He understood what Chloe meant when she said something plainly.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"I've got nothing."
"Anything."
"Everything that runs is worth at least a thousand dollars."
"Then something that barely runs."
"Chloe."
"Please."
Arthur looked away toward the endless rows of metal.
For several seconds only the wind moved.
Finally he sighed.
"There is one thing."
Hope rose so suddenly Chloe almost became dizzy.
"What?"
Arthur pointed toward the far end of the yard.
"But I'm telling you right now, your father would come back from the grave and beat me to death with a torque wrench if I let you ride it."
"If it moves, show me."
Arthur muttered something under his breath.
Then he started walking.
They moved deeper into the salvage yard.
Past a burned motorhome.
Past a row of wrecked police cruisers.
Past a school bus with no wheels.
Near the back fence, the neat organization disappeared.
This section held things Arthur considered almost worthless.
Frames.
Axles.
Engines.
Metal too damaged to sell but still worth keeping for parts.
Then Chloe saw it.
A motorcycle leaned against the corrugated steel fence.
Calling it a motorcycle seemed generous.
It looked like something the desert had chewed and refused to swallow.
A 1978 Harley-Davidson Shovelhead.
At least that was what Arthur told her.
The chrome was almost completely gone.
Rust covered the tank and fenders.
The leather seat had split open, exposing yellow foam.
One mirror was missing.
The handlebars were crooked.
The exhaust pipes were blackened.
The rear suspension sagged badly.
The machine looked ancient, violent, and exhausted.
Chloe walked around it.
"This runs?"
Arthur laughed.
"Depends how generously you're defining the word."
"What happened to it?"
"Tow company dragged it out of a ditch off Route 58 three days ago."
"Owner?"
"None."
"Plate?"
"None."
"VIN?"
Arthur pointed.
"Somebody ground most of it away."
Chloe looked.
"That legal?"
"Nope."
She stared at him.
Arthur shrugged.
"Didn't say I was planning to sell it."
"Why take it?"
"Tow yard owed me money. They gave me scrap."
Chloe touched the handlebar.
The metal burned her palm.
She pulled away.
Arthur continued.
"Frame's bent."
Chloe crouched.
"Rear shocks are dead. Primary case leaks. Carburetor's held together by bad decisions."
"Engine?"
Arthur hesitated.
"Engine turned yesterday."
Chloe stood.
"Meaning?"
"I poured gas down the carb. Coughed twice."
"Then it runs."
"That is not what I said."
"It's close enough."
"No."
Chloe pulled the forty dollars from her pocket.
Arthur shook his head.
"No chance."
She pressed the money against his chest.
"I need this."
"You need not to die."
"That's why I need it."
Arthur did not take the money.
Chloe's voice broke.
"If Richard wakes up before I leave Barstow, I'm finished."
Arthur's eyes moved toward the entrance to the salvage yard.
For the first time, Chloe saw fear in them.
Not fear of Richard physically.
Fear of what might happen if the deputy arrived.
Arthur had known Richard for years.
Everyone did.
Finally he took the money.
"Your father is going to haunt me."
Chloe almost laughed.
"Get in line."
Arthur looked at the motorcycle.
"Fine."
He tucked the money into his shirt pocket.
"But if we're doing this, we're giving the death trap every chance not to kill you."
For the next hour they worked.
Arthur replaced a cracked fuel hose.
Chloe used her father's wrench to tighten a fitting.
They cleaned the carburetor enough to allow fuel through.
Arthur found a salvaged car battery and strapped it to the rear fender with two heavy bungee cords.
"Absolutely ridiculous," he muttered.
"But does it work?"
"That's different from safe."
Chloe checked the oil.
Almost none.
Arthur poured in two quarts.
"Where's the key?"
"No key."
"What?"
Arthur exposed two wires beneath the tank.