Terry the Tramp

THE PERIOD FROM THE MID- TO LATE 1970S was the toughest stretch for motorcycle clubs. Clubs broke out of the traditional mold of fun-loving, crazed chopper riders and transitioned into bands of thugs and gangsters. Machismo was the guiding force as clubs rumbled from being local bullies into wider competition with other clubs, territorial disputes, gangster antics, and tough-guy notions. It’s unfortunate that clubs didn’t invent the World Wrestling Federation (known today as World Wrestling Entertainment) and make their disputes an entertaining sport. It would have been far more financially successful and would have prevented decades of jail time. Club life became a dog-eat-dog street world, fueled by barbiturates, marijuana, alcohol, meth, cocaine, and hallucinogenic drugs.

The blood of hate flowed like rivers through the asphalt and concrete streets. As street warriors searched for combat, weapons became badges of honor; beatings and killings became badges of manhood. Brothers hated the government, the media, and their drunken or abusive parents. The lousy Vietnam War scaled down, while Watergate showcased an unimagined level of rampant government corruption. Bikers ran free until the establishment decided to curb their appetite by enacting helmet laws, highbar laws, and loud-pipe restrictions in an effort to reign in the wild chopper hordes. As the 1970s stormed to a close, every violent gesture peaked like the rush from a mound of cocaine. It was a time of overt violence, like the blade of a knife sharpened constantly until it itched to cut something, anything.

Club life became a dog-eat-dog street world, fueled by barbiturates, marijuana, alcohol, meth, cocaine, and hallucinogenic drugs.

“We lost a whole chapter in Desert Hot Springs,” Terry said. According to Terry, “They started out as a good group of guys.” But something else came into play over a short period of time. Terry made a point to attend charter meetings from time to time and he noticed a change in the charter located in the notorious Coachella Valley, a fast-growing town in the 1970s. The small desert burgh was noted for its natural hot mineral waters and award-winning municipal drinking water, but something other than water was entering the nervous systems of the local Vagos: speed, or crank.

“I noticed a change in the members’ behavior during meetings,” Terry said. “They were babbling idiots. They were spending too much time in the fast lane.”

The sideways jaw movements, teeth grinding, and shifting eyes gave away their methamphetamine use. At first it increased their alertness, concentration, energy, euphoria, self-esteem, and libido. But the constant use ate at their internal organs, deteriorating teeth, bone structure, appearance, and behavior, resulting in a psychosis resembling schizophrenia. The charter even included a retired California Highway Patrol officer named Danny in the eight- to ten-men ranks. But the tall, thinning Danny became as addicted as the rest, and his ability to become a leader dissipated until the charter fell apart.

“A couple of members retired and turned in their patches,” Terry said. “The drug became more important than their motorcycles or the club and they left their shit behind and peeled out.”

Then the Man came into play. Cops and bikers clashed. One group sought to control the other, and that wasn’t going to happen without a fight. It was the John Wayne straight-arrow against the thug on a metal-flake, chromed-out chopper.

Terry built a new bike from a 1959 Dresser, which he stripped and transformed into a rigid-framed chopper. Every day was a party for many brothers, but Terry worked during the day at the studios and then blasted home to take care of his son and work on his new motorcycle project at night.

Cops and bikers clashed. One group sought to control the other, and that wasn’t going to happen without a fight. It was the John Wayne straight-arrow against the thug on a metal-flake, chromed-out chopper.

One night Terry rolled to the slick new Denny’s franchise restaurant on Peck Road in El Monte, where Jinx and Parts were hanging out. Terry sat at the counter and was enjoying his traditional cup of Joe when three young toughs pushed their way into the restaurant.

The three young men were related; two were brothers and one was a cousin. As it turned out, Jinx, who wasn’t a fighter but was always willing to start shit, had some past dealings with the three. One of the trio approached Jinx, who was sitting with Parts in a slick linoleum booth. At first he leaned over and said something to Jinx and poked him in the chest with his right index finger. Jinx sat back and mouthed off to the man, feeling safe while surrounded by his Vago brothers. He felt the power of the brotherhood around him, but the troublemaker, recently released from San Quentin, wasn’t intimidated by the patches. He pushed Jinx’s plate of food into his lap and slapped him in the face. Terry watched and noted a Vago prospect in the corner not doing anything. As it turned out, he was related to the three.

Terry wasn’t a big man, but he had a short fuse and zero tolerance for intimidation. He spun off his slick counter stool and came face-to-face with a much larger man.

“That’s my brother,” Terry said.

“He’s a punk,” the intruder said, “and I’m going to fuck him and you up, little man.”

The shit was on and Terry beat the bigger man right out the door of the restaurant and into the parking lot. One of the other men returned and threatened the Vagos before leaving.

He pushed Jinx’s plate of food into his lap and slapped him in the face.

The Vagos finished dinner and Terry went home to check on his son and take his new chopper out for a break-in ride. He pulled his bike out of the stucco garage located in a small complex of apartments. As he rode it out onto Cherry Lee Street, he noticed a sedan pull into the complex. He didn’t like the looks of the guys in the sedan and returned. He rode through the maze of concrete checking for anything out of the ordinary, and then leaned his chopper for Cherry Lee once more. He pulled left out of the complex and juiced the chopper to the boulevard stop, where he spotted the sedan once more on the right, down the block from the intersecting residential street.

As he snapped the quick throttle and launched the big motorcycle across the intersection, the dark sedan pulled away from the curb and approached. Gunshots rang out as the car skidded right and approached from the rear. Terry suddenly lost control and his motorcycle went down in the center of the street, but the revolver fire kept coming until the car sped past and disappeared.

A small girl on a Honda motorcycle was the first person on the scene. She was an off-duty police officer and offered to get help. She banged on the nearest residential door. No one answered. She rode home and called the El Monte EMTs.

Gunshots rang out as the car skidded left and approached from the rear. Terry suddenly lost control and his motorcycle went down in the center of the street.

One small-caliber bullet seared through Terry’s left arm, while a second slug lodged near his spine. He was taken immediately to the El Monte hospital, where he squirmed in pain until Parts arrived. Parts found Terry had been waiting for an extended period without being examined. Parts scoured the halls until he discovered the young emergency room doctors sipping coffee in the staff lounge.

“You better examine my brother,” Parts snapped, “or you will be the next in line for care.”

The doctor moved quickly, dressed Terry’s wounds, ordered X-rays, and gave him a shot of Demerol for the pain. As the pain subsided, cops entered the hospital to investigate the shooting. Terry and Parts slipped out the back of the medical complex and began to kick down doors looking for the shooters.

At 3:00 a.m., the pair stumbled into the Denny’s and discovered cops in every booth waiting for them. Officers arrested Terry and took him to the large, foreboding Los Angeles general hospital gunshot ward, where he received more Demerol and then went into surgery.

While Terry was in the gunshot ward, a black man who had been shot by his wife for cheating was admitted. He was examined and then rolled into surgery. An hour passed and he was returned to the bland, sterile ward for recovery. As the nurse worked with him in the large, sanitary quarters, which housed six gunshot victims, a nasty-looking, big black woman appeared. She smiled at the nurse and inquired of her husband’s condition.

“Will he make it?” she asked.

“Certainly, ma’am,” the nurse said. “He’ll be fine.”

As the nurse bent over to administer the IV to her husband, the wife pulled the same revolver from her purse that she had used to shoot him the first time, and she shot him again. All hell broke loose in the ward.

The next day Terry rested in the hospital surrounded by Vagos. Parts slipped Terry a loaded, snub-nosed Smith and Wesson .38-caliber revolver. As the brothers discussed Terry’s health and healing, the search for the shooter, and the problem that caused the mess, two shooters entered his hospital room.

The large, swinging door rolled open on heavyweight, sprung, stainless-steel hinges. The two gunmen pulled revolvers and began to shoot at anything that moved.

The ward erupted in a gunfight as Vago members grabbed for their weapons and returned fire. The two outmatched shooters ran out the door, chased by four Vagos. They escaped for the time being, but the hunt was in high gear as members of the club chased them as far as Texas.

The Vagos had two rules: No drugs and no faggots. Jinx had broken at least one of those rules and was out of the club.

The three bad-boy relatives finally turned to the law for protection. Unfortunately for them, they were under investigation for another drug-related murder and ultimately did a decade in the penitentiary.

Terry later learned that Jinx had initiated the confrontation by ripping them off during a drug deal gone bad. The Vagos had two rules: No drugs and no faggots. Jinx had broken at least one of those rules and was out of the club.

Terry sold the new 1959 Panhead chopper to a local rider, who got high and street-raced the motorcycle to his death. He ran a light and collided with a car, which severed his leg. He bled to death.