Page 86 of Money Shot

VINCE

Present day

I hopped off my bike and stared down at the carburetor. Fuel dripped out of it at a rapid rate onto the floor of the shop, not only making a stinking mess, but causing a fire hazard, and quite possibly preventing me from leaving if it continued.

And I had no idea of what to do to make it stop.

I lowered myself onto the floor and peered up at the bottom of the carburetor, only to get a face full of gasoline.

Fuck.

As the pace of the stream seemed to steadily increase, I ran around the shop like a complete and utter idiot, searching for a gas can. Engines, transmission, wheels, frames, and fenders littered one side of the shop, but a gas can wasn’t to be found. The search of a trash can produced an empty beer can, and after some handiwork with my pocket knife, I cut off the top and was using it to catch what little fuel I could.

I exhaled a sigh of relief as I heard an approaching bike, only to realize whoever it was I didn’t recognize as being a Sinner.

Fuck.

The bike came to a stop outside the door of the shop and a very muscular man in a Sinner’s cut got off the bike and sauntered over to where I was. His hair was short, he had a few days growth of beard, and his odd manner of walking wasn’t something he did, it seemed to be a part of who he was. He walked like he’d served time in the joint, and his walk made a clear statement. It was a don’t fuck with me walk.

“Mikuni?” he asked.

I turned to face him and shrugged my shoulders. “Excuse me?”

“It’s leaking like a motherfucker. You planning on watching it pour out until it’s empty, or fixing it?” he asked.

“I don’t know where it’s coming from,” I responded.

Without speaking, he turned and walked to his motorcycle, removed the seat, and unrolled a tool kit. After a few seconds, he meandered back to where I stood, knelt down, and tapped something against the bottom of the carburetor.

“There,” he said.

The gas fumes were atrocious. If someone would have lit a cigarette, the entire shop would have gone up in flames.

“There what?” I asked.

“It’s fixed,” he said. “But I’d push that fucker in the drive before I started it. You try and start it over that puddle it’ll go up in flames.”

“You fixed it?” I asked as I shifted my eyes toward the carburetor.

The leak had clearly stopped.

He nodded his head. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it? Hell, I didn’t think I was stuttering, anyway,” he said with a laugh.

I shifted my eyes to the patch on the front of his cut.

Big Jack.

“Vince,” I said as I extended my hand. “I appreciate it.”

“Jackson,” he said as he shook my hand.

The hair on the back of my neck stood. I hadn’t heard that name since I was a kid.

“You alright, Brother?” he asked as he slapped his hand against my bicep.

“I uhhm. Yeah, yeah, I’m good. So, what’d you do to fix it?” I asked.

“It’s a Mikuni. Someone took the old Keihin carb off and replaced it with a Mikuni, which was a pretty good call if it’s not a stock motor,” he said.