Caleb looked toward the frame.
Grip continued.
“Donovan’s rebuilt the carb. Wyatt rewired half the bike.”
Caleb knew both names.
Donovan Hale had been building Harley engines since before Caleb was born.
Wyatt Pierce was famous for electrical work.
If both had failed, Caleb should have felt intimidated.
Instead, he became interested.
“What did they say?”
“Donovan says fuel problem.”
“Didn’t fix it.”
“No.”
“Wyatt?”
“Electrical.”
“Didn’t fix it.”
Grip’s mouth tightened.
“No.”
Caleb stood.
“I need time.”
“You got until sundown.”
Caleb looked at him.
Grip stepped closer.
“Tomorrow morning we ride east. Big run. I lead.”
“How big?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if you’re asking me to certify a bike that might throw you into traffic.”
Grip’s expression changed slightly.
Maybe surprise.
Maybe approval.
“Couple hundred riders.”
Caleb exhaled.
“I’m not signing off on it without knowing what’s wrong.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I might not finish today.”
Grip leaned closer.
“You will.”
The heat seemed to thicken between them.
Caleb kept his hands loose at his sides.
“I don’t work better when threatened.”
Grip’s mouth twitched.
“That what you think this is?”
“I think you’re standing three inches from me telling me what’s going to happen.”
Grip looked at him for a long second.
Then glanced around the failing shop.
The unpaid notices near the register had been turned face down, but apparently not well enough.
Grip saw the red corner of one.
He looked back at Caleb.
“You fix it, five thousand cash.”
Caleb’s heart kicked.
Five thousand would not solve everything.
It would stop the immediate bleeding.
Grip continued.
“And this shop gets business.”
Caleb said nothing.
“You don’t fix it…”
Grip turned toward an exposed junction box near the wall.
“…old buildings have problems.”
Caleb felt the threat.
Grip did not need to finish it.
The two prospects outside remained motionless.
Caleb looked at the Knucklehead.
Then at the clock.
1:15 p.m.
He extended his hand.
“Keys.”
Grip stared at him.
Caleb repeated:
“If I’m working on it, I control it until I’m done.”
For the first time, Grip smiled.
It was not a warm smile.
But it was real.
He pulled heavy brass keys from his pocket and tossed them.
Caleb caught them.
“Sundown.”
Grip left with the prospects.
The silence afterward seemed enormous.
Caleb stood beside the motorcycle for nearly a minute.
Then he locked the front door.
Not because he expected trouble.
Because he needed concentration.
The first two hours were boring.
That was intentional.
Ray had taught him never to let an interesting theory outrun basic diagnosis.
“Expensive mistakes begin with people who desperately want to be clever.”
So Caleb refused cleverness.
He inspected ignition components.
Fuel delivery.
Compression.
Plugs.
Connections.
Grounding points.
Nothing obvious appeared.
He removed the fuel tank.
Examined venting.
No obstruction.