CHAPTER 14: STANDING OUR GROUND
JULY 22, 1970
CHARMING AUTO, DOWNTOWN
Unlike Teller Automotive Repair, Charming Auto was located at the edge of Charming's downtown commercial district where Route 99 Business widened up from two lanes into four. It's prominent location and its large, brightly-lit signage might have been good for business, but it also made them easy to find for the individuals intending to target them on this warm summer night.
Unlike high-crime Oakland, there wasn't even a chain-link fence separating the garage and massive car dealership from the road. Frisco himself led the procession of Mayan bikers that rumbled onto the property along with a small van. Several Mayans disembarked from their bikes and the vehicles with gas cans, pouring gasoline along the ground beneath several rows of parked cars.
Frisco took out his East German pistol and fired through the glass façade of the showroom and offices while Jorge and Benito went for the service center, pouring out more gas. Frisco then took a firebomb and tossed it into the building, the flames quickly beginning to spread.
The Mayan leader motioned urgently for the men pouring the gasoline to hurry up. "Vamo! Rapido!"
The men hastened up their act and went back to the gathering of bikes in the middle of the dealership lot. Frisco then lit a match and looked around and his fellow bikers. "Viva Los Mayans," he said and dropped the match into the gasoline on the parking lot. He felt a sense of deep satisfaction as he saw the cars ignite one by one, the explosions tossing them one over another, then saw sparks explode like fireworks in the main building as the electrical components were burned and destroyed.
WAYNE UNSER'S RESIDENCE, EASTBOROUGH NEIGIBORHOOD, CHARMING
The four attackers came silently like snakes in the middle of the night. They had debated among themselves the best method of attack against their target, Wayne Unser, but in the end decided on stealth. It was stealth that they were best at, they decided. After all, that was how each and every one of them had entered this country.
Their leader spoke to them softly in Spanish. "Remember, if there's anyone or anything else in there, his bitch, his dog, his cat, even his fucking hamster, kill it. Comprendes?"
"Si, vato."
"Muy bien. Remember our plan. Vamos, mojados!"
The leader and another gangster went onto the front porch of the Victorian-style home while the other two fanned out across the darkened yard. So far, it was completely quiet except for the chirping of the crickets and the distant rumble of a freight train making its way through town. While some of the neighbors were probably still awake judging from the lights, none of them were outdoors of paying attention to Unser's property.
The lead attacker took out a silenced CZ52 Czechoslovakian pistol and fired two silenced shots into the doorknob, then pushed the front door open slowly, making sure it creaked as softly as possible. He then stepped into the foyer and motioned for his accomplice to follow. Everyone the Mayans had told them had checked out, they both thought to themselves. This gringo had no clue they were coming. It was almost cowardly, shooting a sorry excuse for a cop in his sleep, nothing to brag to his fellow Oakland gangbangers about, but it was an important job for his crew nonetheless.
They slowly made their way upstairs until they reached the master bedroom. The leader looked at his partner, who lifted his shirt and removed another Eastern Bloc handgun from his holster and opened the door. Each of them quickly opened fire, squeezing off a total of eleven bullets into the bed where they saw the shape of a man sleeping.
Suddenly, however, several gunshots from a Smith and Wesson 9mm rang out from underneath the bed and the lead attacker felt a sharp pain in his foot and tell uncontrollably for the floor, dropping the CZ 52 next to him. Unser took out his other pistol and felled the other attacker with a shot to the knee and another to the abdomen.
"Who the hell are you?" Unser demanded, pointing his gun. "Don't you dare make a move!"
"I bring message from Mayans, you fucking pig!" the man said in broken English with a hardened expression on his face. "You all dead!"
The gangbanger made a sudden move for his gun, but before his fingers could reach it, Unser discharged his Smith three times. Unser saw three puffs of blood rise up out of the gangster's chest before the man's sprawled body went limp in an expanding pool of blood. Unser had no idea who these guys were, though their arms and faces were covered with what were obviously gang tattoos.
Unser heard more shouting in Spanish from below as the two other thugs called out to check on their friends after hearing the commotion. Unser only had three bullets left in his clip and knew it would not be enough to hold them off, so he crawled along the ground toward his bedside drawer, where he kept more ammo. He was lucky that the attackers continued to fire rather than make a quick charge into the house.
He managed to reach the drawer despite another stream of bullets flying into the bedroom. As a cop, Unser already had several other clips ready and loaded one quickly into his pistol. He fired several shots through the window, then made a point to drop loudly to the floor. The two thugs outside took the bait.
"I think we got that piece of shit," the first one said, "Let's just go up there and make sure."
He had hardly finished the sentence when Unser jumped out of the window, landing directly on his shoulder and knocking him down the stairs from the porch. Before the second gangbanger could recover from his shock, Unser took his pistol and shot him down. The thug Unser had landed on realized his weapon was now out of reach and attacked Unser, grappling for his gun.
Unser took aim at the man's head but his gun jammed. The thug then grabbed Unser and slammed him into the grass, squeezing his throat and pulling out a dagger from his pocket and shouting a string of Spanish expletives. The illegal alien gritted his teeth as he moved the dagger toward Unser chest. With all the strength left in him, Unser kneed the thug in the groin and grabbed his hands.
For about ten seconds, Unser struggled to gain the upper hand and turn the dagger around, to not avail. Suddenly, Unser heard a deafening bang and saw a blinding flash of light, along with the thug's head literally exploding like a dropped watermelon, and he landed on the grass next to the man's headless torso. Unser felt frozen for what seemed like minutes, then he saw his elderly neighbor walk over holding his shotgun.
"Wow, you really made some bad enemies, didn't you, Wayne?"
OTTO MORAN AND LENNY JANOWITZ'S RESIDENCE, CRESTWOOD NEIGHBORHOOD, 10:45 AM THE FOLLOWING MORNING
"Mira alguien? Do you see anyone?" Frisco asked Benito, who held a pair of binoculars. They were looking at the hilltop property of Otto Moran and Lenny Janowitz, whose cars were in the driveway and carport next to the colonial-style farmhouse, which lay on a sprawling homestead on top of two grassy hills. The Mayans had parked their bikes a few thousand feet off the road behind a small natural gas substation and taken up positions to observe their target before attacking.
"I see one man standing guard," Benito replied, zooming in. "I can't make out exactly who."
"It must be a member of the club" Frisco said, "They're too new to have prospects." Frisco said that with the confidence that while the Sons only had their eight members, the Mayans not only outnumbered them in terms of patched members, they had an entire army of prospects and allied street gangs like MH-11. No matter the price, they would make sure every last Son is dead so that Juan could rest in peace.
"Is there any way we can take out that bastard at the gate from a distance?" Frisco asked his men.
Benito shook his head and looked at Alejandro for his perspective.
"Not from here, jefe," Alejandro replied, "Their position is too high to give us a clear shot."
"Then we will attack with force the way we know how."
"Jefe, con respecto, are you sure this is the right move? There are Sons who give in town, in places we can attack more easily," Benito said in a concerned voice. "Here it's not possible for us to completely surround our targets."
"The police are patrolling everywhere in the town center," Frisco replied, "And we still have not heard from our Honduran friends yet. The Sons are a small club. Whoever we capture will tell us the things we need to know to find the rest." Frisco then turned to the men and spoke louder. "Estan listos, hermanos?"
"Si!" shouted one of the prospects eager to prove himself as he lifted his kutte to reveal a large ammo belt.
Frisco stayed behind as eight bikes filled with Mayan members and prospects suddenly revved their engines and rode past the natural gas substation and up the road toward the Sons' property. Frisco then ordered Jorge to follow them as backup. As the charter President, Frisco considered himself too valuable to be placed in harm's way over something like this. In fact he had cursed his brother for heading to Concord himself, and didn't want Jorge and Benito involved either, but those men were too rash, their thirst for action and violence too fierce. It was the job of the prospects and the newest patched bikers to risk death, injury, and arrest for the club. He had already paid his dues back in Mexico and in the bloody two years it took for the Mayans to cement itself as one of Oakland's most powerful crime syndicates. He wished the others understood this.
Clay Morrow heard the Mayan bikes immediately and whistled to Wally, who was hidden behind an abandoned pickup truck on an overgrown part of the property. He aimed his AR-15 assault rifle down the driveway and opened up on full auto. The lead Mayan bike immediately crashed off the road, it's rider filled with more than a dozen bullet holes. The rest continued to come, speeding up and opening fire in his direction. Clay shot another Mayan, then a third before taking cover.
Despite three of their own dead, the Mayans' spirits were lifted by the fact that they stopped hearing the AR-15 and sped past the gate.
"Cuidado, that hueyputa may still be alive, hiding like a coward," Jorge said. He pointed to several other Mayans were had dismounted from their motorcycles. "Surround the house, make sure they do not escape." He then ordered several others, "Make sure our machine gun friend is dead. I want to see his fucking corpse."
The group looking for Clay had made it about ten feet into the tall grasses when Keith McGee detonated the homemade plastic explosives he had hidden in the rusty old pickup. It blew the two Mayans sideways in opposite directions. The Mayans trying to head to the back of the house suddenly turned around. While they were distracted, Clay and Wally both opened fire with their machine guns, mowing them down before they could get a single shot off.
"Estos bastardos son locos! These bastards are crazy! I need backup!" Jorge radioed Frisco.
"Que? Que esta?" Frisco screamed through the static. He had also heard the explosion and gunfire, and seen the small plume of smoke rising into the morning sky.
"They must have mined the place or something, or it was a grenade. I don't know! They are too well armed. We need more men."
Frisco cursed. If this was how it was going to go down, then so be it. They were way on the outskirts of Charming with the nearest police station over 20 miles away. If the neighbors had heard anything, there was a good chance they thought it was just some good ol' boys undergoing some militia training or something like often happened around these parts.
"Remember, we still have them surprised," Frisco said. "We'll take these gringo chingadas de mierdas."
Frisco and Jorge led nine more Mayans onto the property. By now, the guns in the yard had fallen silent, replaced by the eerie stillness punctuated only by the flickering flames burning from the explosion sites.
"There's no way our targets aren't up now. Move in on the house now!" ordered Frisco.
Jorge and two other Mayans fired several rounds into the first floor, focusing on the front door while others took positions around the several trees scattered around the large yard. Frisco had hoped there were more things to provide cover, but they had the upper hand, he told himself. He was going to flush Lenny, Otto, and anyone else in the house out and mow them down.
"Hold it! Stop firing!" Jorge yelled after about fifteen seconds of continuous automatic weapons fire directed at the house. Jorge listened for any voices of movements coming inside the house, perhaps the screams of wounded and dying men, but heard nothing.
"Be on the lookout if they try to escape like cowards!" he ordered his men. "We're moving in! Frisco, stay back!"
Jorge stepped aside as the others charged through the doorway, opening fire through the foyer and into the living room and dining room on both sides of it, tearing the furniture and window drapes to pieces. Seeing nothing, they then advanced further into the living room.
Lenny, hidden behind one of the couches, looked at his small handheld mirror and saw the reflection of the Mayan bikers inside his house. In fact they had placed several Kevlar vests against the back of the couch to protect them from the fusillade of bullets their attackers had just sent in their direction. He and JT suddenly rose up from behind the couch with their weapons ready to fire.
Lenny opened fire with his pump action shotgun, the explosive blast striking Jorge squarely in the chest and sending him flying out the window, shattering the glass in the process. JT took his M-16 and shot another one of the attackers in the chest and a third in the head. The final attacker tried to take cover in a doorway, bringing his AK-47 over and firing blindly in a panic, obviously taken aback by his comrades' sudden deaths.
JT shot the man's wrist, and his entire hand dropped to the ground along with his weapon. The Mayan screamed in pain and fear as JT and Lenny came over. He knew looking into their steely eyes that begging for mercy was useless and he simply let out a string of Mexican obscenities. Lenny's shotgun blast slammed him in the ground, his mangled body sliding backward for several feet into the foyer.
"Come on, let's see what else they got!" Lenny said, his adrenaline pumping. "Bring it on, motherfuckers! You gonna send more wetbacks in here?"
JT was more cautious and motioned for Lenny to go against the wall and advance slowly. JT saw another Mayan coming through his mirror and motioned for Lenny to be on alert. Several seconds later, the Mayan punk turned into the small hallway connecting the foyer with the living room, screaming at the top of his lungs like a madman, opening fire with a pistol in each hand. Yet the over-the-top bravado of the barrio was no match for JT's military experience or Lenny's homegrown, small town American training.
By then, JT and Lenny were in the bathroom just off the hallway, a room the Mayan had no idea existed. Both of them heard the Mayan coming down the hall and opened fire through the wall. The Mayan was dead on the ground, his body a heap of torn flesh, before he knew what hit him.
Outside, the two Mayans approaching the back of the house were immediately mowed down by Piney and Clay firing their assault rifles, who had taken a new position in the tall grass.
Frisco was approaching the house when he saw Jorge's body fly out through the broken window. He knew from that moment, and from the sudden rattling of the Sons' weapons, that his enemies had been waiting for them. It was basically a reverse ambush.
Frisco turned his weapon toward the grass and opened fire as he began to retreat, ordering his men to do the same. JT emerged on the front porch and fired at Frisco, but the Mayan leader was moving too quickly and the bullets impacted a few feet away from him. Frisco returned fire, but more out of defiance than any realistic expectation of killing JT at this point.
Less than a minute later, the Mayans were back on Highway 19, passing some directional signs for the Wahewa Indian Reservation.
"We could not even get Jorge's body! This was…." Benito wanted to say that it was worse than Juan Martinez, whose body at least was recovered from the Sunvalley Mall and given a proper burial, but he corrected himself given that he was speaking to his gang leader. "Almost as bad as what happened to Juan."
"Don't worry. I have another way of getting to these gabachos, but it will be ugly, even by our standards. And I will need you with me on this, Benito."
"Anything, jefe," Benito responded.
JULY 26, 1970
CASA GRANDE MEXICAN RESTAURANT, CHARMING
Tuesdays were long days for proprietor and chef Marco Rodriguez. It was the only day of the week where he worked open to close, 13 hours total, but he was in high spirits as he finished checking the cash register and the credit card receipts. It had been a profitable day. When Marco first left his friend's restaurant in San Diego to open his own place in Charming, people thought he was nuts. Folks out there could never appreciate Mexican food, they said. However, the residents of Charming had in fact made Casa Grande one of the most popular restaurants in town, the kind of place locals went to celebrate birthdays, weddings, and graduations, even high school proms.
The knock on the door wasn't too audible over the sound of the dishwasher cleaning up the remaining plates, but Marco still heard it. Interesting, he thought. Sure, some customers who forgot the business hours came up to a half hour after closing, but it was now 11 PM already.
"Marco it's me!" a voice called. Marco saw it was one of the cooks from the kitchen who had just been taking the trash out to the dumpster. If this had been San Diego, he would have looked at the footage from the security camera, and had he done so, he would have seen Frisco Martinez holding a pistol to the cook's side. He would have taken out the Beretta 9 mm pistol he kept in the restaurant at all times. All this time in Charming had made him complacent, and it was a fateful mistake instead.
The moment Marco pulled the door open, the cook was shoved forward into the restaurant by Frisco. Benito and Oscar followed with their handguns drawn. Frisco then raised his pistol and shot the cook three times in the chest, the blood staining his white uniform. Benito quickly grabbed Marco's son Paul, who was a bartender there, while Oscar stormed into the kitchen and forced the dishwasher to put his hands on his head. Oscar then turned off the faucet and scanned the kitchen.
"Nobody else back here!" he called out in Spanish to Frisco as the Mayans herded the others into the kitchen. Benito made sure the front door was locked and that the lights to the dining room were off.
"Who are you? What do you want?" Marco asked in Spanish, breathing heavily. He looked over at Paul who was shaking in fear.
Frisco lifted part of his shirt to reveal the Mayans tattoo on his chest. "A couple weeks ago, some of my friends came here to your place. They told you about what the Sons of Anarchy had done, and asked you for some information about that club."
"I…I told them everything I know!" Marco told Frisco, "Please, you must believe me!"
Frisco spat in his face and nodded to Benito, who shot the dishwasher in the back of the head and pushed his body forward into the floor.
"Tu eres un mentiroso de mierda! You're a fucking liar!" Frisco shouted. "And you are a traitor to our people, protecting these gringo friends of yours. It embarrasses me to see a fellow countryman like you."
"You mojados are the ones who embarrass me," Marco replied, "And by the way, I'm an American now."
Oscar sucker punched him in the stomach then grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the row of plates and cups along the wall, shattering several of them. "I would watch your mouth if I were you, especially given that your son's life lies in your hands, Chef," he said in a dark, threatening tone.
Frisco then grabbed Paul and jammed his hot pistol into his back and made him take a seat in a stool and pressed his face against a metal surface of the kitchen's salad preparation area. "Just like the gringos here, you have no respect for our club," he said. "When our people came in for a friendly visit, you should been fucking honest with them. Then you could have avoided this mess."
"Please, senor!" Marco pleaded, looking at the pool of blood that had formed around the dishwasher's lifeless body.
"I…." he looked at the Mayans Oakland patch tattooed on Frisco's chest, next to another tattoo of the a traditional prayer for Santa Muerte. "I'm not familiar with Oakland. I should have respected you more. Please don't hurt my son."
Frisco gave Marco a nasty smirk. "That depends on the next words that come out of your mouth, tu hijo de puta. No more lies! You will tell me every last thing you know about the Sons of Anarchy and their other friends, and you better start giving me the kind of good information because I've already run out of patience with you."
JULY 27, 1970
"If they went after you knowing you're a cop, what makes you think I'm safer with you?" JT asked Unser as they turned onto Crestwood Trail Drive, a major road connecting JT's neighborhood with downtown Charming.
"They won't go after me again so soon, not in a marked police car," Unser replied. He had insisted on picking JT up and driving him to Teller Automotive Repair this entire week.
"What exactly happened at Charming Auto?" JT asked. "I know that was meant for us."
"Oh really?" Unser almost scoffed. "You got something to say about that? Using your old man's competition as bait to see what kind of shit the Mayans might pull around here?"
"Hey that's not on us, I swear. Bunch of Mayans showed up at Casa Grande asking around. Marco did us a favor and diverted attention. We didn't tell him to do that, nor would we pressure our local business owners that way. Remember, this is our town. All we want is for everyone here to be able to live our lives in peace, just like you."
Unser heard his beeper go off and answered it. "Jesus Christ," he said after a while. "Dammit." He looked over at JT. "Speak of the devil, there's a major crime scene at Casa Grande restaurant. Multiple bodies." Unser immediately turned on the flashing lights and sirens and ignored the turn across the railroad crossing toward Teller Automotive, continuing to speed through downtown instead.
CASA GRANDE MEXICAN RESTAURANT
Nearly the entire Charming police force was already parked in front of Casa Grande Mexican Restaurant. The entire shopping center had been cordoned off by the authorities, and forensics investigators from the San Joaquin County coroner's office were also combing through the restaurant. Many people from the surrounding homes and businesses had gathered to gawk at the crime scene and talk among themselves about what was going on.
"Chief!" Unser called out as he saw Ryan Hancock coming out of the restaurant. Unser's partner Tincher also accompanied the chief.
"I came as soon as I got the news. Why wasn't I notified earlier?" Unser asked.
"We figured you were still in shock over the attack at your own house," Tincher said, "You did need those days off. I would if I'd gone through what you did. Chief and I figured we could secure the crime scene overnight. Didn't want you investigating this while you were still feeling rattled."
"Hey Wayne, he's not allowed in here!" Hancock said, motioning toward JT.
"I'm certain this has to do with the Sons," Unser said, "He might be able to tell you more but could you please fill us in on what happened here?"
Hancock led them into the main dining room, where several officers were gathered, and into the kitchen. In addition to the dishwasher and cook, Marco and Paul had also been shot execution style.
"Lord, no," JT said softly. The events would also turn Charming upside down. Marco had been a well-established member of the community, whose restaurant sponsored civic events and stock car races and provided jobs for countless local residents. Paul was a promising young man who was passionate about learning his father's trade and opening his own location in Lodi.
"Well it looks like a robbery," Hancock told them. "They emptied out all of the cash registers and the entire safe. Those guys also obviously knew what they were doing. All the security tapes have been removed, and we haven't been able to recover any fingerprints. Forensics says the weapons are black market goods from East Germany, but half the criminals out there are using them."
"Including the Mayans MC in particular. The perpetrators also took the entire safe?" JT asked.
"Yeah, maybe they couldn't open it so they took it with them to their basement or whatever where they probably have the tools to open it," Unser said. "A safe that size takes at least two, maybe three guys to move."
"That's what they want you to think, that's its a simple robbery. I know there's more to it than that."
"And you think we need to look at the Sons angle," said Hancock, "JT, what's Marco Rodriguez's involvement with the club? Any connections with Paul Rodriguez or these other dead guys?"
"They're just our friends. We look out for each other."
"Don't bullshit me, Mr. Teller," Hancock said. "Wayne here's convinced it has to do with the club. We had about 2 murders a year in Charming for the past ten years. Now you all organize your little MC, and we already have 4 cold blooded killings right here, plus the mess at Unser's house and over a million dollars worth of property damage right on the main drag, worst case of arson in the entire history of this town. I don't think I'll be wrong to predict that as popular as you and your family are in this town, that can change quickly if this shit doesn't stop."
"It's going to stop alright, Chief," JT replied, "I'll make sure of it."
"And what the hell's that supposed to mean? You and your club are going to do some cowboy vigilante shit like you're Clint Eastwood or something?"
"I'll do what we have to in order to protect ourselves. We have a legal right to do that when these scumbags are coming after us because they evidently want to expand their drug business into Charming." JT had obviously made up the last part, even though the Mayans and the street gangs associated with them would no doubt jump at the opportunity to sell drugs anywhere.
Both Unser and JT remained silent until they walked down to the other end of the strip mall, out of earshot of anyone else.
"And what about the shit that went down at Otto Moran's place? You said almost a dozen dead bikers on that property? Obviously nobody called that in…"
"It was on the outskirts of town, Wayne," JT replied, "Only one of the neighbors heard anything, and we had one of those early morning shooting practices like we really do have from time to time."
"This is crazy, JT. And the bodies? I'm sure you took care of them too?"
"We cremated them on site. Or maybe disposed of them on the Wahewa reservation which would be safer, given y'all don't have jurisdiction in Indian country. Keep you guessing so there's some kind of deniability for you." JT looked at Unser like that was a favor he should appreciate.
"For all of our sakes, I sure hope you got a good plan for that," Unser muttered, shaking his head.
An end montage for this chapter shows the police cleaning up the crime scene at the restaurant, the JT and the Sons at the table in the clubhouse meeting over the recent events, Thomas being comforted by his girlfriend Megan in his home as he also recovers from his injuries sustained at the mall shootout, Special Agent Tasker drinking at a bar while a newscast about the Mexican restaurant killings goes on above him, Professor Rogers giving another lecture to a new group of students in UC Berkeley many of whom are wearing anti-military shirts, Deanna Lunsik in the county jail, and the Mayans riding through the streets of Oakland with the hearses of the few bodies they were able to recover before leaving Otto and Lenny's property. This montage is set to "35 MPH Town" by Toby Keith.
Author's Note: Like I mentioned earlier, a lot of the musical choices will come from modern years as long as they fit the mood. As I write this story, I can't help but note all the parallels between this time period and today's world.