Everyone looked.
“Dad hated broken locks.”
Jim almost laughed.
“Leo, your father is not coming back to inspect.”
The boy lowered eyes.
“I know.”
Jim’s expression softened.
“Sorry.”
Leo stepped forward.
He touched dial.
Rusty asked:
“You know combination?”
Leo nodded.
“What?”
Leo turned dial.
Eight.
Six.
Forty-two.
Click.
Dave stared.
“Eight-six-four-two?”
Leo shrugged.
“Bike year and locker.”
Rusty looked at Jim.
“Your legendary mechanic used terrible passwords.”
Jim smiled.
“Dutch would've used one-two-three-four.”
Leo opened door.
Dust.
An old denim jacket.
Two cardboard boxes.
A green metal case.
Three service manuals.
An oil-stained cloth bag.
And taped to inside door:
A photograph.
Dutch, twenty years younger.
Arthur Hayes beside him.
Both standing around the black FXR.
Dutch flipping camera middle finger.
Arthur laughing.
Leo stared.
He had never seen photograph.
Jim reached.
Stopped himself.
“Can I?”
Leo nodded.
Jim removed photo carefully.
“My God.”
Rusty leaned.
“That's old shop.”
Jim pointed.
“1997.”
“How know?”
“Dutch cut beard after Tahoe run.”
Dave muttered:
“You people date history by facial hair?”
Jim ignored.
Leo opened green metal case.
Inside lay four wrapped metal rods.
Custom pushrods.
Each labeled in Arthur’s handwriting.
DUTCH FXR — DO NOT SUBSTITUTE
Dave inhaled.
“You have got to be kidding.”
Rusty picked one carefully.
Straight.
Exactly machined.
Beside them were two custom spacers.
A hand-drawn timing diagram.
And another note.
Rusty read aloud:
If Dutch brings this motorcycle in after ignoring me again, timing reference remains twelve degrees retarded from stock index. Hidden ground switch under left front tank mount. If anyone replaces harness, preserve it.
Dave sat on old stool.
“I hate dead people.”
Jim laughed so hard he had to turn away.
Rusty continued.
At bottom:
If I am not here, listen to Leo. Kid remembers everything.
Nobody laughed.
Leo stared at handwriting.
His lips parted.
He reached.
Rusty handed note.
Leo read again.
His father had written his name.
Not as child.