Then the small collection of vintage motorcycle magazines Ray had told him might someday be worth money.
None of it was enough.
By that Tuesday in July 1989, Caleb had one hundred eighty-three dollars in the business checking account.
The electricity bill was eleven days overdue.
His steel supplier had placed him on cash-only terms.
The mortgage company had left two messages that morning.
The second was not friendly.
Caleb was beneath a Yamaha replacing a cracked fuel line when he heard the approaching motorcycle.
One engine.
Large displacement.
Uneven idle.
Old.
He slid out from beneath the bike and wiped his hands on a rag.
The motorcycle entered the lot slowly.
Caleb recognized the rider before he recognized the machine.
Everybody in that part of California knew Silas Henderson.
Most people knew him by the road name embroidered onto the front of his leather vest.
GRIP.
The name had several rumored origins.
Some said he got it because once he grabbed hold of something, nobody could make him let go.
Others claimed it came from his riding style.
Caleb never asked.
Grip was forty-six, thick through the shoulders, with a broken nose that had healed slightly crooked and a pale scar disappearing beneath the right side of his beard. His arms looked more like parts of machinery than human anatomy.
Across the back of his vest was the Hells Angels death’s-head emblem.
Caleb had seen the patch before.
Never this close.
Two younger riders followed.
They parked near the road but did not dismount.
Grip rode directly into the shop.
That told Caleb almost everything he needed to know about how the man viewed permission.
He killed the engine.
Silence rushed into the bay.
The motorcycle was magnificent.
Caleb forgot Grip for three seconds and stared.
A 1947 Knucklehead.
Not restored to museum specification.
Built to ride.
Candy-apple red rigid frame.
Period-shaped tank modified for long-distance use.
Hand-fabricated exhaust.
Old mechanical components mixed with modern improvements carefully hidden wherever possible.
Every modification looked intentional.
Nothing ornamental existed without function.
Caleb walked around it once.
Grip removed his sunglasses.
“You Caleb?”
“Yes.”
“Ray’s kid?”
“Nephew.”
Grip nodded.
“He dead?”
Caleb stiffened.
“Last year.”
Grip looked toward the old photograph of Ray hanging beside the office door.
“Didn’t know.”
Caleb said nothing.
Grip looked back at him.
“Sorry.”
The apology sounded awkward, but genuine.
Then the softness disappeared.
He pointed toward the Knucklehead.
“That thing’s trying to kill me.”
Caleb frowned.
“What’s it doing?”
Grip explained.
Below highway speed, nothing.
The bike idled cleanly.
Accelerated normally.
Pulled hard through lower gears.
At around seventy-five miles per hour, everything changed.
The engine cut intermittently.
The chassis developed a violent instability.
Power returned.
Disappeared.
Returned again.
The first time, Grip assumed contaminated fuel.
The second time, he nearly lost control crossing a high desert stretch east of Tehachapi.
“It doesn’t gradually get worse,” Grip said. “It happens.”
He snapped his fingers.
“Like somebody throws a switch.”
Caleb crouched beside the motorcycle.
“How long?”
“Week.”
“Any work done before it started?”
Grip’s expression sharpened.
“Why?”
“Because motorcycles don’t understand coincidence.”
Grip studied him.
“The frame was repainted last month.”
“Who did it?”
“Shop in Fresno.”
“Engine removed?”
“Yeah.”
“Wiring?”
“Re-routed.”