Hand-welded.
Someone had modified the geometry.
The handlebar was unusually heavy.
One side contained a sealed hollow section.
Leo found it accidentally when removing corroded controls.
Something shifted inside.
He shook the bar.
Clink.
He cut away a damaged end cap.
A short PVC tube slid out.
Leo frowned.
It was sealed tightly with threaded caps and wrapped in deteriorated tape.
He opened it.
Military dog tags fell into his palm.
ARTHUR HOLLAND.
A second line showed service information.
Beside the tags sat a heavy silver ring.
The face carried a winged skull emblem.
Hells Angels MC was engraved inside.
Leo stopped moving.
He had seen patches on highway riders.
Seen television documentaries.
Seen the logo enough to know it was not ordinary club merchandise.
Frank found him staring at the ring.
“What now?”
Leo held it up.
Frank’s cigarette dropped from his fingers.
For several seconds, he did not speak.
Then he stepped closer.
“Put that back.”
“What?”
“Exactly where you found it.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
Leo looked at the tags.
“Arthur Holland.”
Frank’s face remained tense.
“You know him?”
“No.”
“You look like you do.”
“I know what that ring means.”
“What?”
“It means this bike belonged to somebody connected to people you don’t want misunderstanding you.”
Leo looked toward the battered motorcycle.
“What am I supposed to do?”
Frank rubbed his jaw.
“I don’t know.”
“Call police?”
Frank immediately shook his head.
“Why?”
“Because twelve years ago police already handled the wreck.”
“And?”
“And somehow the bike disappeared into my yard with personal property still hidden inside.”
Frank stared at the dog tags.
“That makes me wonder how carefully anybody handled anything.”
Leo wrapped the ring and tags in a rag.
“I’m keeping them safe.”
Frank pointed.
“You don’t wear it.”
“Obviously.”
“You don’t show friends.”
“I don’t have friends.”
“Not funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
Frank sighed.
“Lock it up.”
The project continued.
Autumn became winter.
Leo returned to an alternative school program three mornings a week after Sarah threatened to drag him there herself.
He worked afternoons.
At night, he rebuilt the Harley.
The carburetor was beyond saving.
A wrecked Sportster contributed enough parts to create something workable.
The fuel tank required hours of repair.
The front forks were replaced with components from another damaged Dyna Frank acquired at auction.
Leo learned to measure alignment.
He learned that rushing metal created problems you paid for later.
He learned to stop when anger made his hands careless.
He learned to ask Frank questions.
That was the hardest lesson.
One evening, after a bolt snapped flush inside an aluminum housing, Leo threw a wrench hard enough to dent a cabinet.
Frank watched from behind him.
“You done?”
Leo’s eyes were wet.
“No.”
“You look done.”
“It broke.”
“Things break.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“I spent four hours on that.”
“And now you’ll spend three learning how to extract a broken bolt.”
Leo kicked the tire.
Frank’s voice hardened.
“Don’t kick machines because you’re angry at yourself.”
Leo glared.
“You smoke next to gasoline.”
“I’m sixty-three. I’ve earned stupid.”
Leo almost laughed.
Frank handed him a drill guide.
“Slow.”