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show. The regular bursts of cheering and applause that roared up from the big mahogany box made it clear that it wasn’t a show about fishing. The top of the set was littered with empty grape Fanta bottles.
    â€œI’ll give you forty-five dollars if you’ve got a bobby pin in that bag.”
    Quinn smiled. Monty Hall. Let’s Make a Deal was one of herfavorites, too. Even in syndication, Carol Merrill looked pretty damn fine.
    Success in retail was all about making connections. Quinn now had two solid leads on her side. She walked toward the makeshift living room. There were gaudy trophies topped with gilded fish and faded photographs of old men in waders spread out along a shelf behind their recliners.
    â€œYou boys rebuilding a Harley?” She tipped her head toward the shiny pieces of metal.
    Big Boy stared up at her with dark, owlish eyes. They looked like holes in a blanket.
    â€œMebbe.” He didn’t add anything else.
    Junior wasn’t saying anything, either. He was finishing off a party-sized bag of Doritos. Cool Ranch style. Those were Quinn’s favorite, too.
    Make that three solid leads.
    â€œThose Panheads are pretty hard to come by,” Quinn observed. “Where’d you boys get the bike?”
    Junior wiped his fingers across the arm of his chair. The trails of orange dust they created blended nicely with the plaid fabric.
    â€œIt was our granddad’s,” Junior explained. “Course, he never did ride it any. He was too old when he got it.”
    It was clear to Quinn that Junior was the talker in the family. Big Boy wasn’t doing much besides staring at her and blinking a lot.
    â€œYou rebuilding it, then?” Quinn asked.
    â€œYeah. Been workin’ on it now for some time.”
    â€œReally? How long?”
    Junior shrugged and looked over at his brother. Big Boy blinked at him.
    â€œâ€™Bout twenty years,” Junior replied.
    Twenty years?
    â€œThat’s a long time,” Quinn observed.
    â€œParts is hard to come by. They didn’t make many of them bikes.”
    Quinn nodded. “Those Panheads are pretty rare.”
    Junior looked surprised. “You know somethin’ ’bout motorcycles?”
    â€œOh, yeah. You might say that.”
    Big Boy made a puffing sound and slowly shook his head.
    Junior translated. “Ain’t that kinda unusual for a—” he took a closer look to be sure, “girl?”
    â€œNot where I come from.”
    â€œWhere’s that?”
    Bingo. Quinn knew she had them now.
    â€œHave you boys ever heard of Hog Heaven in Batavia?”
    Big Boy and Junior exchanged glances.
    â€œI reckon everybody’s heard of that,” Junior said. “At least, everybody that knows anything about rebuilding motorcycles.”
    Quinn reached into her back pocket and pulled out her wallet.
    â€œHere’s one of my cards.” She held one out to Junior. He gave his fingers another swipe across the chair arm before he took it from her and looked it over.
    â€œWell, shit,” he said. He passed the card over to Big Boy. “This here woman owns the damn place.”
    It didn’t seem physically possible for the holes in Big Boy’s face to get any wider, but somehow, he managed. Quinn wondered how he kept his eyeballs from falling out.
    â€œUmm. Ummm. Ummmmm.” Big Boy was looking at the card and shaking his head.
    â€œSo what kind of bike did your granddad get?” Quinn asked.
    â€œIt’s a ’65 Electra Glide.” Junior took the card back from his brother so he could return it to Quinn, but she held up a hand, indicating he should keep it. “Nice one, too. Rare, I’m thinkin.’”
    Shit. A ’65 Electra Glide Panhead wasn’t rare—it was extinct.
    Quinn knew collectors who wouldn’t bat an eyelash at shelling out sixty thousand for a vintage Panhead in working condition.
    â€œYou got that right,” she