“The boy is now directing this repair.”
“You and your mechanics will be his hands.”
Jim’s gaze hardened.
“You follow every instruction he gives you. Every bolt, wire, and timing adjustment.”
Rusty looked horrified.
“Jim, if this child damages Dutch’s engine—”
“If it fails, the responsibility belongs to me,” Jim interrupted.
“But if I return tomorrow at noon and the motorcycle is still dead, Apex Iron Works will lose more than this repair.”
Jim reached into his leather vest and removed a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill.
He pressed it into Leo’s small, greasy hand.
“Buy yourself and your mother a proper meal.”
He looked toward the motorcycle.
“You will need your strength.”
“You begin working on the Widowmaker at sunrise.”
The bikers returned to their motorcycles.
Their engines roared to life before they left the parking lot in a cloud of exhaust.
Leo remained inside the garage, holding the hundred-dollar bill in one hand and the oversized broom in the other.
He looked toward the black 1986 FXR.
For a moment, he could almost feel his father’s hand resting on his shoulder.
The real work was about to begin.
The sun had barely appeared above Oakland’s industrial skyline when Leo entered Apex Iron Works through the side door on Wednesday morning.
He looked different.
His face had been washed clean.
Although his clothing remained worn and oversized, he carried himself with quiet purpose.
He had used part of Jim’s money to buy the best meal he and his mother had shared in months.
Now he was prepared to earn it.
Rusty and his three best mechanics were already gathered around the black FXR.
Big Dave was a heavily tattooed giant who could lift an engine block without assistance.
Tommy was a thin, restless mechanic who specialized in carburetors and fuel systems.
Old Man Pete was the shop’s electrical expert.
All four men appeared exhausted and deeply skeptical.
“All right, kid,” Rusty said, crossing his arms.
He looked like a man attempting to defuse a bomb.
“Jim Mercer practically placed my entire business in your hands.”
Rusty stepped aside.
“We are yours to direct. Where do we begin?”
Leo did not hesitate.
He walked directly toward the right side of the motorcycle.
“Remove the cam cover, Mr. Dave.”
He pointed underneath the engine.
“Drain the oil first, unless you want it all over your boots.”
Big Dave grunted and slid a drain pan beneath the motorcycle.
For the next three hours, a strange mechanical dance unfolded inside the garage.
Grown men with decades of experience followed the precise, quiet instructions of an eight-year-old boy.
When the cam cover was finally removed, the complex collection of gears became visible beneath the harsh workshop lights.
Leo climbed onto a plastic milk crate so he could see inside the engine.
He removed a battered flashlight from his pocket and directed its beam toward the flywheel.
“There.”
Leo pointed with a tiny, grease-stained finger.
“Look at the pinion gear. Do you see that timing mark?”
Rusty leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.
His expression changed.
“I cannot believe it.”
He moved closer.
“That is not an Evolution mark. It is stamped with a V.”
Rusty looked at Leo.
“It is a Shovelhead gear.”
“You were right.”
Leo nodded calmly.
“Mr. Dutch was a genius, but he also avoided spending money whenever he could.”
“He connected the Shovelhead gear to the Evolution cam.”
Leo directed the flashlight toward the marks.
“You must advance the timing exactly twelve degrees beyond the position shown in the factory service manual.”
“If you do not, the spark reaches fuel that has not been properly compressed.”
“That is what caused the kickback and damaged the pushrods.”
Tommy suddenly turned pale.
“The pushrods?”
He hurried toward a nearby workbench where the motorcycle’s internal rods rested on a shop towel.
Tommy placed one on the flat steel surface and rolled it.
The rod wobbled noticeably.
“Rusty, they are bent.”
He checked another.
“The repeated kickback warped them, and we never noticed.”
Cold sweat formed across Rusty’s forehead.
“You have to be joking.”
He looked toward the open engine.
“This is a hybrid motor.”
“Standard Evolution pushrods will not match the geometry of the modified cam.”
“Shovelhead rods will be too short.”
Rusty stared at the damaged components.
“Dutch must have had these custom-machined.”
“We cannot order replacements from an ordinary catalog.”
The mechanics became silent.
They had finally discovered the central problem, but without the custom parts required to rebuild the valve system, the engine remained useless.
It was already Wednesday afternoon.
They had less than forty-eight hours.
“We are finished,” Big Dave muttered.
He dropped a heavy wrench against the concrete floor with a deafening clang.
“Jim will destroy this garage’s reputation.”
Leo climbed down from the milk crate.
He did not appear frightened.
He walked toward the workbench, lifted one of the bent steel rods, and examined it closely.
“My father was Mr. Dutch’s mechanic,” Leo said quietly.
“Mr. Dutch damaged things constantly because he rode too hard.”
“My father knew that.”
Leo looked toward Rusty.
“Does Apex Iron Works still have the basement storage lockers from before you purchased the building?”
Rusty blinked.
The sudden question confused him.