Jim stared.
“Do what?”
“Start it.”
Jim walked toward motorcycle.
Pulled cover.
The black FXR looked exactly as it had before.
No polished restoration.
No cosmetic miracle.
The paint had scratches.
Chrome showed age.
The leather seat had a repaired tear.
Dutch’s fingerprints were not literally visible, but the machine still looked used rather than curated.
Jim put one leg over.
Reached for ignition.
Rusty said:
“Not yet.”
Jim looked.
“What?”
“Leo said you’d forget.”
“Forget what?”
Rusty pointed beneath tank.
Jim stared.
Then laughed.
“The damn switch.”
He reached.
Found it.
Flipped.
Turned ignition.
Pressed starter.
The engine caught immediately.
Jim’s face collapsed.
He looked down toward tank.
The other bikers shouted.
One slapped Rusty hard enough on shoulder to move him.
Jim blipped throttle.
The FXR answered.
Rusty leaned close.
“Easy. Fresh work.”
Jim nodded.
He let idle.
Then shut it off.
He remained seated.
Nobody rushed him.
Finally:
“How much?”
Rusty frowned.
“What?”
“The bill.”
Rusty looked around shop.
Two weeks labor.
Parts.
Diagnostics.
Lost lift time.
If priced honestly, enormous.
Rusty said:
“Not today.”
Jim’s eyes narrowed.
“I don't take charity.”
“Good.”
“Because I’m not offering.”
“Then bill.”
Rusty nodded toward basement.
“Arthur solved half problem years ago.”
Jim looked.
“Your people worked two weeks.”
“And replaced parts bike didn't need because we didn't understand machine.”
“That’s labor.”
“That’s learning.”
“Still labor.”
Rusty smiled.
“We’ll fight later.”
Jim almost argued.
Then stopped.
“Fine.”
“You’re riding Saturday?”
“If it survives Friday test.”
“It will.”
“Don't promise.”
Jim looked at bike.
“It will.”
That afternoon Leo arrived running.
He had changed from school polo into the faded gray shirt in bathroom? No, user reference boy in gray, but previous prompt maybe. The user asked prompt enough, not specify wardrobe. We can keep his faded shirt.
“Did he start it?”
Rusty said:
“Who?”
“Jim.”
“No idea.”