The president was frustrated, but he agreed to stop for the day.
He had learned something from the boy's question, even if he wasn't ready to admit how much.
The teenager sat on a wooden bench beside the garage entrance, eating a chicken sandwich with both hands. He had finished the first in less than three minutes and was trying to make the second last longer. Every time someone passed, he straightened his back as if expecting to be told he had overstayed his welcome.
The president watched him from the office window.
The club treasurer entered carrying a folder of invoices.
"We need to talk."
The president turned.
"About what?"
"The repair costs. And the fall workshop."
He looked down at the papers.
"What about them?"
"We're running out of room."
The treasurer placed the folder on the desk and opened it to a summary page. Sponsorship money had come in slower than expected, while the workshop's expenses had risen sharply. Insurance, utilities, replacement tools, and several emergency repairs to the building had reduced the club's available funds.
The memorial ride was supposed to help close the gap.
But the event wasn't guaranteed to generate enough money, especially if the motorcycle remained out of service.
The treasurer pointed to a number near the bottom of the page.
"If we don't raise at least thirty thousand dollars before winter, we have to suspend the student classes."
The president frowned.
"We've never suspended them."
"I know."
"We promised those families we'd keep the doors open."
"I know that too."
The treasurer hesitated before turning another page.
"There's something else."
The president looked up.
"A collector called about the Shovelhead again."
His expression hardened.
"I told you we're not selling it."
"He knows."
"Then why is he calling?"
"Because he's offering cash. Right now. No repairs, no questions."
The president leaned back.
"How much?"
"Six thousand."
For a moment, the office was silent.
Then the president gave a bitter laugh.
"Six thousand dollars?"
"That's his offer."
"He knows what that motorcycle is worth."
"He says it's a nonrunning project with an unknown electrical problem."
The president stared at the invoices.
"Who told him that?"
The treasurer didn't answer immediately.
"He's been talking to the lead mechanic."
Something inside the president shifted.
He remembered the mechanic's hidden hand, the missing bolt, and the way he had tried to silence the boy. None of those things proved wrongdoing on their own, but together they created a picture he didn't like.
"How long has he been talking to him?"
"A couple of weeks."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I thought it was just another buyer trying his luck."
The president rubbed his beard.
"Tell him the bike isn't for sale."
"I already did."
"Tell him again."