“So am I, buddy, so am I. Sure. But not over the phone. Can you meet me?” was the response from NASCAR’s favorite local scribe.

“Sure, where?” asked the Bear.

“I hear you’re in town on business, I’m near Hooter’s on International Speedway…across the street, actually. Can you meet me there?” asked A.C.

“I’m close,” said the Bear, with a grin (Hooter’s in Daytona Beach is one of Murphy’s favorite places.) “When?”

A.C.: “About 15 minutes.”

Murphy: ‘You’re on, my friend.”

The Bear got there first, renewing acquaintances – and getting hugs. By the time he’d ordered a Warsteiner and some wings (Murphy’s been a Warsteiner fan since the “German Budweiser” sponsored the GT1 championship in the late ’90′s), a shadowy figure with a turned-up collar and a turned-down hat was sidling up to the table. It was A.C.

“What the hell…” blurted the Bear.

“Shhhhh…” from the muffled figure.

Murphy: “A.C?”

“Yes. Hold it down…if someone sees me…” whispered A.C.

“Hell, A.C., you’re right across the street from the World Center of Racing in a trench coat, talking to a stuffed animal, and you think no one will notice?” asked Murphy.

“You might be right, Murphy, but they’re used to odd characters around here…I mean, there’s J.C.,” the Daytona Beach News-Journal’s crack scribe let his voice trail off, aware he’d said something that could, well…cost him his media pass, the key to the executive wash room at the World Center, and frequent luncheon spreads…life is good, he thought to himself. Murphy’s voice brought him out of his reverie.

“So, about the stories I’m hearing…” asked the Bear, leaving the question hanging.

A.C.: “Ah yes. Well it’s true. The Miller thing, that is.”

Murphy was aghast. “What, why, how…” he sputtered. He’d already written that such a thing was unlikely.

“One question at a time, old friend,” retorted A.C.

“First, what: They haven’t done it yet, but it’s serious…hot and heavy, you might say. They’re talking to the Don about grabbing the whole shebang. It really is a mess over there – as I’ve been trying to tell you ALMS Cool Aid drinkers for over a year.” A.C. had that ‘I-know-more-than-you’ look on his face, like you get from big-time print scribes, from Miller, and over at motorsport.com.

“So, if Miller was right, how come he’s kind of backed off it now? asked Murphy.

“Geez, you are a dense bear, aren’t you?! Miller sometimes engages mouth just a little bit before brain. He knew this time he was risking the gravy train, so he clammed up. But this is a good as the ‘Tony-on-the-bricks’ thing, trust me,” explained A.C.

“Why, then?” asked the Bear.

A.C. looked at Murphy like he had couch stuffing for brains. “Because it’s there,” he said (quoting Sir Edmond). “Look. Who went after NHRA? Who bought bike racing? Who created Grand Am?” A.C. put up his hand to quiet the sputtering bear. “Who?” Jim-Bob. Brian-Bob. J.C.-Bob. Control. They want it all. Besides, ALMS and that Elan thing are pretty much in the poor house. The Don doesn’t own a big chuck of the Irish drug biz any more, so today’s J & J thing doesn’t do anything big for his cash flow, either.”

“But what does NASCAR get they want?” asked the Bear. “I mean, they won’t run P1 and P2 against their protoguppies, will they?”

“Of course not….and it’s prototurtles, not guppies,  you stuffing-for-brains-bear,” the famous scribe said, endearingly, to his old friend. “But think of the other stuff: three tracks, Sebring being the prize that Jim-Bob’s always wanted. Star Mazda, the little BMW’s. Control of sports car racing. They’ll cherry-pick the events for the gup…er ah, turtle…damn, now you’ve got me doing it…those beautiful Daytona Prototypes. The rest gets dumped. Including that dump in the Georgia hills…ever see Deliverance, Murphy?”

“But A.C., no one goes to Grand Am races,” exclaimed the Bear.

“So what?” responded A.C. “They will when that’s all there is, won’t they?”

“OK, how, then?” asked the Bear.

“Cash,” said A.C., “something the Don needs right now.”

“But, I hear Grand Am isn’t doing all that well either,” said Murphy.”

“Ah, do I have to educate you all the time? chided A.C. “At the risk of repeating myself…’So what?’ Haven’t I told you to look out when NASCAR grabbed the reins at Grand Am over the winter? More money than god, of course. If they want to spend it on keeping Chip in Grand Am rather than keeping Richard in Cup, well, then that’s their business, ain’t it. And ol’ A.C. ain’t got no doubt of Brian-Bob and Jim-Bob’s business sense. No siree!”

“Ganassi gets…?” Murphy sputtered.

“Second car, the one with Kyle Busch in it this weekend,” smiled A.C. “How – or why – does that happen on Chip’s nickel? It doesn’t, that’s what. It does prove Jim-Bob and Brian-Bob are serious about all this, though.”

“How serious?” interjected the Bear.

“Big money serious, said A.C, “as in over half of DP regulars get some cash-type, ah, incentive, to keep going.”

“Geez,” murmured Murphy, “that’s kind-of “T.G.-like. Who else?”

“Ever wonder how nice guys in a little Daytona Beach race shop go from a single ancient tube frame crapping out on lap ten once a year in February to a pair of full-schedule DP’s? It ain’t because they’ve been cultivating “grass roots motorsports,” A.C. said, chortling over his own joke, “although Florida’s a good place for that kind of importing business, isn’t it? Hey, getting those Coyotes from Cheever, paying Pratt & Miller for development, that takes serious scratch, ya know?”

“I’ll take that as good news,” said Murphy, wryly.

“Brumos doing it all alone? That’s more J.C. than the Porsche dealer, for sure. I know a rent-a-ride driver who’s come up short for this season. Jim-Bob kicked in. Team owner’s not really happy, says ‘If he’s going to put out money, then send it my way and I’ll hire the driver I want.’

“But if the Cup teams are suffering, aren’t they pissed off at money going to Grand Am?” asked the Bear.

“Of course they are,” said A.C. “But what are they going to say? They’ve been on a gravy train, and they aren’t going to upset that apple cart. There’s some trouble, though. I hear a couple of Grand Am teams – one “biggie” included – may be on the way out anyway. At the end of the season it could get pretty nasty, but of course if ALMS is gone…see? They’re business geniuses across the street…”

A.C. suddenly remembered where he was, gave the Bear a quick – but manly – squeeze, said, “one more thing, “If – as is possible – the Nationwide taxi race gets rained out, then it clears, the DP’s just might have to go home without turning a wheel. You didn’t hear anything here,” then quietly slipped out the door. A moment later the Bear heard the rumbling tones of a V8 – but a V8 rarely heard in this World Center of Racing.

“What’s with the wheels?” wondered Murphy.

(to be continued)