Three days before the Friday confrontation, Jim had pushed the Shovelhead the last two miles toward Frank's place. The motor had given a coughing backfire, expelled a cloud of oily smoke, and gone silent on the shoulder of the interstate. He could have called for a trailer, but he had kept pushing until sweat darkened his T-shirt and every step sent a complaint up through his hip. By the time he reached the bay door, he was breathing too hard to explain himself properly.
"Fix it," he had said.
Frank had looked at the bike, then at the man's face. "What happened before it died?"
"It missed twice, like somebody cut the fire. Came back for half a mile, then quit." Jim rested one big hand on the gas tank. "I want this one running, Frankie. Don't offer me something newer."
Frank knew better than to suggest replacing it. "I'll take a look."
"It's the only thing I got left from the old days." Jim said it as though he were reporting the weather, but his thumb remained on a dent beside the tank emblem. Frank noticed. He had repaired the motorcycle before, and the dent was old enough that nobody asked how it got there. Jim left without telling the story. His silence told enough.
In the days that followed, Frank worked himself into a fury. He checked the ordinary suspects first, as experience told him to do. The machine had old wiring, tired connectors, and evidence of more roadside repairs than any sensible owner should admit. Frank replaced damaged components, cleaned what could be cleaned, and tried again. The starter turned the engine heavily, but the ignition remained lifeless.
Every failure cost time he could not bill and money he could not get back. On Wednesday he skipped lunch and told Leon to fetch a box of shop towels, then forgot why he had asked. On Thursday he turned away a customer with a simple brake job because he could not stand the idea of one more machine demanding his attention. He replaced a part he had already tested because he no longer trusted his first diagnosis. By the time he realized the mistake, he had spent an hour proving something he had known that morning.
On Thursday, Frank had even called in two mechanics from neighboring towns who knew older Harley engines as well as he did. They checked his assumptions, argued over possibilities, and left him with two more theories and no running motorcycle. One struck the workbench so hard with a wrench that a jar of washers jumped, and the other walked out muttering that some machines were better left to history. Their visits only deepened Frank's humiliation, because three experienced men had now spent hours on the same problem without finding an answer.