Big Dave opened the catalog.
“We're finished.”
Rusty didn't answer.
The modified geometry meant standard replacement parts might not fit correctly.
Ordering custom parts could take weeks.
They had two days.
Pete kicked a stool lightly across the floor.
“Perfect.”
Rusty looked at Leo.
For the first time, the child's confidence faltered.
He climbed down from the crate.
Picked up one bent rod.
Held it carefully.
Then his eyes shifted.
Not toward the motorcycle.
Toward the paint booth.
“What?”
Leo looked at Rusty.
“My dad had a storage locker here.”
Rusty frowned.
“Where?”
“Downstairs.”
“The basement lockers?”
Leo nodded.
“I thought the previous landlord cleaned those out.”
“He didn't clean Dad's.”
“How do you know?”
“Because when Dad got sick, he told Mom he lost the deposit because he couldn't empty it.”
Rusty thought back.
The basement beneath Apex was older than the current shop.
Forty metal storage cages lined a narrow corridor beneath the paint room.
Most had been emptied during renovation.
Several remained locked because ownership paperwork was unclear.
“What number?”
Leo closed his eyes.
“Forty-two.”
Rusty stared.
“You sure?”
“Dad said forty-two because it was Jackie Robinson.”
Big Dave looked at Rusty.
“Worth a look.”
Ten minutes later, they stood in the basement.
The air smelled like damp concrete, old cardboard, and metal.
Locker 42 sat near the far wall.
The padlock was brown with rust.
Rusty verified old building records as best he could before opening anything.
Arthur Hayes's name remained on the faded rental tag.
“He really never cleared it.”
Leo touched the tag.
His father's handwriting appeared beneath the printed name.
A.H.
Rusty crouched beside him.
“You want to open it?”
Leo nodded.
Rusty removed the corroded lock.
The door groaned.
Dust moved through the beam of their flashlights.
Inside sat three cardboard boxes.
A broken stool.
Old magazines.
A milk crate filled with carburetors.
Two coffee cans packed with bolts.
And a wooden chest.
Leo knew it.
“Dad made that.”
He knelt.
The chest was heavy but small.
A simple brass latch held it closed.
Leo opened it.
Oiled cloth filled the inside.
He peeled back the first layer.
Machined components.
Carefully preserved.
Labeled.
Everything Arthur expected to need again.
Rusty lifted one package.
ARTHUR HAYES - CUSTOM SET B.
Another.
DUTCH - CLUTCH.
Then Leo found the wrapped bundle beneath them.
Four custom pushrods.
Unused.
Each machined to the dimensions required by Dutch's altered engine.
A strip of yellowing masking tape wrapped around the package.
The handwritten words had faded but remained readable.
DUTCH - WIDOWMAKER SPARES.
Big Dave slowly sat on an overturned bucket.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
Tommy laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because sometimes disbelief had nowhere else to go.
Rusty held one rod under the flashlight.
“Your father kept spares.”
Leo smiled.
“He always said if you build something weird, you better build two of the parts nobody sells.”
Rusty looked at him.
“Your dad was smarter than most of us.”