Page 32 of Rough

“Anyone else pulls out a piece, shoot ‘em, Pete,” I said.

“Wait a minute,” One of the men coughed out. “I got one, but I ain’t looking to pull it.”

I looked in his direction.

Some people had no business with guns. He was obviously one of them. “Give it up,” I said, struggling to keep from laughing at his stupidity.

He reached behind his back and produced a Colt .45. I took it and shoved it into my belt. “Anybody else?”

No one said a word.

“You fellas get on your sleds and go find a bar of your own,” Crip shouted. “This one’s ours. Everyone can head for the door except for my buddy here.”

Slowly, and as many of them grumbled under their breath, the men filtered toward the door. As soon as the first man’s back was facing me, I shook my head in disbelief.

On the back of their kuttes, a top rocker with the word Gremlins was over a patch depicting a cartoonish gremlin. Below it was a bottom rocker claiming California as their territory.

The bottom rocker got my full attention.

“Hold up, fellas,” I shouted. “Hold. The. Fuck. Up!”

I turned toward Crip. “Fuckers are flying a bottom rocker, Boss. California.”

Crip’s eyes went thin and his jaw flared. “Your kutte doesn’t identify you, but I’m guessing you’re the president. Solely based on your big mouth. Am I right?”

With Crip’s pistol still leveled at his face, Beard swallowed hard and nodded his head.

“You and your crew are going to drop your kuttes at the door. Did you think for one fucking minute that you’d claim territory without a fight?”

Beard didn’t respond.

“You can tell ‘em or I will,” Crip said.

Beard blinked a few times. “Listen up,” he said in a low, squeaky tone. He cleared his throat. “Everyone needs to take off their kutte. Drop ‘em at the door.”

“What the fuck?” one of them said.

I turned toward the door. “You claim territory, you need to be prepared to die for that patch.”

I raised Gray Beard’s pistol. “Take ‘em off or get shot.”

“This is bullshit,” one of them said.

I pointed the pistol at him. “No. What’s bullshit is you dumb fucks just decided to sew a California patch onto a vest you bought on fuckin’ Amazon. You want to wear that patch, there’s protocol to follow.”

I wagged the barrel of the pistol at him. “Take it off.”

He tossed the vest aside. The other nine men followed. With their kuttes in a pile beside the door, they sauntered into the lot.

I looked at Cholo. “Guard the door.”

“Come here, Peeb,” Crip said.

I exhaled a breath of relief and walked to Crip’s side. He lowered his pistol, and then held it out to his side.

“Take this.”

I did.