He nearly regretted opening his mouth.
Iron Jack asked:
“What?”
Caleb pointed at the evidence.
“If you start accusing people before you know who actually touched the frame, you could make the same mistake those other shops made.”
Grip’s eyes darkened.
“You giving advice now?”
“Yes.”
The shop went silent.
Caleb’s voice tightened.
“I nearly got threatened out of my own building because everyone wants the fastest answer. I’m telling you the same thing my uncle taught me. Find out why before you decide who.”
Iron Jack stared at him.
Then, unexpectedly, nodded.
“Fair.”
Grip looked less convinced.
Iron Jack handed the metal piece back to Caleb.
“Bag it.”
Caleb blinked.
“What?”
“Preserve it.”
That word surprised him.
Iron Jack continued:
“No one touches it.”
He turned toward the senior member.
“Bring Skinner here. No spectacle.”
The man left.
Grip looked at his dismantled Knucklehead.
“Can you finish?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“An hour if nobody bothers me.”
Grip took off his vest.
Caleb stared.
Underneath, the man wore a black T-shirt darkened with sweat.
Grip rolled his shoulders.
“What do you need?”
Caleb thought he had misheard.
“What?”
“You saved my life.”
Grip pointed toward the parts.
“Now I help save my bike.”
Caleb almost laughed.
Instead he grabbed a rag and tossed it.
Grip caught it.
“You follow instructions?”
Grip’s eyebrows lifted.
Iron Jack smiled faintly.
Grip said:
“Tonight I do.”
For the next hour, Oildale Customs became the strangest workshop in Kern County.
A broke nineteen-year-old mechanic directed one of the most intimidating men in the valley through the reassembly of his own motorcycle.
Iron Jack remained nearby.
Not interfering.
Watching.
Outside, nearly 270 riders waited.
Some smoked.
Some talked quietly.
Some leaned against their motorcycles.
Nobody entered without permission.
Caleb stopped noticing them.
His world reduced to steel.
Fasteners.
Alignment.
Connections.
Grip handed tools.
Held assemblies.
Lifted the tank into position.
Caleb inspected every connection twice.
At one point Grip reached for a bolt.
Caleb slapped his hand away.
Grip stared at him.
“Wrong bolt.”
The room froze.
Then Iron Jack laughed.
A deep, unexpected sound.
Grip looked at the bolt.
Then at Caleb.
“You always this irritating?”
“When people touch my hardware.”
“This is my bike.”
“My shop.”
Grip’s mouth twitched.
“Fair.”
At 8:56, the motorcycle was whole.
Not beautiful.
The repaired frame section had not been repainted.
Some of the electrical routing remained visible by design.
The Knucklehead looked rougher than when it arrived.
More honest.
Caleb stepped back.
Grip stared at it.
“You ruined the finish.”
“Yes.”
Grip looked at him.