Then she walked to the records room, pulled an old Manila folder from a low cabinet nobody had opened in years. The tab read, Callaway, Henry, Custom Cycles, 1995 to present.
She opened it. The first photo was a man in his 30s standing in front of a small shop. Cherry red Panhead behind him.
She picked up her phone, dialed. Hey, it’s Linda. I think I have something.
The third thing was inside the chapter clubhouse on the edge of town. Wood walls, leather chairs, a long oak table.
The wall behind Hank’s seat was covered floor to ceiling in framed photographs of bikes and the men who had built them. Hank sat at the head.
10 other men sat down the table. Nobody touched their coffee. He spoke quietly. He didn’t need to be loud, either.
There’s a kid, Hartman’s Auto on the east side. I want to know everything about him. Family, school, medical, bills, trouble, friends, everything.
One of the older men spoke up. What are we doing with this, Hank? Hank looked at him a long moment.
25 years I’ve sat at this table. We’ve spent 25 years remembering. Now I want to know if it’s time to start passing it on.
Nobody said anything to that. Hank tapped the table once with his ring. The steel compass made a small, clean sound on the oak.
Find me everything. Nobody approaches him. Not yet.
Across town, Brandon got to work early. He’d slept badly. His arm ached.
Cole looked up from a tire iron and raised an eyebrow. What happened to your arm? Walked into a fence.
Cole grunted, went back to the tire iron. On the way home that afternoon, Brandon noticed a man across the street pretending to read a newspaper.
Not doing a great job of it. Brandon didn’t think much of it. He was tired.
He had no idea 40 motorcycles were already pointed at his street. Brandon was changing the oil on a Honda Civic when he heard it.
He thought it was thunder at first. He stood up, wiped his hands on a rag, listened harder. Then he started counting engines.
Five. 10. 15. 20.
He stopped counting at 20 because the sound wasn’t slowing down. It was getting bigger.
Cole came out from under the lift, wrench still in his hand. He looked at Brandon. Brandon looked at Cole. What is that? I don’t know.
They walked out to the open bay door together. The sound rolled down the street like an oncoming storm.
Then, it turned the corner onto Maple and the entire block went still. 43 motorcycles, maybe more.
