The teenager's face changed.
The president stood immediately.
"Enough."
The lead mechanic held up his hands.
"Just joking."
"Nobody's laughing."
The mechanic glanced toward the office.
"Can we talk?"
The president nodded.
"Now."
Inside, the mechanic closed the door behind them.
"You're making me look bad," he said.
The president crossed his arms.
"I'm asking about the repairs."
"You're bringing in outsiders, letting some kid question my work, and acting like I've been stealing from you."
"Have you?"
The mechanic froze.
The president waited.
"That's a hell of a thing to ask."
"It's a simple question."
The mechanic's face reddened.
"After fourteen years?"
"After fourteen years, I should be able to ask without worrying about the answer."
The mechanic paced toward the window.
"You have no idea what I've done for this club."
"I know what you've been paid to do."
The mechanic turned.
"Paid? You think this is about money?"
The president looked at the invoices.
"I'm beginning to think it might be."
The mechanic stared at him.
Then he pointed through the window toward the teenager.
"This started because of him."
The president's expression hardened.
"No."
The mechanic blinked.
"What?"
"This started because the motorcycle wasn't being repaired properly. He just noticed something."
"He's a homeless kid who wandered into the shop."
"He's fifteen."
"So?"
The president stepped forward.
"So you need to stop talking about him like he's the problem."
The mechanic opened his mouth, then closed it.
The president continued.
"Go home. You're off the Shovelhead until we finish reviewing the records."
The mechanic stared at him in disbelief.
"You're suspending me?"
"I'm removing you from that job."
"Over a kid?"
"Over the work."
The mechanic shook his head.
"You're making a mistake."
The president pointed toward the door.
"Maybe. But it's mine to make."
The mechanic stood motionless for several seconds.
Then he turned and walked out.
His boots struck the concrete so hard that several people looked up from their work. He passed the teenager without speaking, snatched his jacket from a hook, and disappeared through the side entrance.
The boy watched him leave.
He didn't feel victorious.
He felt frightened.
People who looked at him that way usually weren't finished.
The lead mechanic drove directly to the collector's office.
The business occupied a warehouse beside a highway interchange, surrounded by old motorcycles, parts containers, and several vehicles awaiting restoration. Inside, the walls were decorated with photographs of rare machines and framed advertisements from decades earlier. The collector sat behind a wide desk, studying a computer screen when the mechanic entered.
"You're supposed to call first," he said.
"We have a problem."
The collector sighed.
"You said that yesterday."
"They took me off the job."
The collector looked up.
"What?"