"When it rains hard."
"And electrical work?"
"Some old circuits need updating."
Jack made a call to a member who worked as a licensed contractor. Another rider wrote down the name of an electrician who was willing to donate an afternoon if I handled permits and materials properly. No one promised magical fixes. They talked about estimates, schedules, and making sure repairs complied with local requirements. It was the first kind of help I had been offered in six months that sounded like a plan instead of sympathy.
After the crowd had dispersed, the silence was startling. A plastic grocery bag rolled across the road in the warm evening breeze. The old clock over my counter showed eight seventeen, and I had been on my feet since dawn. I was exhausted enough to feel the edges of things blurring.
Grip told me again to keep the extracted part safe until someone qualified could take custody of it. Jack photographed the container and signed my notebook beside the time it had been examined. They agreed to arrange an attorney and an investigator rather than try to answer the question of intent themselves. I was relieved to hear that, though I still felt as if I had touched something poisonous by being the first to find it.
Then they left. I stood in the bay door watching the last taillights disappear toward the highway. The two thousand dollars sat in a marked envelope on the bench, the inspection notes were stacked beside it, and the red Knucklehead waited under the lights for its last safety review. The shop had not changed physically, but it no longer felt like an abandoned place I was defending against the world alone.
I cleaned for twenty minutes because my hands didn't know what else to do. I coiled leads, washed grease from the inspection tray, and put the tools back where their painted outlines marked the board. When I reached an empty hook, I caught myself looking for the wrench Hector had sold to pay an overdue bill during his final illness. I could picture it there so clearly that my throat tightened.
My phone rang at nine twelve. The number was unfamiliar.
"Oildale Customs," I answered.
"Is this the boy who worked on Henderson's red Knucklehead?"
The speaker sounded middle-aged and careful, as though he'd rehearsed his opening sentence several times. A truck passed outside, and I listened to the caller breathe before answering.
"Who's asking?"
"Ray Delgado. I worked with Hector Torres years ago. You probably don't remember me."
The name did feel familiar. I had seen it on an old invoice among Hector's papers, next to a job for a custom Panhead that had taken nearly a month. I couldn't recall the face.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"I heard what you found. And I know something about that motorcycle that you need to hear tonight."
I looked at the bay doors. They were still open enough to let in a stripe of amber light from the streetlamp. "Then tell me on the phone."