The machine that entered the bay belonged in a museum or in the fevered imagination of a builder who cared nothing for comfort. It was a 1947 Harley-Davidson Knucklehead in candy-apple red, its rigid custom frame stretched long beneath the rider, its polished metal throwing broken reflections across the floor. The open primary and unusual foot controls made its owner’s confidence apparent before he dismounted. Everything about the motorcycle suggested money, history, and the kind of meticulous attention most owners gave a family heirloom. Its engine, however, carried a faint hesitation that set Caleb’s nerves on edge.
The rider planted a boot, cut the ignition, and removed his dark glasses. He was a broad, older man with a weathered face and the posture of someone who rarely needed to introduce himself twice. His leather vest bore the insignia of the Hells Angels, and a small patch identified him as a sergeant-at-arms. A heavy silver ring caught the light as he took a pair of gloves from his belt. Behind him, two younger riders stayed near their bikes, watching the open road rather than the shop.
“Are you the kid who worked for Ray Mercer?” the man asked.
“I’m his nephew,” Caleb said. “I run the place now.”
The rider looked at the tired lift, the dark office, and the oil stains that had survived years of scrubbing. Caleb could not tell whether the expression on his face was disappointment or something worse. “Name’s Silas Henderson. People call me Grip.” He laid one hand on the red tank. “Your uncle was supposed to be a good man with old iron. Everybody else I’ve tried has wasted my time.”
Caleb swallowed. “What’s it doing?”
“It’s trying to put me through a windshield.”
Grip explained that the bike ran beautifully through town, climbed grades without complaint, and idled like a machine half its age. On the highway, once it approached seventy-five miles an hour, it began to stumble and shake with increasing violence. Twice in a week he had fought to keep it upright while traffic rushed past him. He had taken it to Donovan’s in Bakersfield, where the carburetion had been checked and adjusted, and then to Wyatt’s in Fresno, where a new harness had been installed. Neither shop had changed the problem.
“Donovan says the fuel’s contaminated,” Grip said. “Wyatt says Donovan doesn’t know his backside from a wrench. I say I’ve spent money with both men, and the bike’s still trying to throw me.”
Caleb crouched beside the engine. He knew enough about old Harleys to recognize the modifications that mattered: the nonstandard mounts, the narrow clearances, the custom routing of lines through the frame. The candy-red paint was almost too perfect to be original. Near the front down tube, beneath an ornamental bracket, there was a spot where the sheen looked fractionally different. He filed it away without yet knowing why.
“I can diagnose it,” he said. “But I’d want to keep it here at least a couple of days. I won’t promise what I haven’t checked.”
Grip’s expression hardened. “You don’t have a couple of days.”