I answered them honestly. There was no point lying about the empty bank account to men who could see the empty hooks on the wall. Jack listened, asked where I'd learned to weld, and made me tell him about the day Hector first placed a wrench in my hand.
"I was eight," I said. "I thought I was helping because I held the tools. Hector said that was enough to start with."
"What did he say when you made a mistake?"
"Mostly he asked me what I'd learned."
Jack looked toward the red motorcycle. "Seems like that worked."
Grip came back inside and stood near the door. "Jack, we're calling a meeting tonight. I want the people who trusted those five shops to hear what was found, and I want the evidence handled properly."
Jack nodded. Then he looked at me. "This might get loud. That doesn't mean it's your problem to solve. You repaired the bike. We'll take the information where it belongs."
I should have felt reassured. Instead, I had the uneasy sensation that the quietest part of the day was already behind us.
The sound began as a low vibration that traveled through the concrete before I could tell where it was coming from. At first I thought a truck was idling near the county road. Then the vibration divided into dozens of different rhythms and gathered again into something larger, the sound of motorcycles approaching from more than one direction. I stepped into the open bay and saw headlights at the end of the block.
"How many people did you call?" I asked.
Grip glanced at Jack. Jack glanced at the street.
"Bakersfield first," Grip said. "Then Fresno. Some riders from Sacramento and Modesto wanted to come because the bike passed through their territory."
"How many?"
"About two hundred and seventy-five by the last count."
My first thought was not gratitude. It was that the neighbors would think I had been arrested, threatened, or both. My second thought was that someone would complain, the police would arrive, and my already fragile business would become known for something that had nothing to do with repairing motorcycles.
I looked at the houses across the street. A porch light switched on despite the remaining daylight. Mrs. Patton stepped out carrying a dish towel, saw the approaching headlights, and stood with both hands against her hips like she was about to supervise a field trip that had gotten out of control.
"You can't bring all those bikes onto this block," I said.
Jack's expression changed immediately. "You're right."
He walked outside with his phone and began redirecting arrivals toward the industrial parking lot two streets away. Grip joined him. They made quick calls, and the motorcycles turned before reaching the narrow residential stretch. A few dozen came close enough for me to see them, but most parked where there was room and walked back, their boots scraping the hot sidewalk.