesse, 5 ft., 7 in. of stout primal strength, had saved a brother's life at a swap meet when a gang of fifteen attacked them. When Jesse was knocked to the ground during the brawl, he reached for something in the nearby piles of motorcycle parts, coming up with the tranny sprocket. After the fight, he had the part chromed and engraved with the words, "Fire Plug Tool." Jesse had a leather pocket sewn inside his vest, where he always carried the odd weapon.
Danny jumped suddenly, barely avoiding the thrust of a switchblade. After his enemy's flailing arm passed, Danny grabbed the knife-wielder's , wrist, encircling it with the strong fingers of his own right hand, and yanked the arm straight. Danny then drove his left fist, the fingers adorned with six jagged rings, into the locked elbow. With an audible crack, the bone broke, and the arm went limp as its obese owner pissed himself and passed out, hitting the floor with an arm suddenly - and permanently - double-jointed...
Jesse's chromed sprocket slashed into the denim-covered crotch of the remaining attacker. Blinding pain hit the terrified Mexican like a lightning bolt to the shorts, causing him to grab his balls and scream hoarsely. Jesse raked the gasping Mexican across the face with the chromed sprocket just as a hissing pool cue slammed him squarely in his bulldog neck. The Night Hawk staggered backward, dropping the bloody gear to the floor. A sneering member of the Dagos seized the moment, stepping forward to drive his right fist into Jesse's jaw. The veteran biker stumbled, but his deep-set blue eyes remained sharp and focused.
Gagging and gasping loudly, the once-cocky Hispanic clawed at the unyielding wood.
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The Night Hawks were up against four-to-one odds, but they considered themselves true one percenters, and they lived up to that reputation whenever challenged. Sometimes they fought for fun, and sometimes for survival, but they were always ready to take on anyone, at any time. The Hawks fought cops, straights, bikers, cowboys, jocks, oil workers-you name it. Their vocation and their life consisted of the club, their club brothers, and their bikes-nothing else. Few worked; few knew how. Most had girls who supported them, or else they cut deals as needed, or collected bad debts for loan sharks. They were just as tough first thing in the morning as they were late at night, fighting whenever they felt like it. And when they were high, they always felt like it-and they always won.
From the corner of his eye, Danny glimpsed the assault on Jesse. Instantly, he dropped the broken arm and lunged at the man preparing to swing the cue stick again. From behind, Danny yanked the stick free from the gloating Mexican's hand and, remembering his Shore Patrol training, gripped the laminated wood in both hands. The surprised biker, his club insignia toward Danny, attempted to turn to face the Night Hawk, but he was too late. Danny wrapped the hardwood cue around the man's neck, seizing him in a powerful chokehold.
Gagging and gasping loudly, the once-cocky Hispanic clawed at the unyielding wood. Danny leaned the man back against his out-thrust hip, pulling the young Dago off his feet. Nearly unconscious, the helpless biker stopped struggling, allowing Danny to thrust the limp body at a charging Mexican brandishing a knife. Danny dodged the blade, grabbed a chair, and crushed the man to the floor.
With invisible suddenness and brutal force, a Budwieser bottle cracked against Danny's skull. Unceremoniously plunged into the enfolding shadows of tunnel vision, Danny stumbled backwards, away from the unconscious Dago at his feet. Faintly, as if from far away, he thought he heard someone scream. The fury of the barfight seemed to be slowing and, as he crumpled to his knees, Danny was vaguely aware of people running out the front door. He felt the sawdust floor against his cheek an instant before everything was swallowed by blackness.
End of Chapter One
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