Short Cuts: Episode I 
The Gang’s All Here
When a beloved brother died last summer, more than four hundred bikers thundered into San Antonio for his funeral. As they swapped stories about the old days and guzzled beer, one message could be heard over the roar of their Harleys: Bandidos forever.
Kimmie says: as a person raised by these people I have to say this is a pretty decent article! I was a teen during that 1985 drug bust my Dad was one of "those guys" lol! My Dad nor I any longer have contact with that lifestyle but it taught me alot & no matter what My Dad is the greatest Dad ever regardless of his choices in life!! thanks (June 12th, 2009 at 1:06pm)
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Although federal investigators in the 2005 RICO indictment claimed that Bandidos were sometimes required to pay the club a “road tax” (a percentage of their proceeds derived from criminal activities), Ed Winterhalder, a former Bandido from Oklahoma who quit the club in 2003, told me that only 10 percent of today’s Bandidos make a living through crime. “And what they do is not organized crime authorized by the club,” he said. “They trade guns and stolen bike parts. They do some minor drug deals. They might do a burglary here and there. But that’s it.”
On the other hand, said the highly placed Texas law enforcement official, Bandidos have a tendency to turn violent, especially during confrontations with other motorcycle clubs: “What you have to remember is that these men don’t become Bandidos because they are simply motorcycle enthusiasts. They become Bandidos because they love being known as the badasses. And when you get a bunch of men like that together in one club, you better watch out, because there’s no telling what can happen.”
And the police certainly had their doubts about Pike. In surveillance photos, they saw the “Expect no mercy” patch on his vest, which is the Bandidos’ equivalent of the Purple Heart, given to any member who has drawn blood or spilled his own blood in defense of the club. Their suspicions about him only deepened after the Benesh and the Canadian affairs. The Austin police, in particular, wanted to know if he had ordered the killing of Benesh as a way to send a message to all motorcycle clubs about what he would do to anyone he found moving into Bandidos territory. Canadian authorities were curious to learn if Pike had ordered the shooting of the eight Bandidos to remind other members just what would happen to them if they too turned against the club.
Pike, however, did not seem the slightest bit defensive when I mentioned the cops’ theories. “I know they’re trying to pin everything on us,” he said. “But we’re not out there shooting people, for God’s sake. None of my guys shot some goofy Hells Angels wannabe who meant nothing to us, and as for that Canada mess, I didn’t have any contact with that chapter up there for weeks before those killings. I have no idea what happened to any of them.”
Pike sighed and tossed his empty bottled water into a trash can. “Why can’t the feds just accept the fact that we’re a bunch of old bikers who love to get together and have some fun? Why don’t they start chasing real criminals, like those kids in street gangs who scare the shit even out of me, instead of following us everywhere we go, tapping our phones, and trying to destroy us with a bunch of made-up charges?”
For the first time, Pike’s smile faded and his eyes narrowed slightly. “You know, if the feds spent as much time investigating a police department as they do investigating us, they’d eventually catch someone breaking a law. But would they call that entire department a criminal enterprise? Would they say, ‘All police officers commit crimes,’ the way they tell reporters like you, ‘All Bandidos commit crimes’? Hell, no.”
BY SATURDAY MORNING, AT LEAST FOUR HUNDRED Bandidos were in San Antonio, gathered in the parking lot of an evangelical church for Chuco’s funeral. The police helicopter also showed up, circling clockwise, and an unmarked van with darkened windows stopped across the street. A Bandido scout went over to check out the van and came back to report that it too was filled with police officers, one of whom was taking photos with a high-powered camera.
Bandidos are not exactly Bible-thumpers. Only a few went inside the church for the service to hear Chuco’s sister deliver a tearful eulogy, concluding with the line “Oh, Chuco, I will miss your laughing and your fighting.” Those who remained in the parking lot stood around their bikes. Some of them downed beers, ignoring the handwritten signs on the church doors that read “Please, no drinking on church property.” One Bandido, pretending he had a rifle in his hands, aimed at the police helicopter and fired off a few imaginary rounds.
I strolled around the parking lot, trying to find someone to interview. Although Pike’s assistants had told a few of the members that he was letting a reporter come to the funeral, many had no idea who I was. “Hi, how are you?” I said to a Bandido wearing a bandanna and dark sunglasses. “What’s it to you, motherf—er?” he replied, his breath smelling of alcohol and cigarettes. I attempted to eavesdrop on a conversation among some of the older Bandidos, thinking I might hear some interesting anecdotes about the club. “Jesus, my f—ing cholesterol,” one of them said. “F—ing off the f—ing charts.”
I turned around and came face to face with F.O., who had stabbed me in the sternum the day before. He hugged me so hard that all the air shot out of my lungs. “Don’t you f—ing wish you were a Bandido?” said F.O., which I later learned stood for “F— Off”; then he introduced me to two women whom he described as “my two Old Ladies”: Meja, a blond beauty who has been with him for 26 years, and Crystal, a brunet college student who has been with him for 4 years. Crystal was wearing not only a necklace with a pendant that read “PBOL” but also a leather belt that carried the stitched-in phrase “Property of Bandido F— Off.”
“I split time equally with them,” F.O. said. “A few nights at Meja’s, then a few nights at Crystal’s, then back to Meja. Not bad, huh?”
A few minutes later, I came across an agreeable, clean-cut young Bandido named Lenny Jonas. He was 36 years old, the son of one of the first members, Steve “Panhead” Jonas, who had been shot to death at a San Antonio bar in 1983. Lenny, who was married with four kids, worked for an electric cooperative in the Hill Country. He told me he didn’t see his father much when he was a boy. “But when I got older, people would talk about him—talk about his love of adventure,” he said. “So I decided to get a bike. I started meeting Bandidos. And now, five years later, here I am.”
As we talked, his wife, Nicole, walked up. She was 33 years old, tall and blond, and she was wearing a vest that had a patch on the back that read “Proud Bandido Old Lady.” “People told me I had lost my mind when I said I was going to marry a Bandido,” said Nicole, who runs a pet grooming salon in the Hill Country. “They said Lenny would be gone all the time, riding with the club to God knows where. And the truth is that I sometimes do get jealous of all the time he spends with the club. He jumps up, says he’ll be back soon, and is gone for four days. But I know he loves it so much that I would never ask him to quit.”
When Lenny was out of earshot, I asked Nicole what she thought about the allegations that the Bandidos were a criminal enterprise. “Well, if they are committing crimes, I don’t see them doing it,” she said. “But here’s the thing. When Lenny takes off on his bike, I don’t ask questions about what he’s doing. Lenny is a grown man. If he wishes to do something illegal, that’s his choice. All I ask is that he not bring it home and tell me about it. That way, if I’m ever asked to testify about anything, I can honestly say I do not know.”
After the service, all the Bandidos headed to their bikes. They knocked back their kickstands with their boots and roared off, lining up behind the hearse, two by two, the line growing longer and longer. The hearse and the motorcycles proceeded down a major boulevard, then turned into the cemetery, the sound of the bikes so deafening that other mourners who were laying out flowers for their loved ones put their hands to their ears.
When the hearse stopped, members of Chuco’s own San Antonio chapter carried his casket to the grave site. “Careful, now, goddammit, be careful,” someone said. The coffin was lowered into the ground, and a mariachi band sang “Te vas, ángel mío” (“You Leave, Angel of Mine”). A minister read a poem about a dead biker (“Can you feel the wind in Heaven, while the men hold back the tears?”), and right after he said “amen,” a friend of the Bandidos pulled up in a pickup with a keg of beer strapped to the bed. A few minutes later, another car appeared, and out popped a couple of female employees of a local nude dance club called XTC Cabaret. Wearing high heels and miniskirts, they passed out flyers and free drink tickets, telling the Bandidos that they ought to visit later that night to watch them perform.
Before long, several of the Bandidos headed to the Double Deuce, one of south San Antonio’s better biker bars. I tagged along in my rental car. When I walked in, F.O., who was there with his Old Ladies, leaned into my ear and said, “Buddy, it would behoove you to buy some beers. The Bandidos would appreciate it.”
Without saying a word, I bought a round for everyone—a total of 96 beers. The music on the jukebox cranked up, and I saw Jeff Pike by a pool table.
“Are you starting to understand?” he said.
“Understand what?” I asked.
“The brotherhood. The love we have for one another as brothers.” He paused and stared at me. “You know, I feel sorry for guys who don’t have a clue what this feels like.”
I bought another round, and then another—asking questions the entire time about Bandido life to anyone who would look my way. But soon, I realized, the Bandidos were ignoring me. They obviously had their own business to discuss. I looked at Pike, who raised his eyebrows.
“Time to leave?” I asked.
“Could be,” he said with a grin.
As I got in my rental car, I heard the familiar whomp-whomp-whomp of the police helicopter. It circled the Double Deuce—once, twice, then three times.
A few Bandidos finally came outside. They looked at the helicopter, and once again, as if given a silent cue, they lifted their hands in unison and flashed their middle fingers toward the sky.
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