The shop doorbell jingled. Angel looked up from the catalog on the counter, past the racks of jackets and helmets, to the tall figure framed in the door. He pulled off his helmet, and she saw the mustache, the eye patch, and the strip of white hair haloing his head.
"Norman Burg," she murmured. Of course. He rides a motorcycle as well.
He saw her as he stepped to the counter, and inclined his head fractionally. "Miss Jenkins." The tone of his voice added …if you are calling yourself that today.
She smiled winningly. "Mr. Burg, what a pleasant surprise. Do you come here often?"
His mustache twitched. "I am picking up some parts. And you?"
"My engine misfires at high speed. I've replaced the plugs, but it's still acting up. Jack's checking the magneto."
"Indeed? You have a four-cylinder V, don't you?" He stepped around the counter and pushed into the workshop. Angel followed.
Jack looked up from beside Angel's motorcycle. His dark blue overalls gave away his youth, despite the fact that they'd been washed multiple times. When he saw Angel, he automatically rose, sucking in his stomach and flashing her a grin meant to be roguish.
"Good afternoon, Jack. I understand this lady's motorcycle isn't firing on all four."
He knelt down beside Jack, who squatted beside him. "I've had some experience with electrical problems," he continued, running his fingers lightly over the wires from the magneto to the plugs, "and it may well be – ah, there's the fault!"
He flexed the ignition wire to show the cracked insulation. "A new set of wires should do it."
"How long will it take to fix?" asked Angel.
"I'll need to make up a set," said Jack. "It should be done, say, tomorrow morning."
Angel nodded, and Jack continued, "I suppose you're here for your parts, Norman."
"Yes," he said, "and if you like, miss, I can give you a lift."
She smiled again, dimpling. "Thank you, I would."
It had been a long time since she'd been a passenger on someone's motorcycle. Riding in Norman Burg's sidecar was like flying next to the ground. Angel felt freed of both responsibility and control. It was a heady mixture.
He stopped at the grey concrete apartment that she called home.
"Thank you again, Mr. Burg," she said as she climbed out of the sidecar.
"It was my pleasure, Miss Jenkins," he replied.
She said, "You can call me Angel," but he had already shifted into gear and pulled from the curve. She waved briefly as he rode away.