Jim continued.
“Thomas had the truck.”
“Arthur had the hands.”
Leo almost smiled.
Jim looked toward the garage wall as if he could see through it to the motorcycle.
“That kid worked on Dutch’s FXR until three in the morning.”
“Couldn’t get proper parts.”
“So he built what he needed.”
“He used an older ignition setup.”
“Machined the spacer by hand at a truck repair shop twenty miles away.”
“Shifted the timing reference.”
“Twelve degrees.”
Leo’s fingers tightened around the tag.
Jim nodded toward it.
“That might be the identification plate Arthur made for the modification.”
Russell frowned.
“Then why hide it inside the ignition?”
Jim looked at him.
“He didn’t.”
Leo immediately noticed.
“What?”
Jim’s eyes returned to the tag.
“Arthur didn’t put that tag there.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I watched Dutch make it.”
Leo stopped breathing.
Jim leaned back.
“The next morning, after your dad got the motorcycle running, Dutch gave Arthur five hundred dollars.”
“Arthur refused it.”
Russell smiled.
“Also sounds like Arthur.”
“Dutch offered again.”
“Arthur said no.”
“So Dutch asked him for a piece of scrap aluminum.”
“He cut that tag.”
“Stamped Arthur’s name into it.”
“And told him every machine should carry the name of the man who saved it.”
Leo looked down at the metal.
“You said Dad didn’t put it there.”
“He didn’t.”
“Dutch did.”
The office became silent.
Leo rubbed the engraving with his thumb.
“Why did you look scared?”
Jim’s face hardened again.
Russell watched him.
That was the real question.
Jim looked toward the office door.
Then back at Leo.
“Because there was something else on that tag.”
Leo flipped it over.
The back looked dark.
Greasy.
Blank.
Jim stood.
“Clean it.”
Russell grabbed brake cleaner.
Jim stopped him.
“Not that.”
He took a bottle of mild solvent from the shelf.
A cloth.
He knelt in front of Leo.
“May I?”
Leo hesitated.
Then handed him the tag.
Jim cleaned it carefully.
Years of residue came away.
The back contained smaller engraving.
Four letters.
Two numbers.
And a date.
D.S. / A.H.
06-14-92
Below that was one sentence so faint Leo needed to tilt it toward the light.
MY BOY BROUGHT HER HOME
Leo read it twice.
Then looked up.
“What does that mean?”
Jim closed his eyes.
Russell whispered, “Jim.”
Jim opened them.
“Call his mother.”
Leo immediately said, “No.”
Jim looked at him.
“Leo.”
“You know.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me.”
“I’m not telling an eight-year-old something about his father before his mother knows I’m telling him.”
Leo’s eyes filled with anger.
“It’s my dad.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
Jim’s expression changed.
The boy’s voice shook now.
“Everybody keeps saying things about him after he died like I’m too little to hear them.”
“People talk to Mom.”