St. Dale

“Scottish swords. I know.”

“Well, I was going to say antipersonnel mines in Nam. I thought it sounded cool.”

Mr. Bailey’s face was impassive. “No doubt,” he said. “We were discussing this job. Bailey Travel has been inundated with requests for a tour in honor of Dale Earnhardt. More than a year since his death, people are still grieving. They are putting the number three in Christmas lights on their houses and I’m told that they raise three fingers during the third lap of every race as a tribute to him.” He paused, shaking his head wonderingly at the improbability of such a thing. “We have received considerable correspondence and even e-mails from articulate and respectable people”-People with valid credit cards, he thought-“who tell us that they want such a tour, a gesture of mourning if you will, in honor of the late Mr. Earnhardt. People want to say goodbye. The speedways where he drove are now shrines. People want to pay homage at his racing shop in Mooresville. They long to lay a memorial wreath on the track at Daytona.”

Harley Claymore shook his head. “I never would have believed it.”

“Well, he died on camera in the biggest race of the sport, so that was a factor. Our firm offers a Graceland Tour as well, so we are familiar with the mindset of the devoted fan and the fact that people need closure. They feel that they know these celebrities. It is a personal loss. I grant you that we here at Bailey Travel did not expect to find this phenomenon in a NASCAR milieu. But there it is.”

“But he was just a regular guy who had a knack for driving,” said Harley. “He was good at it, but so was Neil Bonnett. So was Tim Richmond. And nobody’s painting their numbers on billboards.”

Mr. Bailey shrugged. “Why Elvis and not John Lennon?” he said. “Who can explain these things? Still, Mr. Claymore, the demand is there and we have devised this tour accordingly. To celebrate the life and sport of NASCAR’s most illustrious driver. And now we need someone-a name, if you will, to host it.”

“Well, I guess I ought to be flattered that y’all picked me instead of Geoff Bodine.”

“Mr. Bodine was unavailable. So do we have a deal?”

Harley Claymore looked at the Winged Three on his cap and sighed. “Eleven hundred plus expenses?”

“And you are to be sober and reliable. And you will wear that jacket and the number 3 cap.”

“Deal.” Claymore spit in his palm and held out his hand.

Harry Bailey pointedly ignored the gesture. “We will write down some suggestions for the commentary you will be making on the tour. For instance, you might begin by explaining why Dale Earnhardt is associated with the number three.”

“Why?” said Harley.

“Well, because that was the number painted on the top of his race car.”

“No,” said Harley. “I meant why should I explain that? Will there be people from other planets coming along on this tour?”

“Ah-hah. Most amusing,” said Mr. Bailey. “And one last thing-for the duration of the tour you must say and think that Dale Earnhardt was the greatest driver who ever lived.”

“Oh, sweet Nelly.”

So Harley Clay Moore had taken the job. What choice did he have, really? What choice would any of them have had? Dale Earnhardt with his ninth-grade education had worked in the mills in the lean years and back in Alabama Neil Bonnett had been a pipe fitter. Their educations mostly took place out of school, hanging out in local garages or watching their fathers tinker with stock cars. Cars were what mattered; everything else was a distraction.

He sat on the sagging bed in the cheapest motel room he could find and watched the SPEED channel on the television, but it was showing drag racing. Nobody he knew. The brown polyester bedspread was patterned with stains and cigarette burns. He’d lived better than this once, but those days were getting more distant all the time and now he was used to rundown places like this. Why spend good beer money on fancy digs?

All Harley had ever wanted to do was race. The new face of NASCAR-the sponsors, the autographs, the hat and tee shirt sales were all necessary evils-the cost of the ride. Money buys speed, and the only way to get enough money to race these days was to cozy up to the national sponsors. Forget swearing, or chewing, or fighting off- track. Hell, you even had to knock the corners off your accent these days, because NASCAR was national now, and vanilla was the flavor of the month-every month.

He had mugged it up in Bailey’s office because showing your desperation never gets you anywhere, but he couldn’t fool himself. He had to find a way back in.

Chapter III

Tri-Cities

“Wake up, Bekasu! We’re coming into Tri-Cities, and Stewardess Barbie wants your tray table put back before we land.”

Rebekah Sue Holifield squinted one eye long enough to close the tray table, and then resumed her former upright and locked position.

From the window seat Cayle said, “She’s not asleep, Justine. She’s just being passive-aggressive again.”

“Being a spoilsport is what it is,” said Justine. “A deal’s a deal. Last year she made us go to Toronto and sit through a whole week of operas that sounded like they were neutering the pigs, and this year was my turn to choose.” She lunged across her sister’s lap to peer out the window. “Wake up, Bekasu! You’re going to miss seeing where Alan Kulwicki’s plane went down!”

Cayle stopped scanning the fast-approaching ground, shut her eyes, and turned away from the window.

“Who?” Bekasu’s sigh meant she didn’t much care.

“You remember Alan Kulwicki,” said Cayle, carefully not looking. “First Winston Cup champion from up north? Wisconsin. Degree in chemical engineering?”

“Okay-Get off me, Justine!-Unless the crash was yesterday, I’m sure there’s nothing to see down there now.”

“Just a field,” said Cayle. “Same as it was back in 1993. He was the reigning champion, flying in for the Bristol race one cold, wet night. April the first, it was. Anyhow, his private plane was right ahead of Earnhardt’s, on the descent, maybe two minutes out when it went down in a field a few miles out on approach.”

“Yeah,” said Justine, “and about a minute later, Earnhardt’s plane touched down at the airport. You know, I always figured Dale traded paint with him, trying to land first.”

Cayle shivered. “Dale wasn’t even flying his own plane, Justine. Of course he wasn’t. You know that. She’s putting you on, Bekasu.”

Bekasu closed her eyes again. “Justine, you know that I would rather participate in a reenactment of the Bataan Death March than go on a NASCAR tour, so would you please not make it any worse with your tasteless commentary?”

“Oh, don’t be a pill, Bekasu. If I’d wanted to vacation with a killjoy, I’d a brought an ex-husband. Now hand me my carry-on, will you? I want to put on my Dale hat before we land.”

“We could be on St. Lucia right now,” said Bekasu. “In that mountaintop hotel where one wall of your suite is just a wide open space facing the Caribbean, but no…”

“Well, I’m sorry that we’re not having a vacation you can brag about to all your friends down at the courthouse, Your Honor, but I need to say good-bye to Dale.”

“Justine, you never said hello to Dale.”

“I did so. One time at Talladega when that guy who owned a Chevy dealership took me on to pit road, we went right up to Dale and shook his hand, and I wished him luck in the race. “

“Which he lost.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. The point is that I have been a Dale Earnhardt fan through five presidents and two husbands, and this tour is part of my grief process, and I think as my sister you ought to respect that. Not to mention Cayle. After what happened to her, how can you even argue?”

Cayle winced. They’d promised they wouldn’t talk about it.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” said Bekasu. “But I am not going to wear that stupid black tee shirt with the Winged Three. And another thing, Justine: if your luggage takes up so much room on the bus that they have to get rid of a