One of the younger Angels, a prospect named Bobby, laughed outright. "Listen to the rugrat. Kid, go play with your Hot Wheels. Grown men are talking."
Jim raised one massive hand, silencing Bobby instantly. His eyes narrowed as he looked from the boy to the bike and back again. "What did you just say, kid?"
Leo pointed a grimy finger at the timing cover on the right side of the engine. "They're using the factory timing marks for an Evo motor, but that's a trap. My dad told me about this bike. He said Mr. Dutch was a madman when it came to engines."
Jim's breath hitched slightly at the mention of his friend. "Go on."
"My dad said Mr. Dutch blew the bottom end of this motor during a race in Reno back in '92," Leo explained, stepping closer to the machine. He reached out and traced his small fingers over the brushed aluminum of the cam cover. "He didn't have money for new factory parts, so he used parts from a wrecked 1978 Shovelhead and machined what he needed to fit this case.
The timing marks on the flywheels are off by exactly 12 degrees from the factory setup. If you try to fire it on the standard mark, the spark comes at the wrong point while the intake side is still open. That's why the engine keeps kicking back so violently."
The garage was dead silent. Rusty stood frozen, his jaw slightly open. The mechanics in the back, who had been eavesdropping, slowly stepped out from behind their toolboxes.
"And the battery drain?" Jim asked, his voice suddenly very quiet, the earlier aggression gone.
"It's not a normal short," Leo said simply. "Mr. Dutch was paranoid about people stealing his bike. My dad told me he wired a secondary ignition bypass into the frame beneath the left side of the fat-bob tank. There's a hidden toggle switch under there. If you don't set it before you turn the key, the ignition stays grounded and the battery drains while the starter keeps cranking."
Jim Mercer stared at the boy. He remembered 1992. He remembered Reno. He remembered Dutch laughing like a maniac in a motel parking lot, covered in oil, bragging about a Frankenstein engine he was building from scratch.
"What was your dad's name, kid?" Jim asked softly.
"Arthur," Leo replied, his gaze dropping to the floor for the first time. "Arthur Hayes."
Jim let out a slow, heavy exhale and removed his sunglasses. "Arty Hayes," he muttered to himself. He turned to the other Angels. "Arty Hayes was the only wrench Dutch ever trusted outside the club. Guy was a wizard. Died of lung cancer two years ago."
Jim turned back to Rusty. "Rusty, did you check whether this thing had been built with Shovelhead internals?"
Rusty swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "Jim, you can't be serious. You can't just mix Shovelhead and Evo bottom-end parts like that. The tolerances are different. It would be a mechanical nightmare."
"Did you check it?" Jim asked again, louder this time.
"No," Rusty admitted quietly. "We went by the book."
Jim looked back down at the 8-year-old boy. The kid was dirty, underfed, and wearing shoes with holes in the toes. Yet in his bright eyes, Jim saw the same spark of mechanical genius that Arthur Hayes used to possess.
"You think you can fix it, kid?" Jim asked.
Rusty stepped forward, frantic. "Jim, be reasonable. He's 8 years old. He doesn't have the physical strength to do this kind of work. If something is assembled wrong, we could ruin Dutch's engine completely."
"I asked the boy," Jim said coldly, not taking his eyes off Leo.
Leo looked up. "I can't lift the heavy wrenches, sir. Mr. Rusty is right about that. But if I tell them what my dad taught me, and they do the heavy work, I can show them what they're missing."
Jim slowly nodded. He turned to Rusty, pointing a thick finger at the shop owner's chest. "You hear that, Rusty? The boy is your foreman on this job. You and your mechanics are his hands. You listen to what he knows, and you check every step."
Rusty looked horrified. "Jim, if this kid destroys Dutch's motor..."
"Then it's on me," Jim interrupted. "But if I come back tomorrow at noon and this bike still isn't roaring, I'm shutting this garage down permanently."
Jim reached into his leather vest, pulled out a crisp $100 bill, and placed it into Leo's tiny, greasy hand. "Go buy yourself a steak, kid. You're going to need your energy. You start on the Widowmaker tomorrow at dawn."
As the Hells Angels fired up their bikes and roared out of the lot, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust and tire smoke, Leo stood holding the $100 bill. He looked at the silent 1986 FXR. He could almost feel his father's hand on his shoulder.
The real work was about to begin.
The sun had barely begun to bleed over the industrial skyline of Oakland when Leo walked through the side door of Apex Iron Works on Wednesday morning. He looked different that day. His face was scrubbed clean, and though his clothes were still worn and oversized, he carried himself with quiet, undeniable purpose. He had eaten the steak Jim Mercer had paid for, the best meal he and his mother had shared in months, and he was ready to earn it.
Rusty and his top three mechanics were already standing around the black 1986 FXR. Big Dave was a heavily tattooed giant. Tommy was a wiry speed freak who specialized in carburetors. Old Man Pete was the shop's electrical guru. All three looked exhausted and deeply skeptical.
"All right, kid," Rusty said, crossing his arms. He looked more stressed than a man defusing a bomb. "Jim Mercer practically signed my death warrant if this doesn't work. We're yours to command. Where do we start?"