Jean-Louis, Cuban cigars, VSOP brandy and a pound of Peruvian flake

I'd had some contact with biker gangs in my hippie music concert days. A local gang, The Vagabonds, would show up at the concert site, erect an Army surplus tent and announce the drug selection they were offering for the evening. They were odd, marginal by choice and strangely reliable. There were few problems. But approaching the Hells Angels in my own back yard was like showing up in drag at the spring training camp for the NY Yankees. These guys were dangerous, the tops, apparently very bad guys. My detective friend said I should find a box of Cuban cigars, and show up at their local dance bar enveloped in a haze of commandante smoke. I tracked down a nice corrupt Transair pilot who made several runs to Havana every week and the next night, a Thursday, I pushed my way through the main entrance, ordered a double Irish with an ale chaser, and lit up a Corona. Ten minutes later, a tall figure in jeans and Hells Angels colors squeezed in next to me. "My god, that smells better than the sweet spot between my old lady's legs." A pretty good opening line. I pulled out another fresh Corona, and then in a fit of inspriation, a second one. "For later, my friend." He flashed a broken smile, took my shoulder in his substantial hand and led me to the back of crowded club. My host had to stop to talk to a staff person. I watched a sting of youngsters heading out the side door to the ATM across the street, then turning back to the covered parking lot where they traded their cash for drugs. Any sympathy that I had felt disappeared when I thought of my young friend and his damaged heart. Still, I had to stay dispassionate. My new friend grabbed me again and leaned in. "I'm Jean-Louis." We made our way back to the office and the endless party that filled it. Nothing was too good for me. A bottle of VSOP, my choice of a couple of too-young girls, a mirror covered in coke. Jean-Louis urged me to take one of the 'chicklets' into the bathrooom for 'the blow job of the century'. I begged off with a shy story about being newly married and he seemed to respect that. The coke was Peruvian flake, uncut and smooth as stainless steel. Jean-Louis finally plunked down next to me and whispered in my ear, "So what is it you want, ranchero?" I thought for a moment and went with as much of the truth as he could handle. "I'm a writer and I've heard all this shit about the Angels. don't know what to believe, so I thought I'd see for myself." Jean-Louis squinted at me, stroked his chin and swept his long damp hair back over his head. He'd made up his mind. "Not a fucking newpaper writer, eh?" I leaned forward. ""Not in a thousand fucking years." He offered his hand in a power handshake and the bargain was made. Just like that. Cuban cigars and brandy and Peruvian coke. I had no idea where this was going to lead me. If I had, I might never have gone back the Princess Club...but I did go. I woke up the next morning with a handover, a sore nose and a question banging around my brain. "What kind of biker gang names their drug bar "The Princess Club'? I went back Satruday night to get an answer I could never have guessed. Tomorrow - you ain't gonna believe this....