“Traitor.”
Big Jim smiled.
Then he became serious again.
“I mean it.”
Leo nodded.
“All right.”
Big Jim extended one hand.
Leo looked at it.
Then shook it.
His hand disappeared inside the biker’s grip.
“Take care of your mother.”
“I will.”
“And the Sportster.”
“I will.”
“School.”
Leo sighed.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Big Jim turned away.
The club members returned to their motorcycles.
The resurrected Harley remained strapped to the trailer.
Leo walked over one last time.
He touched the repaired tank.
The primer was warm from the sun.
For eight months, this machine had belonged to his private world.
Every bolt carried a memory.
Every repaired component felt like part of his own body.
He pressed one hand against the tank.
“Guess you’re going home.”
Big Jim heard him.
“He is.”
Leo looked up.
“Dutch?”
“Yeah.”
The convoy left Barstow that afternoon.
The trailer carrying Dutch Holland’s motorcycle traveled near the center.
Not in front.
Not behind.
Protected.
Leo stood beside the Sportster watching hundreds of motorcycles roll onto the highway.
Engines merged into one enormous sound.
Then gradually faded.
Dust floated above the road after they disappeared.
The silence afterward felt unnatural.
Frank came outside.
He looked at the cash in Leo’s hands.
Then at the Sportster.
“Five dollars an hour suddenly feeling insulting?”
Leo slowly turned toward him.
“Extremely.”
Frank scratched his beard.
“Seven.”
“Ten.”
“Eight.”
“Twelve.”
“You’re fourteen.”
“You just got publicly shamed by three hundred bikers for underpaying me.”
Frank stared.
“Nine.”
“Ten.”
Frank sighed.
“Ten.”
Leo held out his hand.
Frank shook it.
“Extortion.”
“Negotiation.”
Sarah did not believe the story.
Not at first.
Leo returned home carrying more cash than she had ever seen in one place.
She stared at the bundle.
Then at him.
“Where did you get this?”
Leo opened his mouth.
She immediately said, “If you sold drugs, I will kill you before the police get here.”
“I didn’t sell drugs.”
“Did you steal it?”
“No.”
“Gambling?”
“I am fourteen.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“Motorcycle.”
Sarah’s expression froze.
“What motorcycle?”
“The Harley.”
“You sold it?”
“Kind of.”
“Kind of is not a financial category.”
Leo explained.
He started with the gas station.
Then Greasy Pete.
Then the photographs.
Then three hundred motorcycles.
Sarah sat down halfway through.
“You are telling me hundreds of Hells Angels surrounded the salvage yard.”
“Three hundred and five, apparently.”
“And Frank let you stand outside?”
“He was hiding.”
“I was not hiding,” Frank later insisted.
Sarah’s eyes widened as Leo continued.
When he finished, she stared at him.
Then the money.