The Softail was finished on Friday, and so was my patience.
I stood in the garage doorway at six that morning, coffee in one hand, rag in the other, watching the bike sit under the work light like a patient waiting to be discharged. Black and chrome, engine rebuilt from the crank up, every bearing new, every seal seated. It was the kind of work that usually made me proud.
It just felt like a goodbye.
Tank hadn't been to the garage in a week. Not since the party. Bruiser had been in twice—once for a tire, once just to shoot the s**t—and both times I asked about Tank, he gave me the same non-answer.
`Tank's Tank,'' Bruiser said the second time, shrugging. `He's working something out. Give him time.''
Working something out. I'd heard that one before. Dan had been `working something out''
