St. Dale

that he would go out someday, cold sober and knowing just how alone he was.

He studied the red glow of the cigarette in the darkness, glad to be alone again, relieved at the prospect of turning the Number Three Pilgrims loose tomorrow. He had nowhere to go, but at least after tomorrow he didn’t have to worry about anybody but himself.

“Evenin,’ Harley,” said a soft voice in the darkness.

He jumped at the sound of his name. A man in a white Goodwrench firesuit and opaque sunglasses stood a few feet away from him, leaning against the hood of a car. In the darkness he was little more than a shadow, except for that white suit.

“Hello,” said Harley. “That was a great thing you did in there, man.”

A shrug. “Well, I owed a kid a miracle.”

“Huh? Oh, they must have told you about young Matthew. That’s about the only good news, though. ‘Owed a kid a miracle.’” Harley smiled. “Good one. Dale’s lucky penny, cemented to the dashboard of his car.”

“S’right.”

“But bringing some comfort to poor Arlene was a good deed, man.”

“Well, one of the ladies up there said it best, I think. Believing is seeing. But, hey, blessed are they who don’t believe and yet still see.”

Harley was too tired to work out that one. Bad coffee and too many cigarettes were making his head hurt. “You want me to take you back to the Speedway for your car?”

“Somebody’s picking me up.”

Something in the quiet voice caught Harley’s attention. He didn’t hear the Georgia accent anymore. He heard pure Iredell County, soft vowels over stainless steel. “Are you the Impersonator?” he blurted out before he could feel foolish for asking.

In the darkness, a chuckle. “Oh, son, I always was. I dropped out of school in the ninth grade, and a million people were wearing my face on tee shirts. I always felt like he was somebody I played in public. I did the driving. He did the handshakes and the autographs. The driving was the best part, though. The rest just happened along the way.”

“And then one day you’re a legend, and people are putting wreaths on speedways to commemorate you.”

“Well, to commemorate something. They didn’t know me from Adam.”

Harley smiled. “They’re leaving wreaths for Adam, too, man.”

“I don’t know what they wanted. I just wanted to drive.”

“Yeah,” said Harley. “Me, too. You know I wrecked a while back. But I want to get back in the show.”

There was a pause so long that Harley decided he didn’t want to hear the answer, but then there was a sigh, and the man in the blackness said, “Sooner or later, you gotta move on.”

“You’re one to talk,” said Harley.

“Just don’t be writing checks that your body can’t cash.”

Harley nodded. Giving that advice was easier than taking it. “Listen,” he said. “About Mrs. Powell. Is the old lady going to make it out alive?”

The man shook his head. “None of us makes it out alive, son. The trick is knowing when to die.” He raised a hand in farewell. “Well, I gotta go. My ride’s here.”

Harley turned to see an old beat-up car waiting near the entrance to the parking lot. He didn’t know why he’d expected to see a black Monte Carlo, Goodwrench logo and all, but the old clunker idling under the light was an early nineties Lumina, two tone. Yellow and some darker color that he couldn’t quite make out in the dim light.

“That’s your car?”

The reply was a grunt. And then: “I own it. I don’t drive it. You take it easy, Harley. See you down the road.”

The man turned and walked toward the idling car. He climbed in the passenger seat, and the Chevy took off with a roar and a squeal of tires. They were out of sight in seconds, and it was only then that Harley realized what the second color of that old ’94 Lumina must have been.

Butt-ugly, lemonade pink.

Chapter XX

Checking Out

Harley’s umpteenth cigarette had burned low. He was enjoying the warm solitude of the parking lot. He just wished the clouds would roll on by so that he could see the stars. He probably ought to go back to the stuffy little waiting room, but there were hardly enough chairs to go around, and now that Ratty and Ray Reeve had joined the throng, there would be even less room than before. He’d exchanged a few words with Ratty there in the parking lot, and he’d remembered to get him to unlock the luggage compartment so that Harley could transfer his gear to the trunk of his car.

He tossed the butt of the spent cigarette onto the asphalt and ground it in with his heel. Maybe he ought to see about his luggage now. They could be coming out any time. He lifted the metal door to the luggage compartment and began pushing suitcases aside in search of his belongings. He found his firesuit and driving boots. How could he have been stupid enough to bring those? What did he think? That Tony Stewart was going to get sick before the race and they’d ask Harley to take the wheel? With a sigh of disgust at his own folly, he slung the gear into the open trunk of his car, and felt around in the hold for his duffel bag.

Instead his hand closed on the end of a narrow cardboard box. There beside his duffel bag was one last wreath box, the final Earnhardt memorial. He slid part of the way in and emerged holding the wreath box, which he set on the pavement beside the bus. In all the excitement of the afternoon race and then Arlene’s heart attack, no one had remembered the wreath ceremony for Darlington.

He pushed the knob to illuminate his watch face. Nearly ten o’clock. The Number Three Pilgrims were inside the hospital now, keeping Jim company and waiting for word on Arlene. Even without the hospital vigil, it would have been a long day, and they’d be wanting to get back to the hotel soon. Tomorrow Ratty would rout them out early to take them back to the Charlotte airport to pick up their cars or to catch flights for home. He didn’t suppose any of them would want to drive back to the deserted Speedway to leave Dale Earnhardt a wreath, even if he’d earned it.

“They’ve forgotten all about it,” said a voice in the darkness.

Harley had to clutch at the wreath to keep from falling over. He turned to see Bekasu Holifield standing there in her sensible suit and her high heels, but now with the Winged Three cap mashed down over her dark hair.

He nodded toward the hospital entrance. “Are they coming?”

“Not yet. They’re going to turn off Arlene’s life support in a little while, and nobody wanted to leave Jim alone. Even he thinks it’s for the best, but of course it isn’t easy. Then I suddenly remembered that we hadn’t left the wreath so I came to find you.”

“Don’t worry,” said Harley. “I’ll take it myself. I reckon it’s my turn.”

“I think it’s mine, too,” said Bekasu. “May I come with you?”

He looked at her for one bewildered moment, but then, shrugging, he jerked open the passenger door and nodded for her to get in.

“How come you’re wanting to go?” he asked as they eased out into the road.

She sighed. “I can’t explain it, really. I suppose I must feel a little like that Roman GI who, halfway through a routine execution, suddenly got it, and probably spent the rest of his life muttering, ‘Oh, shit.’ Or cloaca maxima, or whatever they’d say in Latin. I guess it’s Matthew’s being all right that really got to me. I just want to thank somebody.” She laughed. “Mind you, by tomorrow, in the clear light of day, I’ll be arguing coincidence louder than anybody, but right now…in the dark of night…I’m willing to give him credit for the win. Hey-an artificial wreath. As trophies go, it isn’t much, is it?”

Harley smiled. “Well, he already has a grandfather clock,” he said.

They drove the rest of the way back to Darlington in a companionable silence. Harley was glad that Bekasu was not one of those nervous women who feel like they have to fill every breath with inconsequential chatter. He was