Jim rested a hand on the tank. "Dutch took me to Reno on this thing once," he said, speaking more to the motorcycle than to Rusty. "He was so proud of it that he wouldn't let anybody else touch the controls. We rode home through the night with rain in our faces because he wanted to hear that engine a few more hours." He took his hand away. "Saturday isn't moving, Rusty."
"I understand," Rusty said.
"No," Jim replied. "You know the date. That isn't the same as understanding."
Rusty gathered the courage to explain the work again, not as a defense but because he had nothing else to offer. Big Dave had stripped and inspected the parts he could access, Tommy had traced fuel delivery and tried to find any irregularity in the carburetion, and Pete had spent a full weekend chasing an unexplained electrical drain. A fresh battery seemed to lose its strength after the machine had been left connected, and attempts to start it sometimes produced an alarming kickback. The engine looked sound on paper, but every result on the shop floor contradicted the paper.
"I have three men here who can listen to an engine and tell you what's wrong with it," Rusty said. "They've had everything we know how to give. I wouldn't be telling you this unless I believed it." He looked at the motorcycle again, and his voice weakened. "I don't think we can save it."
A younger rider named Bobby shifted near the doorway. He had not known Dutch as long as the others, but he understood that the motorcycle had become a symbol of a man he wanted to impress even after death. "You said that yesterday," he muttered. "And the day before." Jim raised one hand without looking at him, and Bobby stopped.
"Five thousand dollars," Jim said to Rusty. "That's what you asked for before you started. Five thousand for a shop that told me it knew what it was doing." His eyes moved from Rusty's face to the sign above the reception desk. "Does that promise on your wall mean anything?"
Rusty thought of the mortgage payment due at the end of the month and the medical appointments his wife had postponed to avoid another bill. He thought of Dave's two children, of Pete's aging mother, and of Tommy, who had finally begun saving enough for a little apartment. "It means we're doing our best," he answered.
Jim took a step closer. His companions followed just far enough for the movement to feel deliberate, and nobody in the garage mistook the meaning. "Your best doesn't put Dutch's bike at the front of the ride. You have until Friday at noon to give me an answer. If you can't, we'll have a serious conversation about my money and your promises."
It was not the shouting that unsettled Rusty. He had dealt with angry customers before, including men who treated disappointment as a personal insult. What frightened him was the calmness with which Jim spoke, as though a decision had already been made and everyone else was merely catching up. Rusty opened his mouth to ask for more time, then closed it. The motorcycle sat between them, silent and seemingly beyond the reach of anything he knew.