Road.
The Harley became freedom made out of scavenged parts.
That was why what happened at the Shell station mattered so much.
Leo ran out of fuel two miles from O’Malley’s on a Tuesday afternoon.
He had misjudged the patched tank’s capacity.
By the time he pushed the motorcycle into the station, his shirt was soaked with sweat.
He counted crumpled bills.
Four dollars.
Enough to get home.
While he filled the tank, a damaged pickup pulled beside him.
Greasy Pete emerged.
Everyone in Barstow knew Pete without admitting they knew Pete.
He bought and sold whatever people were willing to buy and sell.
Car parts.
Tools.
Pills.
Information.
He had the narrow, twitchy energy of someone who slept badly.
His eyes landed on the Harley.
He stopped.
“Where’d you get that?”
Leo tightened the gas cap.
“Built it.”
Pete laughed.
“No, you didn’t.”
Leo said nothing.
Pete circled the bike.
“Kid, you may have worked on it, but you didn’t build that frame.”
“Leave me alone.”
Pete looked at the exhaust.
His face changed.
Then at the faint shape hidden beneath primer on the gas tank.
The original airbrushed death’s head had not been completely sanded away.
Its outline remained beneath the flat black.
Pete removed his phone.
Leo stepped between him and the motorcycle.
“Don’t.”
Click.
Pete took a photo.
“Stop.”
Another.
Leo’s face ended up in the third.
Pete smiled.
“Somebody’s been looking for something like this.”
Leo’s stomach tightened.
“Who?”
Pete ignored him.
“Where’d you find it?”
Leo started the motorcycle.
Pete stepped closer.
“You got papers?”
Leo twisted the throttle.
The Harley roared.
Pete moved back.
Leo accelerated away.
He did not look behind him.
By the time he reached the salvage yard, his hands were numb.
He told Frank.
The old man’s face turned serious.
“How many pictures?”
“Three.”
“You sure?”
“I think.”
“Did he see the markings?”
“Probably.”
Frank looked at the Harley.
Then at Leo.
“Where are the tags?”
“Locked up.”
“Ring?”
“Same place.”
Frank took out his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Nobody.”
He put the phone back.
For the first time since Leo had known him, Frank looked uncertain.
Twenty minutes after Leo left the Shell station, Pete sent the photographs south.
First to San Bernardino.
Then they moved through people Leo would never meet.
Eventually one image reached Oakland.
A matte-black Harley under harsh gas-station lights.
Mismatched parts.
Custom exhaust.
Faint death’s head beneath primer.
Skinny boy beside it.
The image was enlarged.
Then enlarged again.
By midnight, it was displayed in a clubhouse room heavy with cigarette smoke.
Several older members stared.
Nobody spoke for nearly a minute.
Then Big Jim Callahan leaned forward.
He was sixty-one.
Gray beard.
Massive shoulders.
Decades of road in his face.
He knew the exhaust.
He knew the weld.
More importantly, he knew the man who had made it.
“Dutch.”
Someone beside him said, “You sure?”
Big Jim pointed.