Not even a cough.
"The carb's clean,"
Nolan said.
"This engine's just done. These old shovelheads, they hit a wall eventually."
"I've seen it a dozen times. Nothing left to do."
Garrett grabbed Nolan by the shirt and yanked him forward.
"You're supposed to be the best in the state."
"I am the best in the state. And I'm telling you, she's finished."
"Done. Dead."
Garrett held him there for 3 seconds, then shoved him away so hard Nolan tripped over his own toolbox.
"Get out. Every single one of you."
"Useless. Pathetic."
"Useless."
The crowd was bigger now. Word moves fast when Hells Angels are angry.
Sixty people pressed against the fence. Mechanics from other shops came to watch.
Riders from other chapters, neighbors on porches, kids on bicycles. Then came Curtis Wade, former aerospace engineer turned motorcycle consultant, the smart one, the one who showed up with a laptop, a voltage meter, a current probe, and a smile that said he already knew the answer.
He plugged in, ran diagnostics, scrolled through data, typed notes, cross-referenced wiring diagrams on his screen. He looked professional.
He looked thorough. Twenty minutes later, he stood up and delivered his verdict like a doctor delivering bad news.
Full engine replacement. New crankshaft, new cylinders, new camshaft, new primary chain.
We're talking $8,000 minimum. Could push 12 depending on parts availability for a '72 Shovelhead.
Garrett's jaw clenched so hard the veins in his temple pulsed. $8,000 to $12,000.
To fix a bike that three of you so-called experts can't even diagnose properly. Curtis closed his laptop.
I don't make the rules of physics, Mr. Steel.
"No. You just waste my time."
Curtis left calm, collected, and wrong.
Garrett stood alone next to Black Fury. The summer heat pressed down on the asphalt.
He pulled a thick roll of hundreds from his vest and slammed it on the table. $5,000 cash in the open.
"Five thousand dollars right now. Anyone who can make her run within one hour takes it all."
"No excuses, no taking it back to your shop. Right here, right now."
Silence.
Not one hand went up. Not one voice.
$5,000 baking in the Detroit sun and not a single person in that crowd willing to touch Black Fury. That's when Owen walked past.
He wasn't there for the bikes. He wasn't there for the money.
He was walking home from his second shift. 6 hours at the car wash on Livernois Avenue.
4 hours stocking shelves at the gas station on Grand River. His shoes were splitting at the soles.
His shirt smelled like industrial soap and exhaust fumes. He had $11 in his pocket and a library book in his backpack.
But he heard something. Not the crowd.
Not the country music leaking from the bar. He heard the engine.