He walked directly into the center of the standoff.
Jim stared down at the scrawny boy.
For several moments, the absurdity of the situation appeared to confuse him.
“Who is this kid?” Jim demanded.
“He is nobody,” Rusty answered quickly.
He hurried forward and reached for Leo’s arm.
“His father rented a bay in the back before he died.”
“His mother works three jobs to keep a roof over their heads, so I let the boy sweep the shop for a little money and a hot meal.”
Rusty tried to guide him away.
“He does not know what he is talking about. Come on, Leo. Go into the back.”
Leo pulled his arm free with surprising strength.
He did not look at Rusty.
His attention remained fixed on Jim.
“I know what I am talking about,” Leo said.
His voice was remarkably steady for a child standing before a man known throughout the city for his intimidating reputation.
“Mr. Rusty and his mechanics are connecting the motorcycle to computers and reading manuals for a standard 1986 Evolution engine.”
Leo pointed toward the FXR.
“But that motorcycle is not standard.”
One of the younger bikers, a prospect named Bobby, laughed openly.
“Listen to the little expert.”
He shook his head.
“Go play with toy motorcycles, kid. Adults are talking.”
Jim raised one large hand.
Bobby became silent immediately.
Jim narrowed his eyes and looked from Leo to the motorcycle.
“What did you say?”
Leo pointed a grease-covered finger toward the timing cover on the right side of the engine.
“They timed the ignition using the factory marks for an Evolution engine.”
He shook his head.
“But those marks are a trap.”
Jim’s expression changed slightly.
“My father told me about this motorcycle,” Leo continued. “He said Mr. Dutch was a madman when it came to engines.”
Jim’s breath caught at the mention of his friend.
“Continue.”
“My dad said Mr. Dutch destroyed the bottom end of this engine during a race in Reno in 1992.”
Leo stepped closer to the machine.
He traced his fingers across the brushed aluminum surface of the cam cover.
“Mr. Dutch did not have enough money for new factory parts.”
“So he took parts from a damaged 1978 Shovelhead and modified the cam gear to fit this engine case.”
Leo looked toward Rusty.
“The timing marks on the flywheel are off by exactly twelve degrees.”
“If you attempt to ignite it using the factory mark, the spark occurs while the intake valve is still open.”
“That is why it kicks back and tries to injure the person starting it.”
The garage fell completely silent.
Rusty stood frozen with his mouth slightly open.
Several mechanics who had been listening from the rear of the shop slowly emerged from behind their tool cabinets.
“What about the battery drain?” Jim asked.
His voice had become quiet, and the earlier aggression had disappeared.
“It is not an ordinary electrical fault,” Leo replied. “It is a hidden security switch.”
“Mr. Dutch was afraid someone would steal his motorcycle.”
“He installed a secondary ignition bypass into the frame beneath the fuel tank.”
Leo pointed toward the left side of the motorcycle.
“If you do not activate a hidden switch beneath the left fuel tank before turning the key, the circuit grounds the ignition system.”
“The starter still turns, but the motorcycle cannot receive the spark it needs.”
“The battery loses its power within ten minutes.”
Jim stared at the boy.
He remembered Reno in 1992.
He remembered Dutch laughing in a motel parking lot, covered in oil and bragging about the strange engine he was constructing from mismatched parts.
“What was your father’s name?” Jim asked softly.
“Arthur Hayes.”
For the first time, Leo lowered his eyes toward the floor.
Jim slowly removed his sunglasses.
“Arty Hayes,” he murmured.
He turned toward the other bikers.
“Arty was the only mechanic outside the club Dutch truly trusted.”
Jim nodded toward Leo.
“That man could repair anything.”
“He died from lung cancer two years ago.”
Jim looked at Rusty.
“Did you inspect the engine for a Shovelhead cam gear?”
Rusty swallowed.
Sweat gathered across his forehead.
“Jim, you cannot seriously expect someone to combine a Shovelhead gear with an Evolution bottom end.”
“The tolerances are completely different.”
Rusty shook his head.
“It would create a mechanical nightmare.”
“Did you inspect it?” Jim demanded.
His voice echoed beneath the metal roof.
“No,” Rusty admitted quietly. “We followed the service manual.”
Jim looked down at Leo again.
The boy was dirty and underfed.
His shoes had holes near the toes.
Still, Jim saw in Leo’s bright eyes the same mechanical intelligence Arthur Hayes had possessed.
“Do you believe you can repair it?” Jim asked.
Rusty stepped forward quickly.
“Jim, be reasonable.”
“He is eight years old.”
Rusty gestured toward the motorcycle.
“He does not have the strength to tighten major engine components, much less retime a custom V-twin.”
“If the valve timing is wrong, the internal components could collide and destroy the engine.”
“I asked the boy,” Jim said coldly.
He did not take his eyes from Leo.
Leo looked up.
“I cannot lift the heavy tools, sir.”
“Mr. Rusty is right about that.”
He glanced toward the mechanics.
“But if I tell them exactly what to do, and if they allow me to guide them, I can make the motorcycle run.”
Jim nodded slowly.
Then he turned toward Rusty and pointed one thick finger at the owner’s chest.
“You heard him.”