Then him again.
“They gave you this?”
“Yes.”
“For fixing the bike?”
“Yes.”
“And another motorcycle?”
“Yes.”
Sarah stood.
“No.”
“What?”
“No motorcycle.”
“Mom.”
“You are fourteen.”
“It’s not registered to ride yet.”
“It can stay with Frank until you’re eighteen.”
“Fine.”
“No arguing?”
Leo smiled.
“I need the carb rebuilt anyway.”
Sarah pointed.
“This is exactly what I mean.”
But her anger could not survive the reality of the cash.
They used part of it to clear overdue medical bills.
Part went toward medication.
Part into savings.
Leo insisted some remain for school.
Sarah cried when he said that.
Not dramatic crying.
Quiet.
Kitchen-table crying.
The kind she tried to hide with one hand.
Leo sat beside her.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I know you didn’t want me worrying about money.”
She held his hand.
“I didn’t want you growing up this fast.”
He looked down.
“I think I already did.”
“No.”
Sarah wiped her face.
“You learned responsibility too early. That is different from being grown.”
Leo thought about Big Jim.
About Dutch.
About three hundred men quietly paying debts to a dead friend.
“Maybe.”
Sarah looked at him.
“You are going back to school full-time.”
He groaned.
“There it is.”
“Yes.”
“But Frank—”
“Afternoons.”
“Mom.”
“No.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Leo eventually surrendered.
Three weeks later, a package arrived at their house.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed Dutch Holland’s restored Harley inside the Oakland clubhouse.
Not under museum glass.
Not polished beyond recognition.
The primer black Leo had applied remained on much of the body.
His repairs were visible.
The mismatched parts had not been replaced.
A small plaque beneath the motorcycle read:
ARTHUR “DUTCH” HOLLAND
BROTHER. RIDER. MECHANIC.
FOUND AGAIN IN BARSTOW.
RETURNED HOME THROUGH THE HANDS OF LEO ROSSI.
Leo read it three times.
Inside the envelope was another photograph.
An older woman stood beside the motorcycle holding Dutch’s ring.
White hair.
Leather jacket.
Wet eyes.
Written on the back:
Thank you for bringing Arthur home.
Her name was Marianne Holland.
Leo placed the photograph above his bed.
Months later, he wrote her a letter.
Not a polished one.
Three pages in uneven handwriting.
He explained how he found the bike.
What parts had survived.
What the engine sounded like when it finally started.
Which pieces were original.
Which were replacements.
He apologized for repainting the tank.
Two weeks later, Marianne called.
Sarah answered first.
“Leo?”
She covered the phone.
“Woman named Marianne Holland.”
Leo nearly dropped the wrench he was holding.
He took the phone.
“Hello?”
“Is this my motorcycle mechanic?”
Leo smiled nervously.