“Those compounds were stockpiled with enough firepower to take out a city.”
Danner ignored that. “The government will stop at nothing to eliminate people who refuse to conform. Independent militias must exist to protect the freedoms that our founding fathers died to ensure.”
Knowing argument was pointless, I switched topics. “Tell me about Cale Lovette’s parents.”
Danner dropped his chin. Drew a breath. Let it out through his nose. “I don’t like to speak badly, but Katherine Lovette was not what you’d call a lady. She was, how should I put it? A NASCAR groupie. If you take my meaning.”
“I don’t.”
“Some women whore themselves to rock stars. For Kitty Lovette, it was NASCAR. Owners. Drivers. Mechanics. Didn’t much matter. She worked the whole circuit back in the seventies.”
“Meaning she slept around.” Danner’s holier-than-thou attitude irritated me.
Danner nodded. “Of course she got pregnant. Named the baby after Cale Yarborough. He was winning a lot of races back then.”
“Are you saying Yarborough was Cale’s father?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. For years Kitty never said. But the baby grew to be the spitting image of a track hangaround name of Craig Bogan. Red hair. Blue eyes. Dimpled chin. By the time he was six, the kid looked like a clone. When Kitty finally fingered Bogan, he moved in with her. But the relationship was doomed from the outset.”
“How so?”
“Bogan was in his mid-twenties. But smart. Ambitious. Kitty hadn’t seen thirty in quite some time. And she—” Danner gave a tight shake of his head. “Well, enough said.”
“How did Kitty support herself?”
“Sold herbs and vegetables grown at her house. Barely made enough to feed herself and the kid. Bogan actually turned the venture into a reasonable business, eventually bought it from her, house and all. Branched out. Added services like delivering produce to your door, planting flowers and shrubs in your garden.”
“You knew both of them?”
Did I imagine it, or did Danner stiffen a bit at my question?
“I steered clear of Kitty.”
“Go on,” I said.
“By the time Cale was twelve, Kitty was heavy into booze and drugs. She finally OD’ed his freshman year of high school. Rumor was the kid found her.” Again the head shake. “Things grew tense. Two years after Kitty’s death, Bogan and Cale had a big throw-down, the kid dropped out of school, left home for good.”
“Where did he go?”
“Cale had a passion for stock car racing, probably the only thing he got from his parents. He’d spent a lot of time hanging around dirt tracks, made some friends. Small-timers, wannabes. He mostly bunked with them.”
I thought a moment. “Does Bogan still live in the area?”
Danner shrugged. Who knows?
“Tell me about Cindi.”
“Girl-next-door. Real clean and shiny.”
“Could you be more specific?”
“She was smart enough, if that’s what you mean. And focused. All she talked about was driving NASCAR. Seemed her parents spent a lot of money on making that happen. Got her into Bandolero racing.”
“Which is?”
Danner gave me a pitying look. “Entry level. A Bandolero car is built like a miniature stock car, with a tube frame and a sheet-metal cage. The driver enters through the roof. I guess you could say it falls somewhere between a kart and a car.”
I must have looked lost.
“Like a kart, a Bandolero car has left-foot braking and a centrifugal clutch, so there’s no gearshifting to worry about. The whole idea is simplicity and economy. Just one hundred and fifty parts make up the whole package.”
“How fast do theses cars go?”
“Upwards of seventy miles per hour. But they accelerate relatively slowly.”
“They’re for kids?”
“Most Bandolero drivers are from eight to sixteen years old, but there’s no rule against older folks.”
“They race on real tracks?”
“One-quarter-, three-eighths-, and four-tenths-mile ovals, some road courses, some dirt tracks. There are three divisions. Cindi Gamble raced Beginner Bandit.”
I was glad Katy hadn’t learned about this when she was a kid. She’d have loved roaring around at seventy miles per hour.
But I was off topic.
