Curtis did not know that the bike's cam-drive arrangement had been modified by Walter Steel when the engine was first rebuilt. He did not ask about the later carburetor conversion, nor did he clean the junction between the frame and the ground strap before testing across it. The numbers he gathered reflected several overlapping weaknesses. He was skilled at reading figures, but too quick to turn an unfamiliar figure into evidence that the entire assembly was beyond economical repair.
After twenty minutes he closed his laptop. "Full engine rebuild," he said. "Crankshaft inspection, cylinders, cam drive, primary components. Depending on what we find, you're looking at eight thousand dollars or more. Could reach twelve with sourcing and labor."
"And what, exactly, is broken?" Garrett asked.
"The symptoms are consistent with broad internal failure."
"That's not what I asked."
Curtis did not answer directly. He had presented an estimate when Garrett wanted proof, and they both knew it. Garrett ordered him off the property. The consultant left with the calm of somebody confident that his professional title was enough to shield his judgment from further scrutiny, though he made a private note that the job had gone badly.
By late afternoon, a total of fifteen mechanics and knowledgeable hobbyists had offered assistance or opinions without returning Black Fury to life. Some might have found the trouble with more time. A few had never actually opened the engine. The public number grew with every retelling, however, and by the time evening arrived it had become a single satisfying sentence: fifteen real mechanics failed.
That sentence delighted the people gathering around the Iron Rail because it promised a public spectacle. For Garrett it meant something different. It meant a chorus of men had declared his father's work irreparable and expected him to stand quietly beside it. He watched his reflection distort across the dark tank, remembered Walter's warning about the cost of being feared, and disliked the memory enough to shove it away.
At six, he pulled five thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills from the cash he kept for chapter expenses and personal emergencies. He counted it twice, laid it on a folding table beside the garage, and placed an empty beer bottle on top to keep the bills from blowing away. Then he announced a challenge to anyone willing to hear it. Start Black Fury within an hour, without transporting it elsewhere, and the money was theirs.
Some people applauded. Others pulled out their phones and began calling friends who had mechanical experience. The atmosphere became the kind that grows around an impossible dare, half party and half execution. Garrett stood next to the table, accepting the attention as if it were evidence that he remained in control of events.
Dale came back because he had left a pressure gauge behind. Nolan came back because a friend said Garrett was offering cash. Curtis stayed in the lot to see whether someone would prove his estimate wrong, though he would later tell an interviewer he had been waiting for a ride. The three specialists stood in separate places, each careful not to appear allied with the others.