People had places to be a hundred years before this street existed, too," Arthur noted. "Somehow they managed."
Tommy chimed back in, sensing an opening. "Sheriff, can't you just tow it now? Dude's a menace. Probably doesn't even have insurance."
"Watch your mouth, son," Arthur said. For the first time, there was an edge in his voice—thin but unmistakable, like a blade catching the light.
Tommy grinned wider, playing to Derek's camera. "You going to do something, old man? What are you going to do?"
Arthur didn't answer. He lowered himself onto the curb, slow and deliberate. He pulled a cigarette from his worn leather vest—a vest with patches faded almost to nothing by sun, rain, and years nobody in this crowd could have imagined. He lit it with a battered Zippo and watched the town that had already decided what he was worth.
Nearby, Frank Doyle, an older mechanic from two doors down, had wandered over. Wiping grease off his hands, Frank wasn't looking at Arthur's cracked boots or his stubborn silence. Frank was staring at the bike.
"This a Panhead?" Frank asked, more to himself than anyone, his eyebrows knitting together. "1948?"
Frank’s hand hovered over the tank, tracing the shape of a symbol worn nearly invisible. "This ain't a stock frame. Somebody modified the—"
"Frank, quit wasting time with that junk pile," Whitfield snapped.
Frank straightened up slowly. A flicker of recognition crossed his face—like hearing the first few notes of a song from childhood but not quite remembering the name. He looked at the old man smoking on the curb, closed his mouth, and stepped back.
The crowd's attention drifted back to Tommy. "Hey old man, what's that patch on your back supposed to mean anyway?" Tommy called out. "Looks like something you found in a dumpster."
For the first time, Arthur turned fully around, giving the crowd a clear look at his back. The leather was cracked with age, sun-bleached across the shoulders. The two-winged letters were faded to a ghost of themselves—the insignia of an organization most of Oak Haven had only seen in movies about outlaw motorcycle clubs from decades past.
Nobody recognized it. Small towns didn't spend time thinking about ghosts from three states over.
Except Frank. The mechanic's eyes went wide, and the color drained from his face. He took another step back, putting distance between himself and the sheriff.