Another biker grabbed Owen’s backpack.
“Let’s see what the genius carries.”
Owen reached for it.
“Give it back.”
The biker opened the zipper and turned the backpack upside down.
The water bottle hit first.
Then the sandwich.
Notebook.
Pen.
Library book.
Finally, the small metal toolbox.
The library book landed open on the pavement.
Fundamentals of Internal Combustion Engines.
Someone laughed.
“Look at that.”
The biker picked it up.
“Our little professor.”
He tossed it toward Owen.
The book landed partly in a dark patch of old motor oil.
Owen crouched.
Picked it up.
Wiped the cover carefully on his shirt.
He did not say anything.
Garrett watched him.
Something about the calm bothered him.
“You really think you can fix it?”
Owen slid the book back into his bag.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Five minutes.”
The parking lot exploded.
People laughed.
Vince bent forward with his hands on his knees.
Even Garrett stared for a second before laughing again.
“Five minutes?”
Owen nodded.
“You want the five thousand?”
“Yes.”
Garrett stepped close enough that Owen could smell tobacco and whiskey.
“Fifteen grown men looked at this motorcycle.”
“Okay.”
“You’ve got a lot of confidence for somebody washing cars for a living.”
Owen’s expression changed slightly.
“You know where I work?”
“Your shirt says it.”
Owen looked down.
Right.
Garrett continued.
“You got any idea what this bike means to me?”
“No.”
“My father built that engine.”
Owen looked toward Black Fury.
Something in his expression softened.
“My dad built engines too.”
Garrett gave a mocking smile.
“Then where is he?”
Owen’s face became still.
“Dead.”
The laughter nearby weakened.
Garrett could have stopped.
He did not.
“Then he can’t save you.”
Owen looked at him.
“I’m not asking him to.”
Garrett’s smile disappeared.
He stepped closer.
“You want five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Garrett pointed toward the five thousand dollars.
“If you make her run, you take the money.”
Owen nodded.
“And if you don’t?”
Owen looked around at the motorcycles.
“I’ll wash every bike here for free.”
People started laughing again.
Garrett shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“If you fail, you admit in front of everybody that you wasted our time.”
“That’s fine.”
“And you leave.”
“Fine.”
Garrett extended his hand.
Owen looked at it.
“Something else.”
Garrett narrowed his eyes.
“If I fix it, you apologize.”
The reaction was immediate.
The entire parking lot seemed to inhale at once.
Vince stared.
Somebody whispered:
“Oh, man.”
Garrett’s face hardened.
“For what?”
Owen looked directly at him.
“For treating me like garbage before you knew anything about me.”
For several seconds, nobody moved.
Then Garrett smiled.
The dangerous kind.
“Deal.”
They shook hands.
Someone started a five-minute timer.
Owen knelt beside Black Fury.
He opened the toolbox.
It was old.
Olive green.
Dent on one corner.
T. FLETCHER scratched into the lid.
Inside were only a handful of tools.
Half-inch combination wrench.
Small socket set.
Screwdrivers.
Spark-plug tool.
Needle-nose pliers.
Electrical tape.
A tiny flashlight.
Folded emery cloth.
Feeler gauge.
No miracle equipment.
No secret machine.
Garrett laughed.
“That it?”