“What?”
“The bike.”
Leo pointed.
“You keep kicking it, you’re just putting more fuel in.”
John looked toward the Panhead.
Then back.
“Who asked you?”
“Nobody.”
“Good.”
He turned away.
Leo should have retreated.
Instead, he said:
“Your float valve’s probably sticking.”
John stopped.
Leo continued before courage disappeared.
“When you came in, it was running rich.”
“Black smoke.”
“Idle wouldn’t hold.”
“Then you opened the throttle more trying to keep it alive.”
“That drowned the plugs.”
John slowly turned back.
This time he actually looked at Leo.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“And you're telling me what’s wrong with a Panhead?”
“My dad worked on diesel and bikes.”
“Diesel ain’t a Panhead.”
“No.”
Leo looked at the carburetor.
“But fuel is fuel.”
John almost smiled.
Almost.
“What year?”
Leo looked at the motorcycle.
“Fifty-two?”
Now John did smile.
Small.
Surprised.
“Good guess.”
“Not a guess.”
Leo stepped closer carefully.
“Your heads are older style.”
“Tank’s not original.”
“Carb definitely isn’t.”
John looked at the S&S carburetor.
“Smart-ass.”
Leo shrugged.
“Probably.”
John folded his arms.
“All right.”
“You’re the expert.”
“Fix it.”
Leo glanced at him.
“Seriously?”
“Before I change my mind.”
Leo ran into the garage.
John expected junk.
Instead, Leo returned carrying a canvas tool roll like someone carrying a family Bible.
He knelt beside the motorcycle.
Untied the faded straps.
Opened it.
John stopped smiling.
Those were not random stolen tools.
The set was incomplete and worn, but carefully maintained.
Snap-on combination wrenches.
Needle-nose pliers.
Feeler gauges.
Micrometer.
Screwdrivers with handles polished smooth by years of use.
Old torque wrench.
Everything placed in the exact slot where it belonged.
Leo’s hands stopped shaking as soon as he touched them.
John noticed.
“You really know what you’re doing?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what everybody says before they break something.”
Leo looked up.
“My dad said anybody who says they can fix everything is somebody you don’t let near your engine.”
John barked a laugh.
“All right.”
“What did your dad call people who hit machines with wrenches?”
Leo glanced at the wrench John had used earlier.
“Customers.”
John laughed harder.
For the next forty-five minutes, the abandoned Texaco became a garage again.
Leo removed the air cleaner.
Checked the plugs.
Exactly as he expected, wet.
John found an old rag.
Leo dried what he could and set them aside.
Then he opened the carburetor carefully.
John watched his hands.
Not fast.
Not showy.
Deliberate.
Leo listened to parts before forcing anything.
His father’s training lived in those movements.
When the bowl came free, Leo inspected the needle.
“There.”
John leaned closer.
The tip was visibly degraded.
“Damn.”
“It won’t seat.”
“You got another one hiding in that miracle bag?”
“No.”
“So we’re done.”
“Maybe not.”
Leo looked around.
His eyes landed on the rusting Ford pickup abandoned behind the garage.
He stood.
“Wait.”
He climbed through weeds.