motorcycle.
“You know who that is?” Bogan was standing in the doorway holding three cans of Pepsi.
I studied the scrawled signature. “Erwin Baker?”
“Erwin ‘Cannonball’ Baker won the first race ever held at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. That was in 1909, when the track was brand-new. Cannonball cycled back and forth across the country more than a hundred times, later served as commissioner of NASCAR. The guy was a legend.”
Bogan held out a Pepsi. I took it.
“That was before the fancy-pantsification of stock car racing. Before diversification.” He elongated the second syllable to show his disdain.
“Sorry?”
“Back in the day everyone knew whose sport it was. And drivers were tough.”
“They’re not tough now?”
“Back then men were men.”
“Mister, we could use a man like Herbert Hoover again.” Without mirth. I didn’t like the vibe I was getting.
“What?’
“Never mind.”
Bogan gave Galimore a Pepsi, then dropped into the chair and threw his bird legs over one arm.
Galimore and I sat on opposite ends of the couch. Almost immediately he slipped his cell from his pocket, clicked on, and spoke into it.
“Hold on.” To us. “Sorry. Got to take this.” Galimore set down his soda and stepped out into the hall.
“You’re here because Wayne Gamble got himself killed, right?”
“I thought you didn’t keep up with the news,” I said.
“I don’t. I watch racing. Gamble’s an item because of the Coca-Cola 600. Stupak’s a favorite.
“Did you know Wayne Gamble?”
“Knew his sister.” Bogan popped the tab on his can. “What do you want from me?”
“Your thoughts on what happened to your son.”
“I’ve got none.”
“Tell me what you remember.”
“Diddly-squat. I hardly saw Cale once he hooked up with Cindi Gamble. Why ask me now? You’ve got my statement.”
“Just trying to see if anything may have been missed. Did you try to find Cale on your own?” I opened and sipped my Pepsi. It was warm, but I wanted Bogan to feel at ease.
“I contacted everyone I could think of. Trouble was, I didn’t know much about the kid’s life. The only thing he and I ever shared was NASCAR.”
“You and Cale were estranged,” I said.
“He blamed me for his mother’s death. Like I could have prevented it? The woman was an alkie and a crackhead.”
“Do you believe your son left the area voluntarily?”
“Yeah. I can believe that.”
“Why?”
“He and his girlfriend were all caught up in that movement.”
“The Patriot Posse.”
“Look, Cale had been living on his own for six years.” Defensive. “He was twenty-four. I had no control over who he hung out with. Not that I disagreed with everything they were saying.”
“Do you know Grady Winge?” I asked.
“Isn’t he the guy who saw Cale and his girlfriend driving off in a ’sixty-five Petty-blue Mustang?”
“Yes.”
Again, jazz erupted from my purse.
“I’m so sorry. I thought I’d switched it to vibrate also.”
“Blame Daytona.”
I reached in and flicked a button. When I sat back, Bogan was eyeing me oddly.
“Grady Winge?” I asked.
“I knew Winge to shoot the breeze. We talked gardening a couple of times. But I don’t leave home to watch races anymore.” He gestured at the TV. “Got a better seat right here.”
