“What do you mean?”
“Honey, you tell me.”
“I’d like to meet with you. Today, if possible.”
“You follow NASCAR?”
“Sure.” Sort of.
“You heard they moved the race forward to tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And now there’s a freakin’ sinkhole.”
“Yes.”
“The new start time is causing major-league havoc, so Joey wants me at the Speedway all day. Garages open at nine. We’ll be fine-tuning the car all morning. Joey’s got an autograph session from one to two. Qualifying takes place at three, followed by a crew-and-driver meeting at the media center at six. The drivers are introduced at seven, then the Nationwide flag drops at eight.
“It’s urgent that I speak with you.”
I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t blow me off.
“I could give you a half hour around nine-thirty tonight.”
“Tell me where.”
“Come by Joey’s garage. I’ll arrange for a hot pass.”
She gave me the location and we disconnected.
I phoned Galimore’s mobile to tell him I’d be at the Speedway that night. As usual, he didn’t answer the phone.
What the flip? Was he monitoring calls, ignoring mine? Or was he just too busy to pick up?
I considered dialing Galimore’s office, instead left a message saying I’d be in the Nationwide garage area at nine-thirty.
After dressing, I went to the MCME to analyze Wayne Gamble’s reconstructed skull. I noted in the file that all fracture patterning was consistent with failure due to rapid loading caused by compression between the Chevy’s front end and the concrete wall.
I also updated the dossier on the landfill John Doe, adding that a positive identification had been made by the FBI based on dental records.
After lunch, I ran to SouthPark Mall to buy a birthday present for Harry. Then I returned home, washed several loads of laundry, and read the new issue of the
At six I ate a dinner of lamb chops and peas. Then, out of ideas, I did a little more research on abrin. Printed out a few articles. Stuffed them in my jeans pocket in case I ended up having to wait for Padgett.
Throughout the endless day, I listened for the phone to ring. It didn’t. No Galimore. No Slidell. No Special or Special.
I also checked the clock. A lot. Each time, ten to twenty minutes had passed.
By seven, I was climbing out of my skin.
I decided to head to Concord early to see what all the fuss was about.
A mauve dusk was yielding to thunderheads mounding like enormous eggplants. The evening was electric with the feel of an impending storm.
The Speedway was another Hatter’s tea party of noise and turmoil. The sweaty, buggy air reeked of hot rubber, exhaust, sunbaked flesh, and fried food. Amplified announcements barely carried over the ear-splitting whine of engines screaming around a mile and a half of asphalt.
My pass was waiting at the gate, as promised. Again I was taken to the infield by golf cart.
Slidell had been wrong. Maddy Padgett didn’t work for Joey Logano’s #20 Home Depot team. She was employed by a Nationwide Series driver named Joey Frank.
Joey as in Josephine.
Frank drove the #72 Dodge Challenger for SNC Motor Sports.
The race had begun at eight, as scheduled. Members of Frank’s pit crew were listening to headphones, calling out adjustments, and frantically positioning gear. They looked like an army of droids in their red and black jumpsuits and black caps.
I spotted one form that seemed smaller than the others, maybe female. S/he was under a plastic canopy, inspecting a set of precisely stacked tires, each wider than my shoe size and devoid of tread. Not exactly “stock.”
Not wanting to be in the way, I walked down pit row and peered through a gap between garages. The track looked surreal under its squillion-megawatt lights, the grass too green, the asphalt too black. The grandstands appeared as startling rainbow swaths. Crammed to capacity. I guess the word got out.
The race had been halted because of debris on the track. The cars waited two abreast, engines thrumming, hounds straining at their leashes to reengage in the hunt.
I’d never seen so much product promotion. On the vehicles, the uniforms, the enormous billboards
