“Arthur Hayes.”
Jim went still.
Not surprised.
Struck.
“Arty Hayes?”
Leo nodded.
Jim looked at the motorcycle.
Then at Leo.
“Arthur Hayes was your father?”
“Yes.”
For the first time that afternoon, Jim Mercer seemed to forget that anyone else was standing in the garage.
He stared at the boy’s face.
The eyes.
The hair.
The narrow chin.
Something about Leo appeared to pull an old memory through him.
Jim whispered, “Jesus.”
Russell stepped closer.
“You knew Arthur?”
Jim did not immediately answer.
Leo did.
“My dad said he worked on Dutch’s bike.”
Jim finally spoke.
“Your father was the only mechanic outside this club Dutch ever truly trusted.”
Leo’s expression changed.
He had not expected that.
“My dad never said that.”
Jim almost smiled.
“Your dad didn’t say much about anything.”
That was true.
Leo looked down at the motorcycle.
Then back at the timing cover.
“Can I show you?”
Russell hesitated.
Frank started to object.
Jim said, “Let him.”
Russell looked at him.
“He’s eight.”
“He isn’t operating the lift.”
“He’s telling grown mechanics what to do.”
Jim’s eyes remained on Leo.
“Maybe we should hear him before deciding whether that’s a problem.”
Leo moved beside the open engine.
Frank reluctantly stepped away.
The boy leaned forward.
He did not touch anything.
“My dad always said if this motorcycle ever started kicking backward after somebody timed it by the book, check the plate first.”
Frank stared.
“He specifically talked about this motorcycle?”
Leo nodded.
“Lots.”
That hurt Jim in a way he did not understand yet.
Leo continued.
“He said it was the ugliest good motorcycle he ever worked on.”
Several bikers smiled.
Jim almost laughed.
“That sounds like Arty.”
Russell handed Leo a clean pointer.
“Show us.”
Leo indicated the timing plate.
“You’re lining this up here.”
Frank nodded.
“Correct.”
“Factory correct.”
Leo pointed farther around.
“But Dad moved the true reference.”
Frank looked closer.
“I don’t see another mark.”
“It isn’t obvious.”
“Where?”
Leo leaned in.
“There.”
Russell shone a small flashlight.
At first they saw nothing.
Then Frank adjusted his head.
A tiny hand-scribed line appeared beneath decades of discoloration.
Almost invisible.
Exactly twelve degrees away.
Frank said nothing.
Russell said nothing.
Jim slowly exhaled.
Leo looked at them.
“That’s the one.”
Frank bent lower.
“How did we miss that?”
Russell answered without looking away.
“Because we were searching for a professional timing mark.”
Leo said, “Dad used an old screwdriver.”
Frank looked at him.
Leo shrugged.
“He said he couldn’t find his punch.”
A few men laughed.
This time Leo smiled.
Russell’s entire posture changed.
“All right.”
He looked at Frank.
“Reset it.”