Ten feet away, he stopped.
He looked first at the boy.
Then the bike.
“That’s Dutch Holland’s motorcycle.”
Leo’s mouth was dry.
“I found it.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
“I fixed it.”
Big Jim removed his sunglasses.
“Step away.”
Leo tightened his grip.
“No.”
A murmur moved through the men near the gate.
Bobby Chains shifted.
Big Jim raised one hand without looking at him.
“Stay.”
Bobby stopped.
Big Jim’s eyes remained on Leo.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
Big Jim almost smiled.
“Fourteen.”
He looked at the wrench.
“You planning to use that on me?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I’m not giving you the bike.”
“That might be a problem.”
“I worked on it for eight months.”
Big Jim looked past him.
The machine was ugly.
Primer black.
Mixed hardware.
Repaired tank.
But alive.
“You got it running?”
“Yes.”
“From what we saw?”
“Yes.”
Big Jim walked closer.
Leo did not move.
The older man crouched near the Harley.
He placed his bare hand against the engine.
His fingers moved across familiar shapes.
Then the exhaust.
He stopped at a weld mark.
His face changed.
“Dutch did this.”
Nobody behind him spoke.
Big Jim traced the pipe.
“1996.”
He seemed to forget Leo for a moment.
“He traded a case of beer and a carburetor for time on a TIG setup.”
One of the older bikers behind him laughed softly.
“That sounds like Dutch.”
Big Jim stood.
“How’d you free the engine?”
Leo blinked.
“What?”
“The pistons.”
Leo’s fear gave way, briefly, to mechanical instinct.
“Diesel and ATF.”
“How long?”
“Three weeks.”
Big Jim nodded once.
“Breaker bar?”
“Yes.”
“You force it?”
“No. Rocked it.”
“How far first time?”
“Maybe a millimeter.”
A biker behind Jim muttered, “Kid’s patient.”
Leo continued.
“Carb was trash. I used Sportster parts. Had to rebuild the linkage.”
“Forks?”
“Replacement Dyna assembly.”
“Frame?”
“Checked it three times.”
“By who?”
Leo pointed toward Frank.
Frank immediately said, “Do not drag me into this.”
Big Jim almost smiled.
“You straightened anything?”
“Minor.”
“You weld?”
“A little.”
Frank shouted, “Badly.”
“Shut up, Frank.”
The tension shifted.
Only slightly.
Big Jim looked at Leo’s hands.
Scars.
Burn marks.
Grease embedded near the nails.
He understood those hands.
“You did all this?”
“Mostly.”
“Why?”
Leo looked toward the Harley.
“Because it deserved better than dirt.”
That answer silenced Big Jim.