They spent the morning verifying their work. Frank asked Leon to identify each part they had handled and say why it belonged where it did. When Leon did not know, Frank explained instead of pretending the answer should have been obvious. A few pieces required correction, and one loose connection made Frank shake his head at his own carelessness. By eleven, their notes were covered with penciled check marks and the final safety checks had been completed for a brief stationary run.
"Think it'll start?" Leon asked.
Frank studied the small machine. "I think we've given it a fair chance. That's different from knowing."
At eleven forty-five, the unmistakable heavy rhythm of the Shovelhead rolled across the gravel.
Leon froze with the notebook in his hand. Big Jim came through the doorway alone, the motorcycle parked outside where everyone could see it. His leather cut hung from broad shoulders, and his sun-weathered face gave away nothing. He noticed the clean workbench, the labeled trays, the bandage on Leon's hand, and the little Honda secured for its test. He took his time looking, as though the examination itself were part of the agreement.
"Well, kid," Jim said. "How's the scrap heap?"
"It's still ugly," Leon answered.
Jim chuckled. "Not what I asked."
"The engine moves now. Mr. Frank checked it. We put everything back that was safe to use."
Jim looked at Frank. "He do the work?"
"More than I thought he could," Frank said honestly. "And less of it by himself than he probably wants you to believe. I wasn't going to let him hurt himself proving a point."
Jim nodded. "Good. Never asked you to."
He walked around the machine. The rusted little frame looked absurd beneath the attention of a man who rode a motorcycle more than four times its size. Jim stopped beside the missing seat and ran one finger along the edge of the metal pan.
His eyes softened for a moment. "First bike my younger brother ever owned was almost this small," he said. "He used to pretend it was a big Harley. Made engine noises even when it wouldn't start."
Frank glanced at him. Jim had never mentioned that part of the story. The older biker looked toward the road through the open bay door. "Funny what you remember," he said, and for an instant the years lay plainly on his face.
Leon did not interrupt. He had become skilled at recognizing when adults were speaking to someone who was no longer present. Jim returned his attention to the Honda and took the silver money clip from his pocket. He peeled off a second hundred-dollar bill and laid it on the workbench where Leon could see it.
"A bet's a bet," he said. "Let's hear what she can do."
Frank moved to the test position and guided Leon to stand where he could observe safely. The little motorcycle was not going to be ridden. Its tires, brakes, and chassis still needed professional attention, and everyone in the garage understood that a running engine did not change those facts. Jim stood beside the bench, his arms folded, while Frank prepared the brief engine test.