That was when Leo spoke.
"You're checking the wrong timing marks," the boy said again.
Rusty turned so quickly that his bad knee nearly gave way. Leo had been sweeping beside the spare-parts shelves, apparently attending to nothing except the line of dust along the wall. His oversize gray shirt had belonged to his father, and the faded sleeves reached almost to his elbows. Black grease shadowed the creases of his fingers, and one shoe had been repaired with a strip of dark tape that was beginning to come loose.
"Leo," Rusty said, trying to sound firm rather than frightened, "go to the back. Now."
The boy's grip tightened around the broom. He was not normally defiant, and Rusty had seen him obey without complaint when adults told him an area was unsafe or a tool was not for children. But Leo was staring at the motorcycle with an expression Rusty recognized from years earlier, a look that belonged to Arthur Hayes whenever he noticed something everybody else had overlooked. "I can't," Leo said. "Not if they're going to call it dead when it isn't."
Bobby gave a short laugh. "The kid going to rebuild it with his toy tools?"
"Enough," Jim said.
The word was quiet, but it took the laughter out of the room. Jim studied the boy, noticing his thin wrists and the serious way he stood with both feet planted. He had seen children around club gatherings before, usually keeping close to a parent or wandering toward motorcycles because the chrome shone in the light. This boy, however, was looking at a particular cover on the engine, not at the riders or the noise they had made.
"Who are you?" Jim asked.
"Leo Hayes, sir."
"And how old are you, Leo Hayes?"
"Eight. I'll be nine in November."
Jim nodded slowly. "Rusty, why is an eight-year-old sweeping this place in the middle of a Tuesday?"
For the first time, the question made Rusty feel ashamed of something other than the motorcycle. He explained that Leo's father had once rented a small work bay in the building, that Arthur had died two years earlier, and that Leo sometimes spent time in the shop during school vacations while his mother worked. Rusty let him sweep harmless areas, sort clean rags, and eat lunch with the crew; the few dollars he pressed into the boy's hand had never felt like enough. He started to add that Leo did not understand the difference between an interesting story and a workable repair, but Jim was no longer listening to him.
"Hayes?" Jim repeated.
Leo nodded. "Arthur Hayes was my dad. People called him Arty."
Something passed across Jim's face so quickly that Rusty almost missed it. He removed his sunglasses and folded them carefully, as if the small movement might give him time to think. "I knew an Arty Hayes," he said. "Man could hear a bad bearing from across a parking lot. He once fixed a generator at a motel using parts the owner had thrown away."
"That sounds like him," Leo said.
Jim looked at the motorcycle, then back at Leo. "All right. Tell me what you know. Don't make it bigger than it is, and don't tell me something because you think I want to hear it."