Grip laid a massive hand on his shoulder. “You keep these doors open. You hear me? I’ll bring the old iron that deserves your attention. The others can bring their work, too, if you want it.”
“What if they don’t pay?” Caleb asked before he could stop himself.
The men around them laughed. Grip looked almost offended. “Then you send them an invoice like anybody else.”
Caleb glanced toward the bank notice once more. “I’ll be sending invoices,” he said.
“Good,” Iron Jack answered. “A favor doesn’t mean your labor is free.”
The riders began preparing to depart a little after ten-thirty. A support vehicle took custody of Red Mercy for the remaining inspection arrangements, and Grip accepted the loan of another machine for the ride. The columns formed slowly because so many motorcycles could not move at once through a narrow industrial park. The riders rolled out in groups, their taillights creating a red ribbon that stretched toward the main road. The noise swelled and receded, rose again, and then slowly diminished as the last groups departed.
Caleb stood at the bay door with Martin. Across the street, Dutch and two other members were speaking beside a row of dumpsters. The shape of a parked motorcycle and the long shadows of the yard lights concealed most of what happened. Caleb heard a brief argument, then saw Skinner walk away without his club vest, accompanied by one of the men who had questioned him earlier. The vest remained in Dutch’s hand. Whatever punishment would follow was no longer something Caleb wanted decided outside his shop.
When Grip reached the front of the departing column, he turned one last time toward Oildale Customs. He lifted a gloved fist, not in threat but in acknowledgment. Several riders behind him answered the gesture before their engines rose and carried them toward the open highway. Caleb watched the line of red lights disappear beyond the warehouses. The industrial park seemed impossibly small after all that noise.
Martin touched the young man’s shoulder. “You know, most mechanics work a lifetime without a day like that.”
“Lucky them,” Caleb answered.
The older builder chuckled. “Go home, Caleb. Sleep. We’ll finish the paperwork in the morning.”
Caleb looked around the shop. There were tools everywhere, oil marks on the floor, empty bottles of water, and a dark patch where the motorcycle had stood for most of the evening. He had no idea how he would explain any of it to someone who had not been there. Then he saw the white envelope on the bench and remembered that the bank had a number, a date, and an address. For the first time in months, he had something solid to take to them.
He locked the doors after midnight. At home, a small rented room behind a family friend’s house, he put the envelope beside Ray’s notebook and sat on the edge of the bed. The money could save the shop, but it could not bring back his uncle or erase the terror of the afternoon. His hands still trembled when he tried to unlace his boots. He lay down without taking off his work shirt and fell asleep before he could decide whether the day had been the best or worst of his life.