The man whose work Brandon had studied in library books.
Hank watched the realization spread across his face.
He did not brag.
He simply said:
“We don't forget.”
Then he started the Panhead.
The engine thundered to life.
Brandon stood there watching the cherry-red motorcycle disappear down Fifth Street.
He did not know that Hank had already made a phone call.
The Phone Call
Inside the Sunoco, Marvin Lee waited until the motorcycle disappeared.
Then he picked up the phone.
“It was him,” Marvin said.
He listened.
“Yeah. Iron Hank.”
Another pause.
“Some kid pulled him out.”
Marvin looked toward the street.
“Black kid. Skinny. Eighteen, maybe. Works at Hartman's Auto.”
He listened again.
“Yeah. I'm sure.”
He hung up.
Across town, a black SUV climbed a private road into the hills.
Wyatt “Preacher” Donovan sat in the passenger seat.
“Hank's okay,” he said.
The driver listened.
“Some kid saved him.”
Another pause.
“Yeah. Black kid. East Side.”
Preacher looked toward the mountains.
“Hank wants the whole table tomorrow.”
The driver frowned.
“Why?”
Preacher smiled without humor.
“Because Hank thinks the kid might be something special.”
Forty-Three Engines
The next afternoon, Brandon was changing the oil on a Honda Civic when he heard thunder.
He looked up.
Cole came out from under a lift.
The sound grew louder.
Five motorcycles.
Then ten.
Then fifteen.
Then twenty.
The noise filled the street.
Finally, forty-three motorcycles turned onto Maple Street.
The entire neighborhood stopped.
People came out of houses.
Children stood on sidewalks.
Mrs. Davies appeared on her porch with her cane.
The motorcycles stopped in front of Hartman's Auto.
Every engine shut off.
Silence.
Then one motorcycle rolled forward.
The cherry-red Panhead.
Hank removed his helmet.
Cole stared.
“Brandon.”
“What?”
“That’s Iron Hank Callaway.”
Brandon already knew.
Hank walked toward him.
“I heard you're healing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.”
Behind Hank stood forty-two other riders.
Then Hank spoke.
“I have one rule above all others.”
He looked at Brandon.
“We don't forget.”
He told the crowd what Brandon had done.
The camera from Channel 8 captured everything.
“We don't forget who stood up,” Hank said.
“We don't forget who looked away.”
He paused.
“And we don't forget who ran in.”
Then he handed Brandon a business card.
“Come to the shop tomorrow. Ten o'clock. Bring your grandmother.”
Brandon nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
Forty-three engines roared to life.
The street shook.
And Brandon knew his life was about to change.
The Offer
Callaway Custom Cycles was everything Brandon had dreamed about.
Fifteen thousand square feet.
Steel beams.
Exposed brick.
Polished concrete.
Motorcycles displayed like works of art.
Brandon stood outside for several seconds before entering.
Maylene noticed.
“Breathe, baby.”
“I am.”
“No. You're standing there forgetting.”