Ray looked at the clock.
Then at Frank.
Then back at Ben.
"Can you get them?"
Ben nodded.
Ray reached for his keys.
"I'll drive you."
Frank moved between them.
"Ray, don't encourage this."
Ray's eyes hardened.
"Four shops have failed."
"That doesn't make a nine-year-old a mechanic."
"No."
Ray glanced toward Ben.
"But maybe his father left us something four shops didn't have."
Ben put down the broom.
For the first time since the motorcycle arrived, hope entered the room.
It came in the form of a skinny child wearing broken sneakers.
Mara Carter lived with Ben in a narrow apartment above a closed laundromat.
When Ray's motorcycles pulled up outside, she nearly dropped the tray she was carrying.
"Benjamin."
She hurried down the stairs.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Then why are eight motorcycle riders outside my building?"
Ray removed his gloves.
"Ma'am, I'm Ray Callahan."
"I know who you are."
That surprised him.
"My husband knew some of you."
"Lucas?"
Her expression changed.
"You knew Lucas?"
"Not well."
Ray glanced at the motorcycle trailer parked behind them.
"But my friend did."
Ben interrupted.
"Mom, where are Dad's notebooks?"
Mara went still.
"Why?"
"The black motorcycle."
Her face tightened immediately.
"No."
Ben stared at her.
"Mom—"
"No."
Ray asked gently, "You know about Red's bike?"
Mara folded her arms.
"I know Lucas spent too much time working on it."
"What does that mean?"
"It means that motorcycle caused arguments in my house."
Ray's eyebrows lifted.
Mara looked toward Ben.
Her voice softened.
"Your father promised me he'd stop doing dangerous roadside jobs. We needed him home."
Ben lowered his eyes.
"That bike wasn't dangerous."
"No. But the people around it frightened me."
Ray absorbed the insult without reacting.
Mara continued.
"Lucas didn't care. He said Red Dawson treated him better than half the respectable men in this town."
Ray smiled faintly.
"That sounds like Red too."
She sighed.
"What do you want?"
"Nothing that belongs to you."
Ray nodded toward Ben.
"Your son thinks Lucas wrote something about the motorcycle."
Mara looked at Ben.
"Did you tell them that?"
"I remember Dad showing me."
"Ben."
"He said Mr. Red made the engine weird."
Ray almost laughed.
Mara did not.
She walked upstairs.
Five minutes later, she returned carrying a battered plastic storage box.
It contained photographs, receipts, parts catalogs, and nine spiral notebooks.
Ben immediately reached for one with blue tape around the spine.
"That's it."
He sat on the curb and opened it.
Pages were filled with hand-drawn diagrams.
Engines.
Carburetors.
Wiring systems.
Measurements.
Arrows.
Corrections.
Comments written in Lucas Carter's narrow handwriting.
Ben flipped rapidly.
Then stopped.
There it was.
RED D. — BLACK TOURING RIG.
Ray knelt.
The drawing was unmistakable.
Underneath the main sketch were three sentences.
Customized ignition after '95 failure.
Rear cylinder reference shifted.
Do not use stock TDC mark.
Ray looked at Ben.
"You remembered this?"
Ben nodded.
Frank leaned over the page.
His face slowly changed.
Lucas had drawn an alternate timing reference on the flywheel.
Not twelve degrees.
Not fifteen.
Nine.
Frank whispered, "Son of a gun."
Ben traced another note.
"There."
A second modification.
A hidden ground circuit.
A manual anti-theft switch wired beneath the left side cover.
Frank stared at him.
"We checked under there."
"Did you remove the bracket?"
Frank was silent.
Ben answered for him.
"No."
Ray stood.
"Back to the shop."
Mara caught Ben's arm.
"He's not working on a motorcycle."
Ray looked at her.
"Fair."
Ben's face fell.
Ray continued.
"But would you allow him to explain what his father wrote while the adults do the work?"
Mara hesitated.
Ben looked at her with pleading eyes.
Finally she sighed.
"Two hours."
Ben smiled.
"And he doesn't touch anything dangerous."
"Agreed."
Ray opened the truck door.
As Ben climbed in, Mara called after him.
"Benjamin."
He turned.
"Your father loved machines."
She paused.
"But he loved you more."
Ben nodded.
Then he carried the notebook toward the motorcycle his father had once understood.
At the garage, the atmosphere had changed.
Nobody laughed at Ben now.
Frank placed Lucas's notebook under a bright work lamp.
The mechanics removed the timing plug.
Ben stood beside the lift, barely tall enough to see over the frame.
"Rotate it slowly," he said.
Tommy turned the engine.
"Stop."
Ben leaned closer.
"Again."
Another small turn.
"Stop."
Frank compared the flywheel position with the drawing.
His mouth opened slightly.
"Lucas was right."
Ray stood behind him.
"Meaning?"
"The factory timing mark doesn't match the actual crank position anymore."
"Why?"
Frank examined the notes.
"Looks like somebody rebuilt this bottom end decades ago with parts that were never meant to work together."
One mechanic smiled.
"That's insane."
Ray said, "Red considered that a compliment."
Frank adjusted the ignition according to Lucas's measurement.
Then they removed the left side cover.
Nothing.
Frank looked at Ben.
"Bracket?"
Ben pointed.
"That one."
Tommy removed it.
Behind the steel mounting plate was a tiny toggle switch buried beneath hardened grease.
Nobody spoke.
Frank flipped it.
They installed a fresh battery.
Fuel on.
Ignition on.
Ray moved toward the motorcycle.
Ben suddenly shouted, "Wait!"
Everyone froze.
"What?" Frank asked.
Ben stared at the notebook.
"Don't start it."
Ray's hope vanished.
"Why?"
Ben turned the page.
A warning had been written in capital letters.
OIL RETURN CHECK BEFORE START AFTER LONG STORAGE.
Ben pointed toward the dry oil lines.
"My dad said old bikes can fill the bottom with oil if they sit."
Frank's eyes widened.
Wet sumping.
The machine had been stationary for years.
If a large volume of oil had migrated into the crankcase, starting it hard could create dangerous pressure and flood the breather system.
Frank opened the drain carefully.
Oil poured into a pan.
A lot of oil.
Tommy stared at Ben.
"Kid just saved us a mess."
Frank's face tightened.
Perhaps more than a mess.
They cleaned the system.
Replaced aging lines.
Primed the pump.
Checked the return.
Two hours became four.
Mara called twice.
Ben refused food until Frank practically forced a sandwich into his hands.
At 10:47 that night, everything was ready.
Ray stood beside the motorcycle.
Ben held his father's notebook against his chest.
Frank pressed the starter.
The engine turned.
Once.
Twice.
Then fired.
A tremendous mechanical thunder filled the garage.
Everyone jumped.
Blue smoke rolled from the exhaust.
The motor coughed.