St. Dale. Sharyn McCrumb

DEI in Mooresville, Rockingham. Duh. Finally, because he was beginning to feel petty about snubbing the eager little man, Harley said, “The Southern speedways. Here to Daytona.”

      “Yeah?” The guy nodded eagerly. “So from here to Martinsville, right? Then, what? Richmond?”

      “Not Richmond. Too far east and out of the way. We’ve only got ten days. Martinsville down to DEI and then to the Rock, Charlotte, so on.”

      “Yeah? You gonna leave one of them wreaths everywhere you go?”

      Harley, gritting his teeth, managed to nod. Please don’t let this runt be a USA Today reporter, he thought.

      “Well, that’s great,” said the weasel. “A little late, maybe, ’cause he’s been dead over a year, but my buddy Cannon will love it. He took it hard when it happened. He had a whole stack of used parts from the black number 3, and it’s all he can do to part with one of them. He gets offered top dollar, too. Just kills him to sell one. Hey, maybe we’ll meet up with you again down the road.”