Page 30 of Rough

We rode toward the 5, and picked up Cholo along the way. After ten minutes on the freeway, we exited and pulled up to Pete’s bar. Ten bikes, all Harley’s, were neatly parked in the front of the bar to the left of the door.

It was a location that we’d claimed as territory, and other than the Savages, no club had ever had the guts – or the lack of common sense – to try and hang out there. Pete appreciated the security we offered him, and we never tore up the place or acted disrespectful.

If a riding club was hanging out in there, we’d simply explain procedure to them. If it was a 1% club, we’d explain the matter, and ask them to leave. If they refused, there’d be a fight.

We circled the lot and parked on the right of the door. I shielded my eyes from the afternoon sun and looked down the long line of motorcycles.

“All American V-Twins. Looks like it might be a 1%er club,” I said.

“Might be a bunch of college professors,” Crip said. “Fuck, these days, everyone rides a Harley.”

“De veras,” Cholo said.

“You ready?” Crip asked.

Cholo nodded.

He looked at me. “You’ve got your serious face on, so I don’t even need to ask you, do I?”

“Told you at the shop. I was born ready.”

“Well, Mr. Serious, lead the way. I want your six-foot-eight ass to be the first thing they see.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way, Boss. We taking our heat?”

He patted his hand against his kutte. “I’ve got mine, should be enough to intimidate ‘em if that’s where this ends up.”

I hung my helmet over the bars, straightened my kutte, and walked to the door. “Any one of these fuckers says anything about me on that Sporty, I’m kicking their ass.”

Cholo slapped his hand against my shoulder. “Get ready to fight, Peeb. No way if they saw you on it they’ll keep their mouth shut. You look like el payaso baboso.”

I reached for the door handle and then glanced over my shoulder. “The fuck’s that mean?”

“A retarded clown.” He lifted his chin slightly. “Open the door, payaso.”

I was the biggest motherfucker in the MC, the Sergeant-at-Arms, and the butt of all the fucking jokes. I pushed the door open and quickly scanned the bar. Ten men in kuttes were standing at the high-top tables drinking beers.

Fuck.

“What’s shakin’, motherfuckers?!” I flexed my biceps, stuck out my chest, and cleared my throat. Every one of them turned to face me at the same time. “Any of you dumb pricks know whose bar you’re in?”

Crip leaned around me and slapped his hand against my back. “God damn it, Peeb. I’ll take it from here,” he whispered out of the side of his mouth.

“How’s it going, fellas?” he said.

With all eyes focused on Crip, I studied the men. There wasn’t one of them who stood out as being terribly threatening, but they didn’t look like pushovers, either.

One, a guy with a slight beer belly and of average build and height, maneuvered to the front of the crowd of men. He wore a scraggly beard, and what portions of his face weren’t covered in hair were weathered from a life spent in the southern California sun. His kutte didn’t have a 1% patch, and my guess was that we’d all be drinking beer together in no more than a few minutes.

He set his beer on the table at his side, and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled.

Bad choice, dumbass.

It wasn’t the first time I was wrong.

Crip cleared his throat. “I was the guy who tried to address you and your compadres respectfully. Now I’m the one who’s temper’s flaring because you’re a disrespectful fuck.”