The Professionals Circuit Archive - Finished Business       Finished
Business

 

by Anne Carr

  
 Bodie stretched out one leg and winced as the blood began to fill his
toes, then forgot about it when he spotted the tiny hole in the rubber
tube he held. "Got you," he told it triumphantly and reached for the
patching tape.

That minor flaw attended to his satisfaction he surveyed the jumble of
parts spread around the body of the Harley and smiled. Almost done. And
Ray said he'd never do it.

Not that Bodie himself had really believed he'd do it either. But he had -
well, almost. By, say - he glanced at his watch - 1800 hours he'd have it
together. He'd take it for a spin then...just to SHOW him.

"Yeh," Bodie said and rubbed another bit of grease onto his nose.

Six months of work, this lot. Ray, of course, had found the framework, got
it all going. But it was he, Bodie, who had searched out the replacements
for the missing or damaged bits, slogging through collectors' magazines,
shifting over junk piles, bartering, buying one piece after another. What
had started as a quick conversation had grown into an obsession.

"Can't find the right carburator," Doyle had said fretfully, and Bodie,
eager to go for a quick pint, had answered, "You couldn't find your own
arse if it jumped up and bit you."

Doyle pointed out the various flaws in this theory and eventually
challenged, "I'll bet you couldn't find one either."

Nettled, Bodie took himself off. By the next day he had the part in hand.
Doyle had been appropriately awed, Bodie remembered with satisfaction.

"Bet you can't find THIS bit."

Six parts later Doyle moved to a garageless flat and the cycle was given
into Bodie's reluctantly interested board and care. He was a sucker for a
challenge, Bodie reflected and hummed as the carburator slid neatly into
place. Always had been. He knew what Ray was doing - a Tom Sawyer number -
getting Bodie to suss out the pieces so Ray could do the tinkering he so
loved at his own leisure. Bodie didn't mind, he never refused a dare
either.

The diagram he'd picked up from a touch looking biker with "E.T. PHONE
HOME" stitched across the back of his jacket was faded, old, and stained
with years of abuse. Bodie added another smudge as he held it up to the
light. Yes, he had it right. REAL Harley enthusiasts would sneer at him,
he knew, but he still needed the reassurance of the schematic. He had a
sneaking suspicion that they memorized this print somewhere about the time
they cut their first teeth - but his love was for a particular cycle and
was largely connected with the man who'd brought him in on it to begin
with.

"Sweet thing," he crooned and screwed the shiny nut into place. It seemed
to cuddle against the metal. Doyle and his bike, snugglers, both of em.
Now this particular bit had come from the Harley of a former Hell's Angels
leader, according to the proprietor of the yard where he and Doyle had
found it. The so-called notoriety of it had upped the price ten-fold and
Bodie smiled to himself, remembering Ray's indignant response. Flashpoint
temper - tiny Raymond threatening to make a jigsaw puzzle out of a guy
impersonating an eighteen wheeler.

"What does it matter?" Bodie told Doyle as he dragged him away still
grumbling.

"Puts me right off, doesn't it?" Doyle was in a definitely snarky temper.
"People like that. Lie through their teeth just to hear the sound of their
own voice. I'm sick of em. You can bloody ave. em."

"Right," Bodie agreed and went back the next day alone to buy the part,
then lied and swore to Ray he'd found it elsewhere.

It wasn't long after that the cycle came into his care completely and he
worried over it like a mother hen, reading up from Ray's old magazines,
chivying the local librarian into a frazzle when she helped him look up
the mystifying bits. He wasn't going to admit ignorance - or defeat.

At 1800 hours exactly he checked the air in the tires one last time.
"Perfect," he announced to the garage from his seat on the cold floor.

As if on cue a pair of trainers came into view and Bodie raised a smug
face to his partner. "I did it."

"Finished?" Warm eyes slid over the spotless cycle and rested on Bodie.
"It's easy to see where all the grease went."

"Look at her," Bodie waved a hand. "She's gorgeous."

"I got to admit, mate, I never thought you'd do it. Come on, I'll pour you
a drink to celebrate."

"You go ahead. I'll be up in a minute." Bodie was still admiring his
handiwork. "Get the good stuff," he added absently.

"Now I'm REALLY impressed!"

Footsteps faded away up the stairs to Bodie's flat but he ignored them.

He felt proud, and somehow relieved. As if a great weight had lifted and
set him free.

He stood back and surveyed the bike. He was right - it was perfect, down
to each gleaming centimeter.

His stomach rumbled loudly, reminding him he hadn't eaten since morning.
Maybe if he played his cards right he could talk his partner into
springing for dinner out.

To celebrate. He had finished Ray's Harley.

Doyle would have liked that.

Bodie smiled and turned off the garage light before locking the cycle
away. He bounded up the steps three at a time and called to his partner,
"Murph, you pratt, where's my drink?"

"Cheers," Murphy said. He took a close look at Bodie and added, "Fly
free."

"Yeh," Bodie agreed and drank the pure malt down in one.

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