Not dramatic.
Enough to create resistance under starting load.
Owen smiled.
He heard Thomas.
Listen before you touch.
He took the folded strip of emery cloth from his pocket.
Vince noticed.
“That sandpaper?”
“Emery.”
Owen cleaned the frame contact.
Bright metal appeared.
Then the cable terminal.
He reinstalled it.
Tightened.
Timer:
1:46.
Garrett’s expression had stopped being amused entirely.
Owen replaced the spark plugs.
Connected leads.
Checked fuel.
Closed the carburetor.
Then stood.
Timer:
1:17.
Garrett stared.
“That’s it?”
“Try it.”
Garrett did not move.
The crowd did.
People pushed closer.
Phones lifted.
Dale Prescott stood near the back now.
Nolan beside him.
Curtis Wade had returned as well.
All three watched.
Garrett said:
“If it doesn’t run…”
Owen interrupted.
“Then I wash the bikes.”
Garrett looked at him.
No fear.
No arrogance either.
That bothered Garrett even more.
He swung one leg over Black Fury.
His right hand settled on the throttle.
He turned the key.
The electrical system came alive.
Garrett worked the starting sequence.
The engine turned.
Once.
Twice.
Nothing.
A few people inhaled sharply.
Vince smiled again.
Owen did not move.
“Again.”
Garrett glared.
“You telling me how to start my bike?”
“I’m telling you the cylinders were flooded.”
Garrett tried again.
The engine turned.
One cylinder caught.
Then stopped.
The timer showed:
0:48.
Someone yelled:
“Forty-eight!”
Garrett looked at Owen.
Owen stepped toward the carburetor.
“Open it slightly. Don’t pump.”
Garrett did.
Starter.
The engine turned.
Caught.
Coughed.
Then both cylinders fired.
Black Fury came alive.
The sound hit the concrete wall behind the crowd and bounced back across the parking lot.
Deep.
Heavy.
Uneven in the way old Harley V-twins were supposed to be uneven.
Garrett’s hands froze on the bars.
The exhaust barked.
Then settled.
Owen listened.
Points timing good.
Carburetor responding.
No electrical breakup.
Garrett twisted the throttle.
The engine responded immediately.
Again.
Clean.
The timer read:
0:31.
Nobody spoke.
Not at first.
Garrett revved the engine once more.
The motorcycle his father had built was running.
Not barely.
Running properly.
He shut it off.
The silence afterward seemed larger than the noise.
Owen closed his toolbox.
That small click was the loudest sound in the parking lot.
Then somebody clapped.
One person.
A man near the fence.
Another joined.
Then another.
The applause spread.
No screaming.
No theatrical celebration.
Just sixty people who had spent the previous five minutes discovering they had judged somebody incorrectly.
Garrett remained seated on Black Fury.
His face looked different.
Not defeated.
Something more uncomfortable.
Ashamed.
He stood.
Walked toward Owen.
The crowd went silent again.
Owen looked at him.
Garrett reached for the money.