No power tools.
No riding lifts.
No bothering customers.
Sweep when bored.
Leo followed most of them.
The rule about not bothering mechanics depended entirely on how incorrectly the mechanics were doing something.
Russell walked over.
“Leo, this isn’t the time.”
Leo looked toward Dutch’s Harley.
“I know.”
“Then go finish sweeping.”
“You’re twelve degrees off.”
A few men exchanged glances.
One biker near the parts counter laughed.
“Kid, go build a Lego bike.”
A couple of men chuckled.
Leo’s face tightened, but he did not move.
Jim lifted one hand.
The garage became silent again.
Jim looked directly at Leo.
“What do you mean?”
Russell sighed.
“Jim.”
“I asked him.”
Russell looked uncomfortable.
Jim waited.
Leo leaned the broom against the wall.
Then he walked toward the motorcycle.
Slowly.
Not cocky.
Not performing.
His nervousness showed only in the way he rubbed his thumb against his fingertips.
Grease had settled permanently into the lines of his skin.
He stopped several feet from the engine.
“You’re setting it from the factory marks.”
Russell glanced at the senior mechanic beside him.
Frank Danner.
Frank had rebuilt Harley engines for thirty-four years.
He crossed his arms.
“That’s generally what timing marks are for.”
Leo nodded.
“For a stock engine.”
Frank frowned.
“This is an Evolution motor.”
“Mostly.”
That word irritated him.
“Mostly?”
Leo pointed.
“Your cam chest isn’t original.”
Frank looked at Russell.
Russell looked at the engine.
They already knew certain components had been replaced over the decades.
That was normal.
Leo continued.
“My dad said Dutch cracked the original case on a desert run in 1992.”
Jim’s expression changed slightly.
Leo noticed.
Nobody else did.
“My dad didn’t have the correct replacement parts.”
Frank said, “You cannot put Shovelhead timing components into an Evo and call it good.”
“I didn’t say he did.”
Leo stepped closer.
“He used part of an older advance setup, then machined a spacer and changed the reference position.”
Frank stared.
The boy pointed toward the timing area.
“The factory mark isn’t where the actual ignition reference is anymore.”
Russell’s expression became less dismissive.
“How far?”
Leo answered instantly.
“Twelve degrees.”
One of the bikers laughed again.
This time nobody joined him.
Frank studied the child.
“And how exactly would an eight-year-old know that?”
Leo looked at him.
“My father taught me.”
The room became quieter.
Arthur Hayes had been dead for nearly a year and a half.
Most men in the shop knew his name.
Some knew his work.
Very few knew him well.
Arthur had never been a member of a motorcycle club.
He had never worn a patch.
He rarely attended rides.
He did not drink much, avoided crowds, and preferred engines to conversations.
But he could listen to a motorcycle idle for ten seconds and tell you something was wrong three weeks before the owner noticed.
He repaired agricultural equipment when money was tight.
Motorcycles when money was better.
Vintage engines because he loved them.
Arthur had died from pancreatic cancer at thirty-nine.
Fast.
Four months from diagnosis to funeral.
Leo had been seven.
Jim slowly removed his sunglasses.
“What was your father’s name?”
Russell looked at him.
Leo answered.