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wore a faded tan-colored tank top that looked too small and above that he wore a pair of gold-rimmed aviator shades and a red work bandanna tied around his head. His hair was black, combed straight back and long enough to cover a collar, held in place by the bandanna, and there was a diamond stickpin in one ear. Ike could see it catching the light along with the thin gold rims of the shades.
    The biker was standing only a few yards away from where Ike sat and when he bent down to take a look at the engine, Ike could see how the dark hair was beginning to recede just a bit above the red cloth. The guy squatted down, peering into the engine, but Ike could tell by the way he moved that he didn’t really know what he was looking for. The other bikers sat on their machines and watched. Suddenly the guy stood up. He did it a bit too fast, though, and wobbled around some so that Ike could see he was fairly well pasted. “God damn it,” he shouted at no one in particular, and Ike could see a couple of the other bikers wearing grins. All of a sudden, though, the guy raised his fist and brought it down on the fuel tank. The blow didn’t look like it had traveled very far, but a good-sized dent appeared in the black-lacquered tank and the smiles Ike had noticed only moments before disappeared. He heard somebody say, “Shit,” and the biker closest to the Knuckle walked his own bike farther away, as if he were expecting some sort of explosion. “God damn it to hell.” The owner of the Knuckle shook his head, swayed a bit, then paced back to the far side of the bike and stood staring down on it, his aviator shades flashing in Ike’s direction, so that for a moment Ike had the feeling that the biker was looking past the bike and staring right at him.
    “It’s the carburetor,” Ike said, and was surprised at the sound of his own voice. There followed a moment of silence in which half a dozen shaggy heads swiveled in his direction.
    “The what?”
    “The carburetor.”
    The biker put his hands on his hips and walked back around the bike to get a better look. He sort of turned his face up into the sun and laughed out loud. He pointed at Ike, then looked back toward his friends. “What’s this, Morris, your brother?”
    The others laughed.
    Ike shifted his butt on the curb. “I can fix it for you if you’ve got a screwdriver.”
    The biker just looked at him. He pushed his shades up and over the bandanna so they rested on his hair.
    “Shit,” somebody said. “I wouldn’t let him near it.”
    The owner of the Knuckle raised his hand. “What if I do have a screwdriver?” he asked. “What are you going to do if you fuck it up?”
    “I won’t fuck it up.”
    The biker grinned. “Come over here, Morris. Bring your screwdriver and see how it’s done.”
    A bulky-looking biker with blond hair walked over and tossed Ike a screwdriver. He tossed him a sullen look, too. “Don’t fuck nothin’,” he said.
    Ike left his board at the curb and knelt alongside the big engine, inhaled the familiar hot odors of fuel and metal. It took him about three minutes to adjust the mixture. “There it is,” he said. “And I can take that dent out of the tank for you, too.”
    The biker stared at him and Ike could not tell if he was pissed or not. He swung himself up on the bike and roared off down the stretch of asphalt that ran away from the pier. Ike waited with the others. He was feeling better now; he had stopped shaking. He did not look at the other bikers, but stared into the heat waves at the end of the lot and waited for the Knuckle to come back. A few minutes later it returned. Ike listened for the miss but couldn’t pick it out.
    “Fuck me in the ass,” the biker yelled above the engine. “It’s runnin’ like a charm. The kid’s a better mechanic than you are, Morris.”
    Morris just walked over and got his screwdriver. He spat on the ground dangerously close to Ike’s foot and swaggered back to his bike.
    The