It was a car Mr. Lane would have been proud to drive.
I found out later it was a Cadillac Series 314-A, but all I knew then was that it was beautiful. It was two-toned, with a maroon body and a black roof. There was a long hood, and running boards swooped over the wheels. Like the Packard, it had a silvery hood ornament, but instead of the Goddess of Speed, this one had wings and a temperature gauge to tell you if the car was overheating.
I had checked around and found out that the people from Victor would be staying at the Palace Hotel, on Front Street across from the train station. It was an impressive place, with a barber shop, billiard room, and restaurant.
On Friday I hung around in front, and sure enough, late that afternoon, two cars approached, and one of them was the Cadillac. I knew it was them because the cars had New Jersey license plates.
The Cadillac parked in front and out stepped a man as fancy as the car. He was big, with a broad chest and an expression on his face that was all business. He wore a pinstriped suit and tie, with a vest and shiny gold cuff links. His hair was slicked back, and the crease on his pants was sharp as a knife. He was rich, I could tell, but not like Mr. Lane. This man had more than money. The difference was hard to describe. Maybe it was style or the way he carried himself.
I watched as the man went around to the other side of the Cadillac and opened the door for his passenger. A woman stepped out, wearing jewelry and a black dress that must have been silk. Her hair was done up in a bob, and her face glowed. She took the man’s arm, and as they walked toward the hotel, she seemed to float.
When they went inside, the second car pulled up. It was an old Ford. I wondered where the recording machine was, and I figured it wasn’t in the Cadillac. That left the Ford. I noticed that the car’s body was sitting low over the wheels, which meant it might be carrying something heavy.
Two men climbed out with their sleeves rolled up. The shirts were wrinkled and smudged, as if the men had been working or were expecting to. One man was tall and stern looking. The other was short and pudgy, with a shy smile. He reminded me of Mr. Fowler at church. I wondered if he barked.
The tall man glanced at the hotel, then looked up and down Front Street. He shook his head and murmured something to the other one, who laughed. When they headed for the lobby, I casually walked over to the Ford and peered inside. In the back seat were several big, boxy shapes that were covered with a blanket.
I looked up and saw the tall man striding toward me.
“Get away from there!” he said.
“I was just curious—”
“Curiosity killed the cat.”
I’d heard Daddy say the same thing. What cat? What were they talking about?
“Now scram!” the man told me. He pulled some keys from his pocket, locked the car doors, shot me another look, then went back inside.
I walked off toward the train station as if I were leaving, then ducked inside and waited. When the couple came back out, I checked to make sure the coast was clear, then approached the man in the suit.
I had no idea what to say. Finally some words popped out.
“Welcome to Bristol!”
The man turned and saw me. The woman did too.
She chuckled and asked, “Who are you? The chamber of commerce?”
“I’m Nate Owens,” I said.
To my surprise, the man offered his hand. I didn’t know what else to do, so I shook it.
“Pleased to meet you, Nate,” he said. “I’m Ralph Peer, and this is Mrs. Peer.”
I nodded. “Mr. McLister said you’d be here.”
The man said, “Cecil McLister? You know him?”
“Yes, sir. He said you’d be coming from the Victor Talking Machine Company to make some records.”
“McLister’s a good man. He arranged the sessions for us. We’ll set up this weekend, then start recording on Monday.”
“Where?” I asked.
He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and checked it. “The Taylor-Christian Hat Company, 408 State Street.”
Just then the lobby door opened, and the two men came out. They spotted me, and the tall one came hurrying up.
“Hey, I told you to leave!” He turned to the man in the suit. “Sorry, Ralph. I’ll take care of him.”
“It’s all right,” said Peer. “We were just talking. Gentlemen, this is my friend Nate Owens. Nate, these are our two sound engineers, Edward Crabtree and Fred Holt. The tall one is Crabtree. He keeps a close eye on the equipment.”
Crabtree shuffled his feet and nodded.
Peer said, “Nate here knows Cecil. I told him about the sessions.”
Daddy says ask and it shall be given. I figured I’d give it a try.
“I was wondering about those sessions,” I said. “You think I could come?”
The short man, Holt, exchanged looks with Peer. Crabtree frowned.
“Do you realize how delicate a recording is?” said Crabtree. “The slightest noise can ruin it—a sniffle, a sneeze, a squeaky floorboard. If we let you come, we’ll have to let everybody, and believe me, they’ll ask.”
Peer thought for a minute. “Sorry, son, but he’s right. We’ve come a long way for this. I’d like to say yes, but we need to do our work.”
Mrs. Peer eyed me. “Still, you might be able to help.”
“How?” I asked.
“That was a long, dusty road. We’d like something to drink.”
I said, “They have Coca-Colas at Bunting’s Drug Store, up the street. Milkshakes too.”
“I was thinking of something a little stronger,” she said.
A voice piped up from behind me. “Try Crystal Caverns.”
I turned and saw a girl. I wondered how long she’d been standing there and how much she had heard. She was my age—short and thin, with a quick smile; curly, red hair; and bright-green eyes. She wore a simple print dress and boots, as if her body were soft and her feet were tough. In the curls of her hair was a ribbon that was green like her eyes.
She gazed at me, as if challenging me to say something, then turned back to Mrs. Peer. “There’s a restaurant, but I hear they also have drinks. It’s down Highway 421, a few miles south of town.”
I had heard Mama and Daddy talk about alcohol, and in church, Daddy called it “the devil’s potion.” It was illegal to buy because of the Prohibition laws, but I’d noticed that Gray’s family kept bottles of it in the cupboard. Mrs. Lane liked to carry a glass of it around the house, and Mr. Lane usually had a sip when he got home from work. Even Gray said he had tried it. Once he had mentioned Crystal Caverns, the place where his parents bought the stuff. He called it a speakeasy.
I studied the red-haired girl. How did she know about it?
Mrs. Peer smiled at her husband. “I like this girl.”
Reaching into his pocket, Peer pulled out a silver dollar.
“That’s for you,” he told the girl.
She took the coin. “Thank you, sir.”
Peer and his wife headed for the Cadillac. I said, “Are you really looking for songs?”
He paused. “Yes, I am.”
“I might have one,” I told him.
“What about singers?” asked the girl. “I’m a singer.”
Peer said, “Singers, songs—that’s why we’re here.”
“Come on, Ralph,” said his wife. “I’m thirsty.”
He shot us a grin, then walked her to the Cadillac and they drove off. Crabtree and Holt pulled their bags from the trunk and went inside. The girl watched them. I watched her.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I saw you in church,” she said. “Mama wanted to go. Somebody told her the preacher puts on a good show.”
“He’s my father, you know.”
“That’s what I hear,” she said. “So, what are you going to do? Jump around like he does? Yell about Jesus?”
“No.”
“Do you believe all that stuff?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“That means you don’t.”
I said, “I believe in science.”
She nodded. “I’m Sue Dean Baker.”
“Nate Owens.”
“I know,” she said.
“So, what about you? What are you doing here?”
“It’s a free country.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. I was just curious.”
Sue Dean shrugged, then glanced up at me. “I work here sometimes. I help clean rooms.”
She seemed uncomfortable admitting it. I tried to put her at ease. “I do some cleaning. Folding chairs. Communion cups. You know, the family business.”
“Is that what it is?”
“Daddy says it’s a holy calling. I say it puts food on the table.”
Sue Dean glanced at her watch. “That’s what I need to do. Put food on the table. My parents get off work soon.”
She started off down the street, then turned back. “See you there?”
“Where?”
“The Taylor-Christian Hat Company. Monday morning.”