The president moved between them.
"That's what we're all supposed to be doing."
The lead mechanic looked toward the teenager.
"And what's he doing here?"
The president's voice became cold.
"He's my guest."
"He's distracting everyone."
"Then stop paying attention to him."
The mechanic's face darkened.
The president pointed toward the office.
"I want you to go through every invoice for this bike. Parts, labor, outside services, everything. I want the original receipts."
"Why?"
"Because I'm paying them."
The lead mechanic stared at him.
For a moment, the president thought he might refuse.
Then the mechanic forced a smile.
"Sure."
He turned and walked toward the office.
The president watched him go.
He was beginning to understand that the problem with the Shovelhead might be much larger than an electrical connection.
That afternoon, a dark pickup truck pulled into the parking lot.
A clean-shaven man wearing an expensive jacket stepped out and examined the motorcycles lined up beneath the garage awning. His boots looked new, his watch was conspicuously expensive, and he carried himself with the relaxed confidence of someone accustomed to arriving where he wasn't expected.
The club president recognized him immediately.
The collector.
The man who had offered six thousand dollars for the Shovelhead.
The president came outside.
"Can I help you?"
The collector smiled.
"Thought I'd stop by."
"Why?"
"Business."
"We don't have any."
The collector glanced toward the open garage.
"That's a shame. I heard you're still having problems with the old bike."
The president folded his arms.
"You heard wrong."
"Really?"
"Really."
The collector looked past him toward the hydraulic lift.
"Funny. Your mechanic seemed pretty sure that engine had serious issues."
The president didn't move.
"Which mechanic?"
The collector hesitated.
"The one I've been talking to."
The president smiled without warmth.
"That's what I thought."
The collector adjusted his jacket.
"Look, I'm not trying to offend anybody. I buy old motorcycles. Sometimes people need money more than they need a project collecting dust."
"That motorcycle isn't collecting dust."
"It isn't running either."
The president leaned slightly forward.
"You don't know that."
The collector's smile faded.
"Six thousand cash is a fair offer for a machine with an unknown problem."
"Not interested."
"Seven thousand, then."
"No."
"Eight."
The president stared at him.
The collector raised both hands.
"Think about your workshop. Think about the kids you're trying to help. You could pay a lot of bills with eight thousand dollars."
The president glanced toward the garage, where the fifteen-year-old was folding shop towels under the supervision of an older member.
"Funny you mention the kids."
The collector followed his gaze.
"Who's that?"
"Someone who noticed something the mechanics missed."
The collector's expression changed for a fraction of a second.
Then the smile returned.