Given that it was Race Week, traffic was reasonable, and Slidell and I made it to Concord in forty minutes. A young man met us outside the Smith Tower and offered to take us by golf cart to the infield. His name badge said Harley.

Slidell stated his preference to drive.

Harley explained the impossibility of maneuvering the Taurus through the throngs of people jamming the grounds. Slidell argued. Smiling but firm, Harley restated his willingness to transport us.

I resolved the issue by hopping onto the cart’s backseat, the rearward-orienting position, so Slidell could at least face forward. Snorting in disgust, Skinny deposited his substantial bulk in front. Harley popped the brake, wove through the crowd, then plunged downward into the underground tunnel leading into the infield.

At midpoint, I glanced over my shoulder toward the front seat. Slidell was haloed by sunlight pouring through the opening at the tunnel’s far end. One beefy hand gripped the upright as though bracing for passage through a 20-G centrifuge.

The infield campgrounds were crammed with the tents and motor homes of the devoted. Fans sweated on lawn chairs and atop trailers, many wearing far too little clothing and needing far more sunblock. Others crowded picnic tables outside concession stands, chowing on corn dogs, burgers, fries, and ’cue.

Harley glided to a stop beside a gray and blue building bearing the words MEDIA CENTER. Enormous haulers sat side by side in a fenced area opposite the building’s main entrance.

Alighting, I heard Harley tell Slidell that the haulers belonged to Nationwide drivers. Not interested or not comprehending, Slidell offered no response.

Entering the Media Center was like stepping from a blast oven into a cooler. Harley indicated a man seated at the farthest in a cluster of round plastic tables off to the right. “That’s Grady Winge.”

Winge was enormous, perhaps six two, three hundred pounds, with thin brown hair tied into a pony at the nape of his neck. His khaki shirt was mottled with soil, its underarms darkened by large half-moons.

“Here’s my cell phone number.” Harley handed me a card. “Call when you’re finished.” Flashing a smile, he headed off into the building.

Slidell and I took a moment to observe our target. Winge’s face was tanned and creased from hours in the sun, making it hard to pinpoint age. His cap lay on the table, sweat-stained to the belly of the number 3 centered over its brim. A cross hung from a chain around his neck.

In addition to size, the man’s other striking feature was his stillness. Winge sat with fingers laced, eyes down, perfectly motionless.

Slidell and I approached. “Grady Winge?”

When Winge glanced up, Slidell badged him.

Winge looked at the shield but said nothing.

Slidell and I sat in the plastic chairs facing Winge.

“You know why we’re here.” Slidell laid it out as statement, not question.

Winge said nothing.