Kathy Reichs - Flash and Bones

“Thank you,” I said.

“Daytona’s manners need improving.”

At my confused look, Bogan pointed to a straight-back wooden chair beside the door. On it, a black cat sat grooming itself, one leg shooting the air like a Ziegfeld girl’s.

“It’s sticky in here,” Bogan said. “Let’s go to my den.”

We walked single-file, Bogan, then Galimore, then I. Daytona abandoned his toilette to bring up the rear.

The house’s interior was dim. And at least a zillion degrees cooler than the greenhouse.

The front door opened into a small foyer. Beyond, on the right, stairs rose to a second floor. Nothing fancy. No carved spindles or sweeping handrail. Just treads and banisters screwed into the walls.

Through the ceiling came muted thuds I assumed were footfalls on a treadmill. I had to credit Reta. She was booking.

Bogan led us down a central hall past amateur watercolors hung in cheap plastic frames. A landscape. A bowl of fruit. A gaudy bouquet.

In a few short steps we reached a kitchen, and the hall made a ninety-degree turn.

“I’ll get some sodas.” A skinny finger pointed to an open door. “Y’all go in there.”

Galimore and I went left as directed and entered what had to be Bogan’s den.

I could only stare in amazement.

THE ROOM HELD A SCRUFFY LEATHER COUCH AND MATCHING chair, a battered oak coffee table, and a flat-screen TV the size of a highway billboard. The rest of the room was a testimonial to NASCAR.

Display cases and shelving lined the walls, all crammed to overflowing. Above the cases hung framed posters, photos, and memorabilia. Freestanding items filled every unoccupied inch of floor space.

It was doubtful the Hall of Fame had more on exhibit.

My eyes roved the assemblage.

A hunk of asphalt carved into the numeral 3 and labeled as coming from turn one at Daytona. A life-size cutout of Denny Hamlin. A hunk of red sheet metal with some driver’s name incised into the surrounding plastic casing. Autographed trading cards. Commemorative coins in velvet boxes. Flags. Sweatshirts. Caps. Die-cast models of hundreds of cars.

I guessed some of the items could be valuable. A black-and-white print that looked at least fifty years old. Team suits that seemed way out of date. A car door with the number 24 painted on the outside.

“Can you believe all this shit?” Galimore was equally stunned.

“The man is a fan,” I said.

“More like a fanatic.”

I crossed to look at some of the poster-size photos. Jimmie Johnson, kissing the ground after winning the 2007 Brickyard. Jeff Gordon, making a pit stop. Tony Stewart, raising an index finger at Watkins Glen.

I checked the old picture. It showed a man wearing goggles and high boots straddling an old-fashioned 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. Was 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.”

“What about Eugene Fries?”

“Never heard of him.”

“Fries was a concession-stand worker at the Speedway in 1998.”

“That narrows it to a couple hundred people.”

Galimore rejoined us. Again apologized for the interruption.

I let him take over.

“Talk about Cindi Gamble.”

Bogan screwed his lips to one side and shook his head.

“You didn’t like her?”

“Wasn’t much to like or dislike. The word I’d use is ‘ordinary.’ But she had some crazy-ass ideas.”

“Such as?”

“The little girl wanted to drive NASCAR.”

“Why was that crazy?”

“Cindi Gamble was as likely to drive NASCAR as I am to swim naked with Julia Roberts.”

“She did well with Bandoleros.”

Bogan snorted derisively. “I saw a couple of those races. That gal couldn’t steer her way around a toilet bowl. Cale could outdrive her any day of the week.”

Daytona chose that moment to stroll in and jump onto Bogan’s lap.

“Look, I don’t mean to be rude. But I’ve got bougainvillea needs fertilizing.”

I looked at Galimore. He nodded.

I hit Bogan with my standard closer. “What do you think happened back in ’ninety-eight?”

Bogan shrugged.

“At the time, did you agree with the task force finding?”

“Who was I to disagree?”