Hank held the cash out one more second. Then he nodded slowly. He folded the roll back into his vest. He didn’t push again.
He just looked at Brandon. The way a man studies a tool he didn’t expect to find in his hand. All right. he said. All right.
Brandon pushed himself up off the curb, slowly. His left arm hung stiff at his side. He started to walk past Hank toward the road, toward home.
He passed the Panhead. He stopped. His eyes went to the tank.
The pinstripe work, the hand-laid pattern around the gas cap, the little brass badge on the seat hump. He’d seen this bike in a library book on his bedside table.
Cherry red 1959 Panhead. Henry “Iron Hank” Callaway, Callaway Custom Cycles founder. Brandon’s mouth opened slightly, then closed.
He didn’t say a word. He just looked at the bike, then at Hank, then at the bike again. Hank watched him put it together.
Didn’t confirm, didn’t deny. Just lifted one corner of his mouth, the closest thing to a smile he’d shown all afternoon.
Brandon swallowed, turned, started walking again. Behind him, Hank’s voice was quiet. Son.
Brandon stopped. We don’t forget.
Brandon turned back to ask what that meant, but Hank was already pulling his helmet down. The Panhead started up with a sound like distant thunder rolling over the hills.
He gave Brandon one small nod, kicked the stand, and rolled out of the gas station onto Fifth Street. Brandon stood there alone, holding his bandaged arm, watching the cherry red tank disappear down the road.
Then, he started walking home. Inside the Sunoco, the clerk waited until the bike was gone, until Brandon had turned the corner, until the parking lot was empty.
Then he picked up the phone, dialed a number he had not dialed in many years. When someone answered, he kept his voice low. It was him.
Yeah, the one from the magazine. Some kid pulled him out. Black kid, skinny. Hartman’s Auto, I think.
