At the front of the group rode Jim Mercer, a large, gray-bearded man whose expression could silence a conversation before he reached the door. His leather vest was old and carefully maintained, with the insignia of the Hells Angels Motorcycle Club stitched across its back and patches that spoke of a long, dangerous reputation. Behind him rode men of different ages, all watching the garage as if they expected disappointment and were preparing for it. Jim removed his helmet, looked once at the waiting owner, and walked toward him without hurrying.
"Tell me she's breathing, Rusty," he said.
Rusty wiped his hands with a red rag even though he had already washed them. "Jim, I'd rather give you bad news straight than dress it up. We've done the carburetor, the ignition components, the wiring checks, the charging system, and the compression tests. Every ordinary explanation we could think of has led us nowhere. It turns over, but it won't come to life."
Jim looked past him toward the workshop. The flatbed driver had pulled into the loading lane and was preparing to unload the motorcycle, although the crew had brought it from a storage site only because Jim wanted every mechanic to see the problem in front of him. Under the sunlight, the 1986 Harley-Davidson FXR appeared battered and magnificent at the same time, its black paint scratched where generations of hands had touched the tank. Its chrome had dulled, the leather saddle had cracked, and one side cover bore a tiny scar from a long-ago slide across gravel.
To a stranger, it was an old motorcycle awaiting another expensive repair. To Jim, it was Dutch Sullivan's motorcycle, and those two descriptions had never meant the same thing. Dutch had been the kind of man whose laughter arrived before he did and whose anger could pass like a storm if somebody told him the truth. He had led the local chapter for years, and he had been the first person to offer Jim a place to sleep when Jim had reached Oakland with forty dollars and nowhere useful to go.
Three months earlier, Dutch had died, leaving behind a garage full of tools, an aging dog, dozens of photographs, and the black FXR. His friends had spent the first weeks after his funeral doing the practical things bereavement demands, sorting through possessions, contacting relatives, and deciding what should be preserved. It had been easier for Jim to arrange those tasks than to speak about his grief. Whenever somebody asked whether he missed Dutch, Jim said that a man got used to losing people, then found a reason to leave the room.
The memorial ride was scheduled for Saturday. Friends and riders from across California had planned to travel down the coast in a procession that would include hundreds of motorcycles and, by some estimates, nearly a thousand at its longest stretch. Dutch's family had approved the tribute and asked that his old machine lead the first portion of the ride, a quiet gesture that would make the day feel like his. But the motorcycle had refused to start when the men brought it out of storage, and every attempt to revive it had only added another failure.