Page 61 of Rough

***

I parked my bike in front of the club.

A muscular bald man in a black tee shirt and jeans looked me over as I approached. When I got close enough to reach for the door, he stepped in front me and smiled.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Hope so,” I said. “Looking for Serge.”

He eyed me for a minute, and then met my gaze. “And you are?”

“Just looking for someone. Hoping he can help me out.”

He folded his arms in front of his massive chest. “Who are you looking for?”

“There’s a guy named Marcus, and he used to see a guy named Brian. A few nights ago, they were in here together. Brian ended up leaving with a guy named…”

I paused and thought of the story Marcus told the night at the apartment. The name escaped me.

“I can’t remember his name. But they ended up out here by the door, making out. Marcus got stuck with the tab. After he paid it, he left. I’m looking for--”

He offered an apologetic shrug. “I don’t know that I can be much help.”

“Listen.” I looked him in the eyes. “Can you just point me in the right direction? I just want to--”

“Sorry,” he said with a shrug.

It was frustrating to think that I wasn’t going to be able to resolve the issue. Marcus was in intensive care, and I wanted vengeance. “Look. This guy beat Marcus half to death, and I’m going to make sure that he doesn’t do that to him – or anyone else for that matter – again.”

He waved at a passing car, and then glanced over each shoulder. “Oh. You’re not looking for Marcus?”

I shook my head. “Brian.”

He stepped back and searched my face. “You’re a friend of Marcus’s?”

“I am. Him and Tegan. He even posted a pic of me and him on Instagram the other night.”

He pulled his phone from his back pocket, messed with it for a minute, and then alternated glances between the screen and me.

“Oh wow.” He wrinkled his nose. “That is you, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Got a haircut since then.”

He smiled, opened the door to allow two people to walk in, and then put his phone in his pocket. “The hair? I liked the hair. But that beard?” he shook his head. “Shaving it was the right thing to do. It looks nice.”

“Thanks.”

“His name’s Brian Bailey. He’s not here. You might try The Brass Rail. It’s on Robinson and Fifth.”

“What’s he look like?”

“Six-two. Two hundred, give or take. He’s muscular. Short curly hair. It’s black. Dark skin, kind of like you. He’s got a big scar over his eye.” He reached for his face. “Left eye. And, he’s mean. Really mean.”

I grinned and shook his hand. “So am I.”

***

I wedged my bike between two parked cars and pointed it toward the street. Reluctantly, I removed my kutte, folded it, and put it in the saddlebag. Taking the chance of having it stolen wasn’t something I’d ever done, but wearing it in wasn’t an option. I’d taken an oath to protect it at all costs, and as much as it bothered me to leave it there, it bothered me more not to take care of what I needed to take care of.