Dale Prescott was the first professional Garrett called. His repair business was one of Wayne County's most established independent garages, with six service bays and enough certifications to fill an office wall. Dale understood cars better than motorcycles but took the call because Garrett had been a customer for years and because a job involving Black Fury would be remembered. He arrived in a truck with two assistants, a portable testing system, and a printed diagnostic checklist.
"What happened just before it died?" Dale asked.
"It started missing, then it quit," Garrett said. "You need more than that?"
Dale did, in fact, need more than that. He wanted to know whether Garrett had heard a metallic note, whether the bike had lost power suddenly or gradually, and what changes had been made to the ignition and carburetor since its last overhaul. But Garrett's answers came short and impatient. Dale looked at his assistants, decided against pressing, and began examining the machine.
He checked battery voltage, confirmed that the starter could turn the engine, and tried to establish a consistent ignition pattern. His equipment, well suited to newer systems, offered less guidance on a heavily modified machine from the early seventies. When a reading fell outside his expectations, he interpreted it through the problems he usually saw rather than through the particular machine before him. The result was a long half hour that produced a list of possibilities and not one verified cause.
"I need the bike at my shop," Dale finally said. "A teardown might show internal damage. Could be two weeks, maybe three."
Garrett's expression hardened. "Two weeks to tell me what's wrong?"
"I can tell you some things that aren't wrong," Dale replied. "That isn't the same as a full answer."
"Then you've wasted my time."
Dale quietly packed his gear. His assistants did not meet Garrett's eyes, because the hostility in the bay had been obvious from the moment they arrived. Outside, one of them said they should have asked to see the service records before plugging in anything. Dale answered with the bitterness of a man who knew, as soon as the door was closed, that he had allowed a difficult customer to rush him into poor practice.
Nolan Briggs arrived that afternoon in a white van filled with specialized tools. Nolan had spent decades working on Panheads and Shovelheads and liked to joke that he could identify a year of manufacture by the smell of the crankcase oil. He had rebuilt more old Harleys than Dale had ever serviced, and he carried the confidence of a man whose name was attached to successful restorations across the state. Garrett greeted him as though the problem was finally about to become ordinary.