Chapter Fifteen

Something

VINCENT WENT OUT of the side door to the deck. The flashing lights from inside the bar came through the tall windows and colored the crowd and smoke outside in an array of blues, pinks, and greens. At least out here, he could hear himself think. And smokers were usually more open to chatting than those grinding on the dance floor. He started to his left, skipping over patrons he’d talked to on previous nights.

The first new face he found was that of a young Black man. He leaned against the railing, lighting a new cigarette off the one he’d just finished. He was dressed in a tight white T-shirt and black skinny jeans. With a short, red mohawk that looked like the plume of a Roman helmet and gauges the size of Oreos in his ears, he didn’t look like the usual clientele of Cruze Bar. He also didn’t appear in a particularly talkative mood, but Vincent had gotten better at fighting against the urge to flee at every glaring look over the last few nights.

Vincent sipped his water—wishing it was something stronger—and approached him. “How’s it going?”

The Roman soldier took a long drag and looked him up and down. “No offense, but you’re not my type.”

“I was actually wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

A guarded look. “Why? You a cop or something?”

“No, and I’m not a reporter either,” he said to answer the next question that usually arose.

“What’s it about?”

“I’m just wondering if you’ve had any trouble lately. Like people threatening you or trying to hurt you.”

“I’m a gay Black man who looks like this,” he said, motioning to himself. “What do you think?”

He had a point. Pittsburgh might have more accepting, or perhaps indifferent, residents than a small town like Butler, but it was hardly a utopia. “Were any of them a tall, bald man with a number tattooed on the side of his head? Or a short, stocky guy? Or a young, bleach-blond kid?”

Vincent felt strange not turning his phone to show the guy the police sketches. That’s what he and James had done when they first started going to gay bars around town to ask people if they’d run into their attackers. But the sketches were so general and so many more questions arose because of them that they’d stopped using them last night.

The Roman soldier thought for a minute. “Not that I can remember. Why?”

Why?

The question Vincent dreaded most, and the one nearly every person he talked to had naturally asked him. “They attacked one of my friends for being gay. Tried to kill him.”

The distance of the lie did little to stop his heart from beating faster at the thought of that night and those three assholes whose faces were lost in shadows, but whose actions were crystal clear in his mind.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” The Roman soldier tapped his pack of cigarettes against the railing. “Want a smoke?”

Vincent did, but he told him that he was all right. He was pretty sure if he started smoking again now, he’d devote the rest of their depleting resources to cigarettes. “Thanks anyway.”

“No problem.”

Vincent continued around the deck, enjoying the secondhand smoke.

He knew the chances of finding someone who not only came across their attackers, but also survived them and happened to be at the same bar as him and James were slim. However, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit that another night of answers in the negative was disheartening. One guy did explain that a bald man had screamed, “Faggot,” at him from the window of a moving pickup truck, but that was hardly a lead. Vincent would need more than two hands to count the number of times something similar had happened to him and James in the city.

Vincent headed back inside to check on James’s progress. He was standing against the wall on the other side of the dance floor with a baseball cap pulled down low on his forehead. Hardly an elaborate disguise. Just a precaution in case they ran into someone from school or had the misfortune of crossing paths with the detectives. Both possibilities were relatively low in a gay bar—most of their acquaintances happened to be straight—but it made Vincent feel a little better about James being out in public.

James made eye contact with him over the heads of the three men standing around him. Vincent started around the edge of the dance floor toward him. He clutched the knife in his pocket as he squeezed through the crowd, comforted by the thought that if someone tried to hurt him, he wouldn’t be defenseless.

James was describing their attackers to the group when Vincent reached him. James didn’t need to make much of an effort to get men to talk to him. Vincent wasn’t sure if it was his looks or the mysterious air about him, but people were drawn to him. He could stand in one place for most of the night and talk to at least half the bar.

Vincent leaned against the wall and surveyed the room while he waited for James to finish. There was a man and woman in the center of the dance floor. Eyes glazed with booze, they dripped sweat as they groped and kissed each other to the beat. He was fine letting James talk to them when he was done.

His eyes wandered through the crowd. Unfocused bodies. They probably looked like a sea of squirming mealworms from an aerial view. If some giant lifted the roof off, the monster would surely shrink back in horror at the sight. That’s what Vincent did when Henry presented him with a container of the bait on one of the few occasions he’d tried to get his son interested in fishing. But Vincent had also accidentally knocked the container out of Henry’s hand, sending the worms straight over the side of the dock and into the pond.

A younger guy with curly hair and circle glasses appeared in front of him. “Let’s dance.”

Before Vincent could answer, the guy dragged him toward the middle of the dance floor.

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m not in the mood,” Vincent yelled over the blaring techno music as he dug his heels in the floor and tried to pull his arm free.

“Come on!” The guy tugged him forward. Hard. Vincent lost his balance and slammed into him.

The pain that shot through his chest was so sudden and intense he lost his grip on his water. He glanced down to see where it landed, and the next thing he knew, the guy had let go of his hand and was sprawled out on the ground in front of him. James stood at his side, fists clenched and chest heaving.

James had knocked him on his ass.

The man scrambled back on his elbows. “What the fuck?”

James ignored him, his attention on Vincent. “Babe, are you okay?”

Vincent looked up at him. His face was unreadable. The words on the tip of Vincent’s tongue dissolved when he saw the crowd looking back at them. James was supposed to keep a low profile. He was supposed to be dead. And yet, a circle was forming around them and the man. Some guy said, “Oh shit!” A woman held her hand over her mouth in surprise. Someone else asked what was going on, and a man who could barely stand up straight chanted, “Fight!”

Vincent searched for an opening in the crowd through which he and James could flee. There didn’t appear to be a break in rank among the flashing bodies that were starting to look more like the bars of a cage.

“Are you okay?” James asked a little louder.

Vincent didn’t get a chance to respond. A tall, muscular bouncer dressed in black pushed his way into the circle. His eyes went from the man on the ground to James. The story told itself. Without hesitation, he marched up to James. Inches from his face, he said, “Get the fuck out of my bar.”

James didn’t flinch, much less move.

The man grabbed him by his forearm. “Let’s go.”

James yanked his arm free. He pulled his other arm back, his fingers tightening into a fist. Shit, he’s gonna hit him. Vincent didn’t have time to think of anything else. He threw himself between the two men. “We’re going!”

The bouncer didn’t move; he just watched James over Vincent’s shoulder. “Then go.”

“Sorry,” Vincent said to him. He turned to James, who was locked in a staring contest with the bouncer. He snapped his fingers in James’s face until he looked at him. “Let’s go.”

Whatever spell had come over James broke. He took in the scene and tugged down on the visor of his hat to further hide his face. “Okay.”

The bouncer led them out, letting them know at the door that they weren’t welcome back. Vincent hurried down the sidewalk, and when they turned the corner down the block, he stopped to face James.

He was ready to demand to know what the fuck James thought he was doing. Remind him that the goal was not to have every person in the bar look too closely at him. Let him know that the small pool of gay bars where they could talk to people had now significantly shrunk. Make him realize just how screwed they would have been if that bouncer had called the cops.

But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a choked sob.

James pulled him close. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” It was the truth—he felt lightheaded. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop the flood of tears. And only after they were streaming down his face did he realize he’d been holding them in for days.

James stepped back to examine him. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Vincent managed between sobs.

“Come on.” James led him down the street to the car. He helped Vincent into the driver’s seat.

Vincent focused on the people stumbling around the corner from the bar. Eventually, the tears slowed. He searched his mind for some explanation of what had set him off. The confusion of the fight certainly pushed him over the edge, but that wasn’t it. There was more to it.

They’d gone out nearly every night for a week, and they had nothing to show for it.

He might feel less discouraged if that was all they had tried, but it wasn’t. There were hours of online searches into attacks against minorities in Pittsburgh. Unreturned calls to local news agencies. Questions posted in local LGBTQIA+ social media groups, which led them to going out to talk to people at gay bars. After all of it, they were no closer to figuring out what had happened than they were last week. Damien was still dead, Todd was still missing, and their attackers were still on the loose.

To make matters worse, they couldn’t keep this up forever. Rent and utilities needed to be paid if they were going to continue living in their apartment. Vincent had enough money in his bank account to cover another month or two, and they still had that envelope of cash from Sam and Tyler (which he was determined not to touch unless completely necessary), but what would they do after that? Every night, it was becoming clearer that they couldn’t continue this way for long.

“I just don’t know if we’re fighting a losing battle,” he said, drying his face with a tissue from the glove box.

“What do you want to do?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t know what else we can do. It’s not like we’re detectives or anything. We’re just troubleshooting in the dark and praying something works.”

James patted his thigh. “It’s something.”

That had become Vincent’s motto over the past week. After every night when they collapsed in bed utterly exhausted, he’d reminded James that doing something was far better than hiding in their apartment. He thought he’d been saying it for James’s sake, but now he wasn’t so sure. “You’re right.”

They had no idea what they were doing, but they were trying. It was something.

 

DAYS PASSED IN a blur. They branched out to other bars. Stayed out later. Became nocturnal animals who drifted to sleep when the sun started to rise in the early morning. Vincent usually awoke sometime in the afternoon, covered in sweat from the latest horror show his subconscious had cooked up for him. Then, he showered, ate dinner, and waited to head out.

His cuts and bruises were healing. James, on the other hand, was as distant as ever. Every once in a while, Vincent caught a glimpse of his old boyfriend. James smirked at a joke he told or kissed the back of his neck when they cuddled on the couch. And for a moment, Vincent was taken back to a time before the attack. Then, James retreated into himself again, and he was left with the bitter taste of their old lives in his mouth.

On Saturday, they went to Blue Moon Bar, which was having a drag show centered around ’80s divas. The first performer went on at midnight, and the place was already filling up by the time Vincent and James got there at ten thirty.

Patrons had embraced the theme. Gravity-defying hairstyles. Acid-washed denim. Neon accessories. They’d been transported back in time. Under different circumstances, Vincent might’ve had a lot of fun tonight. He could’ve forced James into some ridiculous matching outfit, thrown back a few vodka tonics, and enjoyed the show.

Unfortunately, these weren’t different circumstances, and while a vodka tonic would make the prospect of questioning a room full of strangers less daunting, he had to keep his head clear and focused. They couldn’t afford to be downing drinks. They were here to get answers.

James had already started talking to the people hanging out around the stage—he was assigned to the more populated front of the bar. Vincent got himself an ice water and went down the hall, past the bathrooms, to the back room where there was a pool table and lax smoking rules.

A less rambunctious crowd was divided into small groups who sat at high-top tables along the walls, smoking, drinking, and chatting. A few women were playing pool in the center of the room. He didn’t think he recognized a single person, but it was hard to tell when half the people were done up in ’80s garb and smoke filled the air.

Vincent took as deep of a breath as his ribs would allow.

It’s something, he reminded himself.

After a week and a half of doing this, he was getting better with crowds. There was still that nagging doubt when people brushed past him that they could easily pull out a blade and plunge it into his stomach, but such possibilities seemed more outlandish in gay bars, and knowing he had a knife in his pocket to defend himself kept his thoughts from spiraling too far out of control. Plus, James was just one scream away from rushing to his side and demolishing anyone who tried to hurt him.

He went clockwise around the room from table to table. He’d gotten through half of them with no more luck than he’d had the previous nights when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He stopped where he stood between two tables and checked it. He had a notification from the security camera. Motion was detected at the front door.

He went to the live feed. He wasn’t sure what he expected, but he was surprised to find Sam knocking on the door. He hadn’t seen her since the night Tyler had pulled the gun on James. For the first few days after that, he kept expecting her to reach out to James to apologize and see how her oldest friend was doing. After two weeks, he was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen. James didn’t seem to be too bothered by it, but there was no way it wasn’t affecting him.

Was that what she was finally attempting? A half-baked apology?

Just then, something slammed into his stomach. The force was so concentrated and sharp he thought his worst fear had materialized. He jumped back and dropped his phone to search the folds of his sweater for the blood that’d be gushing from the wound.

His sweater was dry. He looked up to find the source. No attacker wielding a knife. Just a heavyset woman with a scrunchie in her side ponytail and a pool cue in her hands. “Sorry, hun. I didn’t realize you were right behind me.”

“Sure, Liz,” one of her friends, whose hair was teased into a mound of blonde hair, said before erupting in laughter.

“Ignore her,” Liz said. “I wish I could say Kat was drunk, but that’s just her personality.”

“You’re fine.” He knelt to pick up his phone. He’d learned pretty early on that he wouldn’t be bending over until his ribs healed. The landing was empty. Sam must have retreated. He closed the app and pocketed his phone. He still had the women’s attention. “Can I ask you and your friends a few questions?”

“As long as you aren’t some confused Jehovah Witness, sure.”

Vincent went through his spiel. Had anyone threatened them or tried to hurt them? No. They hadn’t come across a tall man, a stocky man, or a blond kid, had they? No, they hadn’t. Why did he want to know? He told them the lie. An automatic response by this point. Almost as if it had created an alternate history that he could explain without even thinking about it. He appreciated them taking the time to talk to him anyway. He started back over to the next table along the wall when Kat said, “Wait a minute, Liz. What about your car?”

Liz thought for a moment and took a swig of her beer, which was sweating on the edge of the table. “We don’t even know who did that, and I think it had more to do with where I was than anything.”

“What’s that?” Vincent forced himself to remain calm. Nothing anyone else had said so far had led to anything. There was no reason that this would be the exception.

“Oh, some asshole fucked up my car,” she said dismissively.

“Did more than that,” Kat said.

Liz shot her a glaring look before focusing her attention on Vincent. “I doubt this will help, but if it’ll shut her up, I might as well tell you. So, my shit-for-brains brother bartends now and then at this dive bar in West Oakland. End of January, I had to pick him up because his ride fell through—he doesn’t drive.”

“He can drive. The dumbass got his license suspended,” Kat said, as if it was an essential detail to the story.

“Anyway,” Liz continued, ignoring her friend. “It was like almost two in the morning, and I was out front beeping and beeping, but he never came out. So, I parked my car and stormed in. Found him trying to talk up this busty bartender. And when I finally dragged him back to the car, someone had keyed it. I have a rainbow Star of David on my bumper, and they carved ‘undesirable cunt’ across the door. Never found out who did it though.”

Undesirable.

The word echoed in his mind.

Not in her voice.

In a deep, gravelly voice.

The tall man. He’d called them that. Undesirable filth. Of all the things those fuckers had called them, this one stuck out because it was so uncommon. Strange. Stranger still that it’d been carved into a car less than a mile or two from Schenley Park within a month of the attack. There was no denying that, despite the coincidences, their chances were slim, but it was the closest thing to a lead they’d gotten since they’d started. “What bar was that?”

“Rob’s. But I wouldn’t go around there if I were you. Most of the men there are looking to fuck or fight. Not a place for a nice boy like you.”

“Thanks. Sorry about your car.” He started backing up. He needed to get James. Tell him what he’d found.

She shrugged. “Just a car. Sorry about your friend.”

It took him a second to realize that she was referring to the lie. “Thanks.”

“Hey,” Kat said, her face brightening. “Wanna play the loser? We suck, but after a couple beers, you won’t be able to notice.”

“Thanks. But I gotta go.”

“Be careful out there,” Liz said.

“You too.”

Vincent rushed out of the room. It could be nothing. Someone else with similar sentiments to those three fuckers could have used that word…or the tall man could have spotted Liz’s rainbow Star of David in the parking lot and decided to leave her a little present.

He found James at the bar, chatting with a seven-foot-tall Whitney Houston. “Hey, can I talk to you?”

James turned to him, his eyes widening with concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Listen, it’s not much, but I think I found something.”