“Ten minutes for diagnosis.”
“That confident?”
“No.”
She set the tool bag down.
“If I’m wrong, you don’t pay me.”
That was the first thing about Jory Baxter that Calvin respected.
Not confidence.
Terms.
He looked toward the rear.
“Phil.”
Phil Kovacs came out from behind a lift.
Iron Pines called him Brack, a nickname connected to an incident near Thunder Bay that he had explained exactly once and never repeated. He was broad, quiet, and mechanically competent enough that he resented flamboyant opinions from people who knew less than he did.
“Show her the bike.”
Brack raised one eyebrow.
Calvin stared back.
The eyebrow lowered.
Jory followed him toward the corner.
The motorcycle was a 1963 Harley-Davidson FLH Panhead, red tank with cream panels, chrome dulled by storage, engine clean enough to show someone had cared for it.
Tommy Foss owned it.
Tommy had bought it from an older cousin years earlier and treated it with the kind of affection people reserve for machines connected to family.
It had developed an oil leak first.
Then hard starting.
Then uneven running under load.
Parts had been replaced.
Adjustments made.
Nothing solved the whole problem.
Jory removed the cover.
She did not immediately reach for a wrench.
That was the second thing Brack noticed.
She looked.
Oil track.
Primary case.
Fork leg.
Ignition components.
Cable routing.
Fasteners.
Fuel line.
She put two fingers near a seam.
Smelled them.
Then moved to the other side.
Brack crossed his arms.
“You always inspect bikes like they’ve committed crimes?”
“Only if they lie.”
“Motorcycles don’t lie.”
“Owners do.”
He almost smiled.
Jory asked:
“When did it start misbehaving?”
“September.”
“After anything?”
“Long ride north.”
“How long?”
“Three days.”
“Who rode?”
“Tommy.”
“Hard?”
Brack gave her a look.
Jory nodded.
“Stupid question.”
She pulled a small flashlight from her bag.
Checked timing components.
Moved the advance mechanism.
It resisted.
Not seized.
Sticky.
She stopped.
Then checked again.
“Got compressed air?”
Brack pointed.
She used it.
Listened.
Checked the primary.
Ran her thumb along the gasket edge.
Then crouched by the left fork.
Nine minutes after starting, she stood.
“The primary chaincase gasket is failing. That’s the obvious leak.”
Brack said nothing.
“But that isn’t what’s making it run badly.”
“What is?”
“Timing advance mechanism is sticking.”
He unfolded his arms.
“You sure?”
“Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“If you want certainty, let me open it.”
“Keep talking.”
“The weights aren’t returning cleanly. Probably old lubricant mixed with dirt or corrosion. Under load, ignition timing isn’t tracking properly. That’s why it feels fine for part of the ride and then gets rough.”
Brack looked at the motorcycle.
Jory continued.
“Whoever rode it last pushed it before the motor was fully warm.”
Brack’s mouth twitched.
“Tommy’s going to like you.”
“He doesn’t need to.”
She pointed toward the left fork.
“Slow fork-seal seep. Not causing the engine issue. But you’ve got a track down the lower leg. Another month and it’ll be obvious.”
“What else?”
“Primary chain tension needs checking while it’s open. And I’d inspect the advance assembly before ordering more ignition parts.”
Brack stared at her.
“You want me to write that down?”
“If you can remember it, no.”
He walked away.
Jory waited beside the Panhead.
Five minutes later Calvin arrived with Brack and Tommy Foss.
Tommy was fifty-one, narrow-faced, impatient, and deeply suspicious of anyone who diagnosed his motorcycle without first being impressed by it.
Calvin said:
“Tell him.”
Jory repeated everything.
Tommy looked at the fork.
Then the primary.
Then her.
“You get all that in nine minutes?”
“Nine and a half.”
“You timed yourself?”
“No. He did.”
She nodded toward Brack.
Brack did not deny it.
Tommy asked: