I don't talk about clubs much. I won't mention names to protect the guilty. This particular story will ring a lot of bells from coast to coast. I was in a club in the mid '70s. Some of us were new members, some were old club guys who had been in one club and transferred to another. As a new member I didn't know shit. As I look back on those times I come to the bitter realization that I should have had a degree in political science to be a member. There was so much to learn, yet the veterans were moving fast and talking little.
This particular night was one of those brutal learning lessons. Lives could have been lost or brothers imprisoned with the slightest wrong move. We were having “Church” or a meeting. No big deal, no different than any other meeting. It was located at the President's pad in North Hollywood on a cul de sac. The stucco boxes had been built in the 60's to fulfill middle class American dream, but even by the mid 70s they had already become lifeless plaster crates overgrown with weeds and faded paint. Our president was a monster of a man and 60 years old. I'm sure he intimidated his neighbors into submission. His ol' lady could have kicked most anyone's ass. The Old Man was a classic. He was a union trucker who fought for the union, he fought for the club, he fought his neighbors and probably fought in a war or two. He was a towering, barrel-chested, full bearded giant who dwarfed any bike and chewed on a cigar constantly. He died not long ago of natural causes.
The meeting was held in his living room. As I mentioned before, there wasn't much going on, the usual meeting stuff about parties and club business. Most of us were packing at the time. We had a couple of prospects outside roaming the streets. In those days everyone was suspicious of everything that moved or talked. About the time the meeting was breaking up the prospects came scrambling inside and told us that there were some guys down the street watching us.
We were in an odd situation. This cul de sac was no more than 50 yards deep and we were at the center of it. There was no way out except right up the street directly at the “T” street intersection. The house was on a slight rise looking down the mouth of the street as if it was a mighty asphalt tongue sticking itself out at us in a taunting fashion.
When the prospects reported in, huffing and puffing about suspicious cars and guys around the corner, we suspected another gang, drew our weapons and headed angrily for the door. That was a half dozen guys charging the only outlet at the front of this joint. A single common front door, 3 feet wide.
We drew our shit and were ready to be gunned down in honor of our patch. No one was going to charge this house without a fight. Most of what I just described was pure young member naiveté. There were a couple of members in the room who had been around the club a couple of decades. They had been in numerous situations that called for cool thinking, not guns blazing. At least not yet.
The first member who opened the door came face to face with a half dozen police cruisers in the form of a police blockade outside. There were any number of uniformed officers and undercover cops with their weapons resting comfortably across the hoods of their black and whites poised and ready to blow us all to hell. Suddenly we slammed the front door and backed into the living room.
I was holding a stainless 4-inch barrel .38 revolver that turned into a hot potato in my hand. I didn't know what the hell to do with it. My prints were all over it. I didn't want to go outside holding a E-ticket for those guys to slice us to ribbons. On the other hand I didn't want to set the weapon down and have a brother take the heat for my gun. We had no choice but to stuff our weapons in the couch. The cops were shouting over bullhorns for us to come out or they were going to launch the house into the Pacific Ocean some 40 miles away. Again, faced with this uncomfortable situation we had several choices: Tell the bastards to fuck off. We weren't doing anything wrong. One the other hand, who knew what some of the brothers were holding. We could have shot it out with the cops and gone down in history as members of a club who stood up for their pad.
None of the brothers had anything to fear, except a house fulla weapons, so we went out to see what the bastards wanted.
The dark house was bathed in blistering lights. We were jumped as soon as we departed the house and instead of being hand cuffed they used long tie-wraps to tie us down and put us on the ground leaning up against the police cars. The cops stormed the house and tore it to shreds. They took every item, picture, patch, flag, whatever and busted up all the furniture, poked holes in the walls, etc. With a trunk load of weapons they hauled us all off to jail.
Here's the ironic part. A couple of older, more experienced members escaped. They just hauled ass out the backdoor over the fence and down the alley. The cops had us covered from the front, but we were unhampered from the rear. We could have all ran out the back door and met at Denny's for a cup of Joe.
The president's house was trashed, and of course we were told that if we bitched they would find some reason to keep several members in jail for life, although we did get our shit back. We spent four or five hours in jail, had our pictures taken and records run. Then they cut us loose. I'm sure club members all over the country have faced similar scenarios many times. Today, with RICO acts, Gang laws and Terrorist acts, it's even tougher to be a club member and left alone to ride free. –Bandit
