“Ray would’ve said the same thing,” Grip muttered.
“Probably louder,” Caleb answered.
The older biker gave him a surprised look and then laughed. He reached into his leather vest and took out a thick white envelope, folded at one corner. Caleb thought it contained an invoice he would be expected to sign, or a deposit against some future work. Instead Grip pressed it into his hands. The paper was heavy, and the notes inside made a substantial shape against Caleb’s fingers.
“There’s ten thousand dollars,” Grip said. “Five for the diagnosis and the repair work so far. Five because you had the sense to take my motorcycle apart when I wanted you to take shortcuts.”
Caleb opened his mouth and shut it again. He had been calculating every hundred dollars for months. Now he was holding more money than he had seen in his own hands since the estate sale. He thought of the bank, the electricity bill, the supplier who had stopped sending parts, and the empty space where Ray had once kept a cash drawer for emergencies. The amount seemed almost unreal.
“You don’t have to—” he began.
“I know,” Grip said. “That’s why I’m doing it.”
“Martin needs to finish the inspection. I don’t want you thinking the job’s done just because the test looked good.”
“That’s the first thing you say when somebody hands you ten grand?” Grip asked. He looked at Iron Jack and shook his head in disbelief. “Ray really did raise this one.”
Iron Jack stepped closer, his silver beard catching the shop light. “Listen to me, Caleb. Whatever happens with the investigation, the work you did matters. You had a chance to give this man the answer he wanted and take his money. Instead you gave him the answer he needed. You might’ve made yourself very unpopular doing it.”
“I was already unpopular,” Caleb said. “I’ve got a bank threatening to take the place.”
Iron Jack studied the notices behind the counter. “What’s the bank’s name?”
Caleb hesitated. “I don’t want anyone visiting them on my behalf.”
The older biker smiled slightly. “Smart answer. I wasn’t offering to scare a loan officer.”
“Then what?”
“I was going to tell you that you should ask for help understanding the paperwork before you agree to anything. And I was going to tell you that the men in this club own motorcycles, not magic wands. If you keep the place open and do good work, they’ll have a reason to come here. You’ll still need to run a business.”
The words were less dramatic than a promise of complete protection, but Caleb found them more believable. He could not keep Oildale Customs alive on a single rescue or on fear of the men who rode out of its yard. He needed customers who came back because the work was good. He needed prices that covered the cost of doing it properly, records the bank could understand, and a life in which a late payment did not feel like a personal death sentence. For the first time, those things seemed possible rather than imaginary.