"The one you've got must be from a private col ection." I handed Kit the other pictures. "I think these two are police surveil ance photos. Seems the bereaved weren't anxious to show their faces."

"Man, this chopper is one statement in chrome and steel. No wonder the dude rode it right up to the grave."

I walked around the table and peered over his shoulder.

"It looks pretty stark to me.|

"That's the point. Raw power. The guy probably started with a garbage wagon and -- "

"Garbage wagon?"

"An old police cycle, probably an FLH touring model. He stripped away al the nonessential crap like the windshield, rol bars, and fiberglass luggage bags, and replaced the stock items with streamlined custom parts.

"Such as?" It looked like a cycle without any of the good stuff. Kit pointed out items on the graveside bike.

"A thin front wheel, coffin-shaped gas tank, bobbed rear fender, and tapered soda seat. Those are the coolest. Makes it look like you're straddling the motor.

He pointed at the front wheel.

"And he extended the front end and added ape hangers."

I assumed those were the long, backward-projecting handlebars.

"And check out the molding and custom paint job! Man, I wish I could see that up close. This machine is a work of art. Al it needs to achieve perfection is a sissy bar."

"From which to serve beer and mixed drinks?"

"It's a backrest."

The bike was bizarre, but no more so than its owner. He had leather wristbands, a denim vest with assorted Harley-Davidson pins and patches, riding chaps, and more hair than a Wookie. He looked like a walking threat display.

"I'm going to poke Mr. Salmon again. If he's stil cryogenic, we'l nuke him."

He was and we did, then laid him on the gril for a charcoal finish. Then I buttered green beans and tossed a salad while Kit carved and served the fish.

We'd just opened our napkins when the phone rang. I answered, and a rough male voice asked for my nephew. Wordlessly, I handed him the phone.

"Hey, man, what's up?"

Kit stared at a spot on the glass tabletop.

"No go. Can't do."

Pause.

"No way." He shifted position, and worked at the spot with his thumbnail.

"Not this time."

Though muted by my nephew's ear, I could hear the voice on the other end. It sounded harsh, like an angry dog locked in a cel ar The nerves in my stomach tightened.

"Wel , that's how it is."

The muffled response rose and fel in agitation.

Keeping his eyes averted, my nephew left the table and moved down the hal out of earshot.

I speared a green bean, chewed, swal owed. Mechanical y I repeated the action, but my appetite had evaporated. After five forkfuls he was back.