Soon after my father left our house I was kicked out of Heights Lutheran. I really didn’t care. I was sixteen and alone with nothing but resentment over my childhood beatings, abuse, bullies, and betrayals. Of course, I continued taking steroids and that only made things worse.
More and more often I was disqualified from fighting competitions for being too aggressive, and, although it frustrated me, I still received praise for my skill as a fighter. That year I won the Hapkido Middleweight Championship, and I was regularly invited to attend Black Belt seminars where techniques and the evolution of the art were discussed. I often demonstrated my technique and its effectiveness against traditional Hapkido styles at those events, but I never revealed that everything I did was fueled by anabolic steroids.
After being kicked out of Heights Lutheran, my mother went on and on about how it would look, and how she worked so hard to give me the type of home and opportunities most people only dreamed of. It was only school, and I didn’t like being there anyway. Most days, I’d check in at school and then leave or go surfing early in the morning and not bother to go back. It all seemed like a waste of time to me. I couldn’t sit still in class and nothing interested me. The final straw had been when a guy named Stuart told the principal I took a small stereo—which I hadn’t. I punched him in the face and that earned me a ticket out of Heights Lutheran forever.
The following week my mother enrolled me in La Puente High School, and that marked the beginning of my criminal career. La Puente High was full of gang members, and I knew a lot of them from the neighborhood as well as from my days at Sparks Elementary. The only difference was I wasn’t a scared little boy anymore. Instead, if anyone attempted to pick on me or beat me up, I’d make them sorry the thought ever crossed their minds.
Of course, the reputation I’d so carefully groomed at Heights Lutheran hadn’t reached La Puente, but it didn’t take long.
For the most part I stayed to myself, but others usually were drawn to me because of my looks. As much as I tried to avoid people, nothing worked short of pushing someone away physically. I settled into school and, although I didn’t particularly like being there, I went to class and tried to remain invisible.
During my third week at La Puente High I saw the basketball coach posting try-out posters, and as I read it he asked if I’d be going out for the team. I said I was seriously considering it.
“Good. I’m Coach Pilcher, the varsity team coach. You play?”
“I played shooting guard for Heights Lutheran’s varsity team.”
“Did you log time?”
“I was their starting guard.”
“Well then, I’ll see you at practice Monday. It’s good meeting you.”
“Same here, coach. I’m Bill.”
He shook my hand and I walked away feeling better about the school, and I thought maybe I could make it work.
The following Monday I was in the gym before practice because I didn’t have a class. I was shooting around when other members of the varsity team arrived, and soon a half-court three-on-three pickup game started. We played to thirty-six and during the game I noticed the coach watching. As soon as most of the guys who were trying out were there, Coach Pilcher put us through a series of ball-skill sequences, including dribbling, passing, and shooting. He then separated us by position and had us play each other one-on-one. I did well, but not great. I won four of five games, even though I hadn’t practiced in a few months.
After a few practices, the coach cut a number of people who would not make the team. He sent others to the junior varsity team.
To that point, I had done well and logged time with the team. The previous year’s starting guard had graduated and the position needed to be filled. I seemed to have the job locked in.
Another week passed and Coach Pilcher set his rotation for games.
I was the starting guard along with a fast point guard named Kenny. At the end of the week I came to practice with the rest of the team and was warming up when the coach called me into his office. I quickly ran to his office expecting to talk about game situations, but as soon as I walked into his office and looked at his face, I knew something was wrong.
“What’s up, coach?”
“Sit down, Bill.”
I sat, but I knew it wouldn’t be good.
“Your counselor came to see me this morning. She pointed out that because you attended another high school and played ball for them, you’re not eligible to play here until next season.”
“Coach, that was a private school. It doesn’t count. This is a public school.”
“I’m sorry, son. I’ve argued with her, but there’s nothing I or anyone can do.”
I couldn’t believe it.
“This is bullshit. There has to be a way around it. Just tell me. I’ll do it.”
“Believe me, I’ve tried. I’ve called the district offices and it’s in black and white. You can’t play.”
A hole formed in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want anyone to see how it affected me, so I left and went to my counselor’s office hoping something could be done to fix it. There had to be a way, but her answer was the same as the coach. I couldn’t play.
I didn’t go back to school that day. Instead I went to the beach and walked along the shore, not really doing anything except allowing my mind to wander. I didn’t want to admit it, but I really wanted to be on the team. It would have given me a sense of belonging and a reason to make school a part of my life.
I blamed everything on my parents, specifically my mother. If it weren’t for her self-serving reasons for making me attend a private school, I would have attended La Puente or Los Altos High and I would be able to play.
The thoughts fueled my anger as I drove to Go-Go’s house, where we smoked pot and hung out the rest of the night.
I thought the anger would go away, but it didn’t. On Monday when I entered the school parking lot, Kenny and another basketball player named Terry walked up as I parked my car. I realized how badly I wanted to be on the team. I was good enough, but because of some stupid red tape I wasn’t allowed to play.
“Hey man, we heard what happened. Fuck, we needed you. Without you we’re not going anywhere,” said Kenny.
“You guys will do great. I don’t even know what to say. I’m so pissed I could scream.”
“Hey, why don’t you practice with us before and after team practice so you’re ready to go if things change, or next season,” said Terry.
“Nah, that would only piss me off more and nothing’s going to change. I’m fucked for the season.”
We shook hands and I walked off. If I hadn’t allowed my anger to rule my actions and thoughts, I would have taken up Terry and Kenny’s offer, but I didn’t. Instead, I never played again and my resentment grew.
I attended the rest of my classes that day, then went to the weight room to lift some weights and cool off. After lifting for a few minutes, I stopped. I couldn’t focus. All I could think of was the team and how much I wanted to play, and it made me want to punch a wall. I showered and went to the parking lot to put my things in my car and go home when I noticed a beautiful black ’56 oval window ragtop Volkswagen pulling into the parking lot a few spaces down from me. It was lowered to the ground with Porsche alloys and a high-performance engine.
The guy driving was Hispanic, tall, hair cut short and styled, and he was dressed to the nines. I had seen him and some of his friends around school but never really paid much attention to them. His car had my attention, but he somehow just fit in it and looked the part. He got out and stood next to the car, with the stereo playing a type of Euro-disco. I continued to admire the car and took note of how much it looked like a show car. Everything was perfect. The paint, chrome, and wheels alone must have cost a fortune. It was a clean-ass California Volkswagen.
As he stood there, two Mexican gang members approached. They were Cholos, members of a street gang and the type of idiots I dealt with on a daily basis when I had attended Sparks Elementary. It was guys like that who always picked on me and bullied me when I was younger.
They heard the music the guy was playing and went to investigate. Seeing the car, and the guy who stood next to it, they saw an opportunity to mess with someone who looked like he wouldn’t fight back. I sat in my car and watched. The two guys came up to the car and remarked about the stereo and how clean the ride was. Then one of the guys stuck his head in the car and turned up the stereo. Instead of the music becoming distorted, its rich bass pumped up to a heartthumping sound, which meant his system was probably worth more than my entire car.
As soon as the stereo was turned up, the car’s owner opened the driver’s side door and turned it off, then put his keys in his pocket.
“Hey ese, turn it back on. What the fuck?” one of the Cholos yelled.
It was then I noticed who had yelled and why he seemed familiar. He took off his shades to approach the car’s owner, and that’s when I recognized him and his brother. It had been years since I’d seen Robert and Ernie Hernandez. The last time was the day they’d hit me in the head with a rock, taken my money, chain, and cross, and left me on the street bloodied and hurt.
My father fought their father that day, and I got my chain and cross back, but as I looked at them and remembered what they had done to me, my hand went to the same chain and cross I still wore. The hurt of that day came rushing back and a storm of rage overwhelmed me. I got out of my car and Ernie turned to me. He didn’t recognize me. How could he? I looked nothing like the kid he and his brother had constantly bullied. He turned his attention back to what his brother was doing and forgot me. By then his brother had changed from just being curious about the car to being a thug. He pushed the driver up against his car and demanded the keys.
The guy was scared and Robert saw it, so he pressed him. He knew he’d get his way.
I went and stood next to Ernie. He seemed startled I’d appeared next to him, but he covered it well.
“What the fuck you looking at, ese?” he said.
“You and your punk brother still playing tough guys, huh?”
I was a good six or seven inches taller than him, and when it was obvious I was there as a threat he got pushy.
“Hey, fuck you, puto. Aquí para Puente.”
“Man, you’re still a bitch.” I shoved him back. I had to admit, he didn’t hesitate, and he knew what he was doing. His hands flashed and he punched at me in crisp combinations, which I sidestepped. I could tell he was a trained boxer who was used to taking people down quickly. He pressed me hard with more punches, but none connected. I easily blocked and avoided his hands, which were fast, but like most boxers, he used rehearsed combinations that he threw in any given situation. He knew what to do because he’d practiced the same punches over and over again—not because he knew how to apply it to a real fight with a real fighter. As soon as he dipped his right shoulder to throw a right hook, I struck fast with my right fist, beating him to the spot and connecting with his eye socket, stopping him in his tracks. I needed to end the fight fast and not get blindsided by his brother again. I picked Ernie up around the waist and body-slammed him into the concrete, knocking him out cold.
Robert watched what I’d done to his brother and came to help. I was no longer thinking. My vision had clouded red and the rage and pain those two had caused me as a child surfaced as if it had happened yesterday.
Robert never had a chance. I hit him as he opened his mouth to say something, and drove him to his knees with vicious punches to the face and elbows to the head.
The next thing I remember is waking up in bed at 2:13 a.m. I had lost more than twelve hours. A dangerous pattern had developed. Triggered by emotions like fear, hate, or pain, I’d lose control and black out. Of course, I continued to function, but I’d have no memory of what I’d done.
It never happened when I fought in competition because that was only business, but when emotions were involved, when the situation opened up emotional wounds that hurt me or brought back memories of when I was a victim, that old rage returned.
The following day I went to school, but I didn’t want to see any of the guys on the team. I parked my car on the other side of the school next to the park. I just wanted to forget it and move on. I knew I’d see them eventually, but I hated hearing people tell me how sorry they were or how there was always next season.
By lunchtime I had reconciled myself to not being on the team by convincing myself I was already so busy that team practices and games would make my schedule impossible. A part of me knew I could have managed it, but allowing myself to believe, or at least pretend that the team would have been more trouble than it was worth, also helped me manage how upset I felt about it.
I sat next to my car listening to music and talking to a guy I’d met a few weeks previously, named Corban, when the guy who owned that ’56 oval window ragtop came up. Again, I noticed how he was dressed.
“Hey, what’s up, Bill? You got a moment?”
“Yeah, what’s up? How do you know my name?”
“I asked around because I wanted to talk to you and say thanks for yesterday.”
“Hey, don’t sweat it. Those two idiots had it coming.”
“Yeah, but what you did saved me from a major problem. He wanted my keys and who knows what would have happened then.”
“It’s cool man. Really.”
He shook my hand. “My name’s Adrian. Thanks for helping me out.”
I watched him walk away.
“Who’s that cat?” Corban asked.
“I don’t really know, I just met him. But yesterday he had problems with a couple of them Mexican clowns who hang out by the handball courts. Anyway, I fucked their asses up. They weren’t shit and had it coming.”
“No doubt. Why’d you help him out?”
“Don’t know. They just pissed me off.”
Corban was cool, and we got along, but I didn’t tell him the truth because that would be letting him get too close, and I didn’t let anyone see behind the mask.
Like me, Corban got kicked out of his former school. He’d been caught smoking weed on the school campus, and since his mother couldn’t deal with it he’d been sent to live with his father.
“Hey, I gotta get to class. I’ll see you later. Take it easy,” Corban said.
I sat there for a few minutes before I also went to class, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Adrian’s car.
About a week later, I walked home from school because my car had broken down. Although I put just about every dime I earned from working at the skating rink into the car, it was never enough and always needed repair. It would take at least a few weeks of saving to pay for the new fuel pump my car needed to get back on the road. Until then, I had no choice but to walk.
As I walked, I was wondering how much overtime I’d have to log before I could get the fuel pump, when I heard music. It was the same music Adrian played the day I fought Robert and Ernie. When I turned to look for his car, the black ’56 pulled up next to me. Adrian turned down his stereo.
“Where you headed?”
“Home.”
“Get in. I’ll take you. We’ll just stop at my pad real quick.”
“Sounds good.”
I got in his car and it was as if I’d stepped into another world—one I wanted to be a part of. He turned his stereo up and pulled away. I looked at the interior and it, too, was show condition. The entire car was a marvel. The thump of the stereo in my chest along with the roar of the engine sent my senses into overdrive. He knew what the experience would do to me. He knew I’d never be satisfied with anything less.
He turned toward the high school, and as we neared campus he opened the ragtop and hit his amps. His stereo jumped to another level and everyone within two hundred yards turned to look at us. I never felt anything like it, and Adrian smiled at me. It was his world, and as he drove slowly, allowing everyone to see, hear, and envy him, he kept his face straight as if nothing was out of the ordinary. He didn’t stop or talk to anyone. It was as if he was telling everyone, look but don’t touch.
I said nothing. I was too busy taking it all in, and I decided I wanted it. I didn’t know it then, but Adrian made up his mind to give me exactly that.
When we arrived at his house I expected to find myself at the gates of a mansion. How else could he afford that kind of car? Instead, we arrived at a small home that was well taken care of, but there was nothing special about it except there were four other show-condition Volkswagens parked in the driveway and on the street just in front of his house.
All the cars had their original chrome, and nothing was cut, shaved, or altered. They were all 1965 and older convertibles or ragtops, lowered to the ground with Porsche alloy wheels and built chrome engines. Each one had a perfect paint job and was waxed and buffed to a shine.
Adrian saw how impressed I was.
“These are a few of our cars. The red convertible ’62 Karmann Ghia is my brother, Julian’s. He’s our president. The blue-gray ’57 oval ragtop is Luis’s, our vice president. The black ’59 ragtop is Francis’s, and the red ’65 convertible is Ruben’s.”
“Damn. These rides are clean. Where do you work? It must cost a fortune to afford and keep up these rides.”
“I do a little here and a little there.”
“Shit, got any openings? I work my ass off and I can’t even afford a fuckin’ fuel pump.”
“Maybe, you never know.”
He had me. I wanted to know more, but just then four guys came out of the garage behind the house. I noticed another car in the garage, but the door closed and it was blocked from my view. I didn’t know any of the guys except one. Francis was in one of my classes at La Puente High, and he and Adrian were usually together.
“That’s my brother, Julian.”
“Who’s this, Adrian?” asked Julian.
“This is Bill, the guy I told you about who beat down those two guys who were fucking with me.”
Julian shook my hand. “Hey, thanks for looking out for my little brother.”
I nodded. “They had it coming.”
Francis smiled at me. “What’s up, Bill? We have a couple classes together.”
We shook hands and the other guys were introduced to me. Julian, Luis, and Ruben were all over twenty years old and said they had somewhere to be and left, followed by Francis.
“I gotta help them out. We’re working on that grey vert.” Adrian and I spent the next few hours together until I had to get to the studio to work out. He drove me home.
“How are you getting to school tomorrow?”
“Probably walking. My car’s not running.”
“I’ll pick you up at around seven forty-five.”
“Cool, thanks. See you tomorrow.”
For the next two weeks Adrian picked me up for school and, after hanging out for a while after school, dropped me off.
When I saved enough to buy my fuel pump I put it in, but I didn’t want to drive my car. I told Adrian I needed a new job so I could afford a car like his. I also asked him again what he did and if maybe there was a job opening where he worked. He smiled again and said, “Maybe. We’ll check it out.”
Another month of the same routine passed before Adrian showed up at my house driving his sister’s BMW 320i and asked, “You want to work with me?”
“Of course,” I said. “Yes.”
“Get in. We need to talk.”
I got in and we drove to a warehouse in Montebello. As soon as the car stopped I opened the door to get out, but he stopped me.
“Wait up. I need to talk to you. This isn’t a regular job and I need to know you can keep your mouth shut. This isn’t a game and the guys inside are serious as a heart attack.”
He looked straight at me and I could tell he wasn’t sure if this was a good idea.
“Listen, we’ve been hanging around with each other for a couple of months, and at first I thought you had some killer job that paid well, but since you never went to work I figured you probably were doing something like selling drugs. And since you always have good weed, it fit. Whatever you’re doing is safe with me. You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Right on, but just so you know. I’m not a drug dealer. I do changeovers on cars.”
“You do what?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go.”
We went to the front of the warehouse and he knocked on the small door. A few seconds later Francis opened it and seemed surprised to see me, but then smiled and let us in. Working on a car inside were three guys I’d seen at Adrian’s house, plus one more I’d never seen.
“Francis, Adrian, we need help lifting the shell. The new pan is ready,” Julian said.
Everyone there grabbed a corner of the car by the bumpers. Francis got inside the car with a box cutter and Adrian walked over and stood next to what I assumed was the new pan, which was the underbelly of the car. Except it already had the front end, transmission, and Porsche alloy wheels. All at once, they lifted the body/shell off its original pan. As soon as they did, Francis cut the carpet, which was still attached and wouldn’t allow the body to be lifted off its pan. Once that was done, they carried the body over and set it down on the new pan. Adrian lined it up as it was put in place and they started bolting it down. Adrian and Julian went off by the door to talk. I knew it was probably about me, so I waited.
“Hey Bill, grab me that torque wrench sitting next to my tool box,” said Francis. “This baby doll is clean, huh?”
“Yeah, what is it, a ’60?”
“’58 European convertible. It’s Marco’s, and when he pops out with it, everybody’s going to eat cheese,” he laughed. “Hey Marco, this is Bill. He’s the one we were telling you about.”
“What’s the word, Bill? How do you like my new ride?”
“She’s clean. What size motor are you going to run in it?”
He smiled at me. “It’s a secret, but it’s big and will blow the doors off anything around.”
I imagined how the car would look when it was completely done, and I envied Marco. I wanted to be a part of that and have a car like his. I was still unsure exactly what was going on, but I wanted in.
Francis jumped into the ’58 and sat on the floor where the driver’s seat should be, his hands on the steering wheel and his head barely visible.
“Hey Marco, Darque Knights down. Everybody eats cheese,” Francis yelled as he laughed.
Francis was always laughing or playing around, even in class. If I’d look at him, he’d smile so everyone knew he was up to something.
I watched Marco and Francis work until Adrian and Julian came back from their talk.
“Hey Bill, check it out. Adrian tells me you’re cool and can keep your mouth shut. This is a serious deal and none of us want to get busted. If you want to back out, tell me now and there’s no hard feelings. But if you decide to stay and we let you know what’s up, we expect your loyalty and help,” Julian said.
“I understand. I may not know exactly what’s going on, but I have a good idea. Seriously, I thought you guys were dealing drugs and that’s how you could afford your rides. Either way, I’m not going to say shit. I want in.”
“Here’s the deal. This ’58 is stolen. We took it last night from San Diego and drove it back. Now it’s Marco’s because he bought a wrecked ’58 for one hundred fifty dollars. We unbolted the wrecked body and prepared the pan for the ’58 we stole. Once we got it, we unbolted it from its original pan where the serial numbers are and placed it on this one, which Marco owns and will register. The only other numbers on the body are in the form of a small plate under the front hood behind where the spare tire goes. Here, I’ll show you.”
We walked over and he lifted the hood.
“See that plate? Watch.”
He got a screwdriver and broke the rivets holding it in place, then pulled another plate from his shirt pocket and Adrian handed him a rivet gun, which he used to rivet the new plate where the old one had been.
“Mission accomplished. This is now Marco’s new ride. All we have to do now is finish bolting it down, connect all the wiring, put in the motor, and he’ll pop out tomorrow night. We’re all going to the boulevard.”
“Let me get this straight. This bad-ass ride cost Marco a hundred fifty bucks? No shit.”
Luis and Ruben came over to where we stood.
“Órale, Bill, it’s all about the Darque Knights. We’re now ten strong, and if you put one together, we’ll be eleven,” said Ruben.
We all shook hands. “Yeah, I’m in.”
My thoughts were going a hundred miles an hour and I was smiling ear to ear. For the rest of the day, I helped them put the ’58 together. By four that afternoon it was done, and I told Adrian I had to get to the studio to train and he drove me home.
The next morning after my run, Adrian picked me up and we went back to help put in the motor and get it ready for the boulevard that night. I barely slept, I was so excited. I kept thinking of the car I wanted for myself and how I could get the money I needed. The first thing I’d do was sell my car. I knew a guy who wanted to buy it but didn’t have a lot of money. I would take what he had. The important thing would be to get started, and to do that I needed cash.
As we put the motor in and got everything put together, I realized that, although all of them knew a lot about Volkswagens, they didn’t know much of anything about the motors and transmissions. They referred to a built motor as “big,” but they didn’t know the size of the crank, pistons, or cam it had. They could take a motor out and put it in with their eyes closed, but the inner workings of the engine and transmission were foreign to them.
By 11:30 a.m. it was done and Marco got inside and turned the key and the motor came to life with a roar. He was right. The motor was big. It had dual Weber 48 IDA carburetors and its response to the accelerator was immediate.
“Get in, Bill. Let’s take a spin.”
As soon as we hit the street, he opened it up and I could tell the work done to the engine was extreme and done right. I couldn’t believe the car cost him under $200.
We drove around the block a couple of times and then came back to the warehouse, where we sat around drinking beer, smoking weed, and talking about stealing cars and how it was done the fastest. I learned the easiest way to get in was by popping out the back quarter window on the driver’s side and then reaching in and opening the door by hand. One way to start it was to connect a wire with two roach clips on each end to the first and last fuse in the fuse box right under the dashboard on the driver’s side. Luis pulled a pair from his pocket and handed them to me. We went to his car and he showed me how to do it. As soon as I placed the roach clips on the fuses, the lights on the dashboard came on.
“See those lights? All you have to do is push the car while it’s in neutral, jump in, put it in second and pop the clutch, and it’ll start. That’s one way. Another is to open the front trunk. Here, I’ll show you.”
He opened the front trunk of his car and showed me the back of the ignition. There were three wires attached to it.
“Pull the wires out and touch them together and the car will start. Then let go of the bottom wire and roach-clip the remaining two together and the car will stay on. I can break into any car in less than fifteen seconds and start it in even less than that.”
I listened to everything he said and drank it in. I wanted to know everything he knew and I was dying to try it all out.
That night, before we went to the boulevard, I called the guy I knew was interested in my car and made a deal to sell it to him. I needed quick cash, so I sold it for $1,000. The guy could hardly believe it and became suspicious something was wrong with it. But after driving and testing it out, the deal was made.
When the guys arrived at my house, they made a grand entrance. All ten of the club’s members showed up and lined my street with their cars. You could hear them coming because their stereo systems were all playing the same song, and I swear I felt like royalty. I got in Adrian’s car and we took off with Julian in the lead. It was a caravan of the baddest cars I had ever seen, and I was with them. I was a member of the Darque Knights.
From the start, I saw the type of reception we got from everyone at the boulevard where we cruised as well as in the parking lot where we stopped and many other car clubs were parked. Later, when we went to a dance club, the reception was the same. Everyone wanted to be around us. Guys wanted to be seen with us, and girls wanted to be with us. It was like we were some kind of celebrities. I watched it all with morbid fascination, and it was with this insight that I saw it. Most of the guys who seemed to be friendly at first glance, when observed closely, were actually envious and hated every one of us.
It wasn’t just because of the cars, either. It was everything. From walking into the club without paying or waiting in line, to the way women responded to us. I say us because I had become one of them, but I could tell it was something that had been going on for a long time. The Darque Knights were all pretty boys. At least that’s how I heard someone refer to us. We’d all been hand-picked, as Adrian later explained, to represent a certain idea, look, and concept.
Who were the Darque Knights? You had to be Hispanic, from the La Puente area, have a certain look, your car had to be a 1967 or older and stolen (change-over). Your car and you had to represent the club at all times, and above all else our business was ours and we stuck together. At least that’s what the rules were. Later, I learned the rule above all others would be to watch your own back and trust no one.
For the next few days, Adrian and I planned everything about what my car would look like and where to look for it. The plan was to steal an original car, then steal a fixed up California-style one with the rims, engine, stereo, and everything I wanted, and then put those parts on my original car. If you planned it carefully, it would only take two cars.
I had found a wrecked ’63 Volkswagen on a lot in Covina and bought it for $130. I had put it in a small warehouse in La Puente, about a mile from my house, that I’d rented for three days. That day, I unbolted the wrecked body and cleaned and prepared the pan for its new body. Once that was done, Adrian and I took his sister’s car and went out looking for a clean ’63, and another car that had all the parts I wanted. I was nervous. Not about stealing a car, but about making the deadline of three days to find the cars and put mine together. We drove to Pasadena because Adrian said he heard of a clean ’63 sedan in an apartment complex, but assured me we’d find our mark even if the first one wasn’t there. It was 9:45 p.m. when we got off the 210 Freeway in Pasadena.
“Let’s stop at In-N-Out Burger and get something to eat. It’s early and I’m fuckin’ hungry,” said Adrian.
“Yeah, me too. But I want to see if that ’63 is there first, then go eat and come back and get it. I don’t want to waste time if that ride’s not there. I only have that place for three days and I want to make it count.”
“Let’s go check it out. It’s only a few miles up the road.”
Arriving at the apartment complex, we first checked the street for it in case it was parked outside, then we drove into the underground parking lot.
“Stop. Back up,” I said. He put the car in reverse and eased back until I could see the red VW. We parked and got out, but even before we were fifteen yards away, I knew I wasn’t interested. It was a ’63 sedan. It was clean, but not to the level of perfection the rest of the club’s cars were.
“Let’s split. I don’t want it. We’ll have to keep looking. Know of any other ones?”
“Yeah, but they’re in Orange County. Let’s go eat and I’ll call Francis and see if he’ll give up some of his secrets. He has a list of cars and where they are.”
As I got into the car, the sound of tires got my attention. I could hear the engine and the distinct sound of stock Tweety Bird mufflers of older Volkswagens. I saw the headlights first as it turned the corner of the parking lot and came toward us. It was a ’63 and it was also red. But the difference between it and the one we first saw was obvious even as it drove by and parked a few spaces away.
The ’63 was perfect and fully restored. We waited a few minutes and then went to take a look at it. Even up close, the car looked as if it had just come off the showroom floor in 1963.
“Man, she’s clean as fuck. What do you think?”
I nodded, but could barely hear Adrian. My mind was racing. My heart pounded in my chest and my eyes were locked on the ’63. My focus was absolute. I reached out and touched the door handle and when I pressed it, it clicked open. I didn’t bother to look around. I got in the driver’s seat and pulled my roach clips and wire out and placed them on the first and last fuse. The dash lights came on.
“It’s too early, Bill. We’ll come back later.”
“I got this. Later might be too late. I don’t think it lives here.”
Putting the ’63 in neutral, I backed up. When he saw what I was doing, Adrian helped. As soon as we got it out of the parking space, we pushed it forward and, as it picked up speed, I jumped in, threw it into second, and popped the clutch. It started immediately. I didn’t bother to look back at Adrian. I drove out of the apartment complex and in the direction of the warehouse. My heart pounded in my chest and ears. The adrenaline pumping through my veins was off the charts. To be perfectly candid, I loved it. I grew addicted to it and would later start to seek it out as if it were a drug.
Arriving at the warehouse, I drove it into the space next to the pan I had readied and got out. Even under the lights of the warehouse, it was perfect. Adrian arrived and walked in.
“Damn. You’re crazy as fuck, but this baby doll is clean,” laughed Adrian. “When I saw the dash lights come on and saw you were going to take it, I freaked. I couldn’t believe you had the balls for it.” He shook my hand. “You’re down, ese.”
“Let’s call Francis. I want to know if he knows where any rides are with alloys and a big motor. I want to get it tonight so we can start by tomorrow.”
We closed the warehouse and went to a phone booth and dialed Francis’s number.
“What’s up, Francis? I’m with Bill, we just got his ’63. Yeah, it’s clean. Hey, do you know where any big motors are?”
Adrian turned to me. “He knows where a few are, but wants to come with us.”
“Tell him to get ready. Let’s do this,” I said.
We picked up Francis and he told us of at least four rides in Orange County that he described as “white boy fast with alloys.”
Most of the guys in the club referred to fast rides as white boy fast, because, according to them, white guys always worried about the speed of their cars rather than how they looked. Therefore, their engines and transmissions were almost always built right and were fast.
We drove to Newport Beach and, just as Francis said, we found four rides within a mile of each other. We took a close look at all of them and all four of them had duel carbs and alloy wheels, but just one of them was complete. It had everything I wanted. It was a white ’67 sun roof sedan with fully polished Porsche alloy wheels and Ricardo seats. It was close to show condition.
I decided I’d take it, but because Francis found it, a fee or tribute would have to be made to him. At first I thought he was joking, but Adrian explained it was always like that with us, and Francis usually went out twice a week just to scope for rides so he’d know where they were and get a finder’s fee.
“What do you want?” I said.
“Not much.” And in his best Godfather voice said, “I just want to wet my beak, that’s all,” then laughed. “Listen, Bill, I know you need the motor, trans, wheels, and stereo, so how about you give me them two Ricardo seats and we’ll be even. Deal?”
“Let’s do this.”
It was close to midnight and raining lightly. The car was parked next to an Aston Martin, and I stuck my flat screwdriver under the corner of the back quarter window and popped the entire window out, then reached in and pulled the handle, opening the door. I got in and opened the passenger side door for Francis, putting the car in neutral. I released the emergency brake and backed it out of the driveway, pausing only to look around and listen. I pushed the car forward and down the street. I didn’t want to start it there because the sound of the engine would wake its owner. Halfway down the block I got inside as Francis pushed and placed my clips in the fuse box and popped the clutch. The engine roared to life. Francis jumped in. “Let’s go.”
I put it in first and drove off. From the start I knew it was built right and to the gills. Its transmission had close-ratio gears and the roar of the engine sent chills up my spine. Under the dash was a huge monster tach that indicated the RPMs. Then suddenly, while I drove, the engine started to die. “What’s wrong?”
“Fuck, I don’t know,” I said. I flipped the switches on the polished aluminum dashboard. The first one turned on the lights and the second one was for the inside lights. As panic set in, I flipped the third one and the sound of the electric fuel pump caught my ear as life flowed back into the engine. My panic wasn’t because I thought I’d get caught, but because I thought I might not be able to make it to the warehouse, and I’d lose the ride.
I jumped on the freeway and opened it up. Damn, it was powerful, and Francis said, “This is the baddest motor around.”
I knew he thought he should have kept it for himself, but it was mine now.
We arrived at the warehouse a little after 1:30 a.m., and as soon as I parked I turned on the lights and closed the door. Adrian came in and locked the door behind him. It was then Francis said, “You scored. Look at this motor.” He opened up the deck lid and what I saw made me smile. The entire motor was chromed out with 48 IDA Webers and velocity stacks. It was beautiful, and it was mine.
I went through the entire car and found receipts for the engine and trans, built by Rimco and Small Car Specialties.
The receipts told me the motor was a 2180cc powerhouse that would blow the doors off of anything around. Francis was right. I had scored.
For the next two days and nights, Adrian, Francis and I worked on stripping the ’67 of everything and placing its front end and trans on my new pan. Once that was done, we unbolted the ’63 and called Julian, who brought Ruben and Renee—Francis’s brother and another member of the club—to help us lift the body and place it on the pan.
As soon as they saw what I had, they all approved.
“Bill, this is one badass ’63. When you pop out with it, you’ll be holding down,” Julian said.
“What are you going to do with the ’67?” asked Ruben.
“Probably cut it up. I don’t want it to be found around here because the cops may start looking around,” I said.
“Let me have it. I’ll bring a flatbed this afternoon and it’ll save you the work of cutting it up.” I knew Ruben had a connection with a car stereo place and could get some of the best stereo equipment.
“How about I give you the ’67 and you hook up my stereo with amps and speakers?”
“Deal. I’ll bring it by this afternoon.”
By that afternoon, I finished putting my car together and Ruben took the ’67. Everyone was gone except Adrian and Francis. I was tightening down my carbs while Francis and Adrian finished lowering the front end. The next day I’d change the door locks and take it to a place that specialized in interior and carpeting.
“Start this motherfucker up, ese,” said Adrian.
I got inside and looked at my ride. Everything was perfect. I flipped the hidden switch for my electric fuel pump and turned the key. The engine came to life in its new body with a roar. I backed it out of the warehouse and Adrian and Francis got in. Revving the engine, I pulled onto the street, driving around the block to get a feel for the car. I don’t know if I was happy, but for that day the void inside was satisfied. How could I have known that to stay satisfied I’d have to steal over and over again?