Chapter 13
Tuesday October 2, 1923
Antoine was washing beakers, flasks and pipets in Laboratory One. It was almost seven o’clock on a blustery, dark October evening. The lab was brightly lit by rows of overhead incandescent bulbs.
“Trombley, I need your help.”
Antoine jumped and said, “Oh, shit!” almost dropping a soapy beaker on the floor.
“Sorry, didn’t mean startle you,” said Thomas Bogdanovic standing at the door to the lab.
“Oh, Mr. Bogdanovic, I didn’t realize anybody else was in the building.”
“Please wash your hands and come along to Lab Two.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“Take your time and be thorough. I don’t want you to contaminate my experiment.”
When Antoine entered Lab Two, he saw that Thomas had laid out many pipets, flasks, burners, and other equipment Antoine didn’t recognize. As they started to work, he quickly realized that his primary job was to hold pieces of equipment in place while Thomas connected them to armatures or other pieces of equipment. Antoine had seen experiments like this in action, of course, but had never helped to put one together. Thomas had a sketch of the experiment, which he consulted as they went along.
After almost an hour, Thomas said, “I need a break. How about a Coca-Cola?”
“Sure.”
Thomas led the way across the hall to his tiny office, retrieved two bottles of Coca-Cola from his desk, and opened them. He handed one to Antoine, and said, “Cheers.” They drank.
“That’s good,” said Antoine.
‘Thanks for your help.”
“No, thank you. It’s a lot more interesting than washing beakers. What’s it going to do?”
“Distill a tire additive to improve tread flexibility, I hope.” He took another sip from his bottle. “How long have you been here now?”
“Just about three months.”
“And you’re on nights by yourself already? That’s pretty good. Took me four-and-a-half months.”
“You’re the chemist that started as a custodian?”
“Bainey told you about that?”
Antoine nodded.
“Did he give you the Darwin speech?”
Antoine looked sheepish. “Yes.”
Thomas nodded. “No point in changing a pitch that’s working. You got to hand to him; he’s a good business man and a great salesman. Just a middling chemist, though, and a terrible historian.”
“Don’t you like Mr. Bainey?”
“I love the guy. I wouldn’t be where I am without him.”
“What do you mean, ‘terrible historian’?”
“Well, that bit about the ‘most revolutionary scientist’. The notion of natural selection was in the air, for God’s sake. Another guy, ah, Alfred Wallace, came up with the same theory at just about the same time. I don’t know how to measure “revolutionary”, but there were more original thinkers in the nineteenth century.”
“Like who?”
“Well, Dmitri Mendeleev, for one.”
“Who?”
Bogdanovic picked up a book form his desk, opened it to a dog-eared page and showed it Antoine. “Do you know what that is?”
“No. It just looks like gobbledygook to me.”
“It’s the Periodic Table of Elements. It was invented by Mendeleev. He thought there had to be an order to the way the elements combine to form molecules. So, he made a deck of a playing cards, one for each element, and he played a kind of solitaire with these cards trying to figure out that order. He guessed that it must have something to do with atomic mass.”
“Atomic mass?”
“You can think of it as the relative mass of each element to the mass of hydrogen, which is the lightest element. That’s not quite accurate, but that’s how it was originally conceived. The bottom half of this diagram is very confusing, so I’m going to hide it.” He covered the bottom of the page with a piece of paper, which left this image:
“You see the digits ‘1’, ‘2’, and ‘3’ down the left side of the table? They identify the first three rows, or periods, of the periodic table. The ‘H’ in the first row is the symbol for hydrogen, ‘1.008’ is its atomic mass. The other element in that period is He for helium.
“The columns are what Mendeleev called families of elements and he labeled them with Roman numerals. All the elements within an individual family are similar in the way they combine with other elements. There’s one family of elements that doesn’t combine with anything. These are the noble or inert gases helium, neon and argon. This is the first family Mendeleev identified, so he put them in family ‘0’, which in this version of the table are in the right most column.
“He knew that hydrogen and lithium combined with oxygen in the same way – two atoms of hydrogen or lithium to one atom of oxygen. So, he put hydrogen and lithium here in column ‘I’.
“He also knew that sulfur combined with hydrogen in the same way as oxygen; so, he wanted to put oxygen and sulfur in the same column. But which column? This is where the game of element solitaire comes in. By keeping the elements in the order by atomic mass and by keeping families of elements together in columns, he managed to put together a table of elements much like the one you see here. Oxygen and sulfur are here in family “VI”.
“So, ‘O’ is the symbol for oxygen?”
“Yes.”
“And ‘S’ is for sulfur?”
Thomas nodded.
“Maybe this is a stupid question, but why do oxygen and sulfur combine with hydrogen the same way?”
“It’s not a stupid question. The fact that the elements have these similarities and line up in such a neat package suggests that there is a deep structure to the world at the atomic level. Chemists and physicists have been puzzling that out for the last fifty years. Unfortunately, I don’t have time to spoon-feed you all of modern chemistry tonight.”
“Oh, sorry.”
“Not at all. If you’re interested, I have a book you could look at. It’s the book that got me started in chemistry.”
“I could give it a try, I guess.”
“Good. I’ll bring it from home.” Bogdanovic drank the last his Coca-Cola. “What do you say we try to finish up in the lab before you have to go home?”
Chapter 14
Friday May 1, 1970
Marie cleared the dishes from the table and called back to the dining room, “Would like another cup of coffee?”
“Yes, please,” replied Nelson.
When she didn’t return right away with the coffee pot, Nelson got up and went into the kitchen. He found her standing over the sink, shoulders shaking, tears dripping onto porcelain. He put his arm around her shoulder, she turned to him and he took her into his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. She stopped crying after a bit. He reached out, tore a paper towel from the roll, and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She wiped her face and blew her nose.
“That’s the first time I’ve seen you cry since Antoine passed.”
“Yeah, me too. I mean… I mean…”
“Yes, I know what you mean.”
“I wasn’t crying about Antoine exactly. I mean, I was, but all of a sudden, the house feels so empty. I guess I was filling some of that ache by taking care of Antoine.”
“At least you’ll get to see the kids this weekend?”
She shook her head. “Alaine’s not coming until Monday.”
“That’s right. Why’s that again?”
“He has papers to write and some kind of date, I think.”
“That doesn’t sound like Denny,” said Nelson, thinking how little effort his son needed to put into his schoolwork. “And Ronnie?”
“She’s going to try to find a ride home. If she can’t, I’m going up to BG on Sunday to get her.”
“I’ll get her. You have enough to do.”
“Oh, thank you, Nels.”
“Glad to do it.”
“I don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I was looking forward to the distraction.”
“Distraction…” he said and pursed his lips.
“What?” she asked
“I have a distraction for you. I was going to tell you about it after the funeral, but maybe now would be a good time.”
“What is it?”
“An adventure. Maybe a disaster. If you go sit in the dining room, I’ll get something from my briefcase and show you.”
He walked into the dining room, sat down next Marie and put Bud’s envelope on the table in front of her.
“What’s this?”
“It’s a business plan. Bud wants us to buy an O-ring distributorship in Muncie, and he wants me to run it.”
“But you hate O-rings.”
Nelson laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I told him. You know what he said? He said, ‘You’ll love ‘em if they make you rich.’ He thinks that being the O-rings-on-the-moon-guy is a magic bullet.”
“And what do you think?”
“I think it scares the shit out of me.” He sat back in his chair. “But… I’m starting to realize that I’m sleepwalking at Goodyear. Taking this NASA thing was a mistake. Too much risk and not enough money; the big boys don’t like that. Either way, my days at Goodyear are numbered.”
“What’s the downside?” She gestured at the proposal.
“If it fails, I’ll be a guy in his late fifties looking for a job. I’ll have a mortgage and two kids in college. Not a pretty picture.” He looked her in the eye, icy blue to stony brown. “There’s one thing I know for sure: I can’t do this,” he patted the envelope, “without your help.”
“You always have my support. You know that.”
“That’s not what I mean. I’ll need your actual help. I’ll need to you to come into the office.”
“I don’t know anything about business. What would I do?”
“You know more than you think. More importantly, you know people. As far as what you’d do? You’d learn everybody else’s job, from filing to taking orders to filling out purchase orders. Enough to pitch in when they need help. If we’re successful, they will need help. And you’d need to keep your eyes and ears open. I’ll be on the road a lot, especially at first.”
“You want me to be a spy?”
“That’s not how I see it. I need somebody I trust to protect my interests, our interests. If you show them that you’re truly there to help, that no task is too menial, that you will empty trash cans if that’s what it takes, I think you’ll be okay.”
“Would I get paid?”
“Yes, but not much, especially at first. Anyway, you should look this over.” He patted the proposal again. “Then we’ll talk.”
Just then a beat-up, two-door Chevy Impala pulled into the driveway.
“Who could that be?” said Marie, craning her neck to look out the window. A tall, powerful-looking young woman with a blonde ponytail leaped out of the passenger seat. “Good God, it’s Ronnie.” Marie took a careful look at the driver. He had a mustache and long hair held in place by a leather strap tied across his forehead. He was wearing aviator-style sunglasses.
Ronnie pulled her bag out of the back seat, waved to the driver, kicked the door shut, and strode to the front door.
Nelson picked up the proposal, “I’ll put this on your desk.” Marie nodded and went to the door.
Ronnie burst into the house, dropped her bag with a thud and embraced her mother. The two women were almost the same height, but Ronnie outweighed her mother by twenty pounds, all of it bone and muscle. They both had tears in their eyes.
“How are you holding up, Mom?”
“Better, now that you’re here. I’m so glad to see you.”
“Yeah, me too.” Nelson came from the back of the house. She disengaged from her mother and called, “Hi, Dad!” He kissed her on the lips and they hugged.
“You should have let us know you were on your way,” said Marie.
“Didn’t have a chance, really. Cindy Meyer’s half-brother showed up out of the blue. He was on his way from Ann Arbor to Kent and agreed to drop me off here. He was in a hurry to leave and I had to pack.”
“U of M?” Nelson asked with mock distaste.
“Dropout, I think.”
“Isn’t that kind of dangerous, riding with somebody you don’t know?” asked her mother.
“Nah. He was a scrawny, dirty-hippy type. If he’d given me any trouble, I’d have squished him like a grape.”
“Where did you say he was going?” asked her father.
“To visit friends at Kent State.”
“There was an anti-war protest at Kent State today,” said Marie.
“You’re kidding. At Kent State?” Marie nodded. “Huh.”
“Let’s sit down,” said Nelson.
They trooped past the living room to the family room. The family room had a large, well-used fireplace on the back wall of the house and a picture window on the eastern wall to the right. It was furnished with a comfortable old sofa facing the fireplace and an overstuffed chair in front of the window. There was a circular, green and blue rag rug in the center of room. On the rug sat a large, darkly stained, circular coffee table with four thick, elegantly curved legs. This piece was the most unusual object in the room. Only a dividing line down its center, which could be opened to accept a leaf, hinted that it had not always been a coffee table. It had, in fact, been the dining room table in Nelson’s childhood home. He had modified it into a coffee table by cutting twelve inches off each leg.
This room was the center of their communal family life. It had hosted firelit games of Monopoly and Password, birthday parties, cub scout meetings, family conversations and arguments, praise and punishment, burnt s’mores and popcorn, impromptu celebrations, homework collaborations, Christmas trees and gifts, Easter egg hunts, laundry folding, squirt gun battles, sword duels, tickle attacks, pillow fights, plays where all the hearth’s a stage and all the children on it players. It was a place darkly familiar, safe, protected, womblike. Though not quite taken for granted, it was never fully appreciated either.
Nelson sat in the chair, Marie at the opposite end of the sofa, Ronnie on the sofa between them, the center of attention.
“Where’s Buddy?”
“At school. He won’t be able to make it until Monday,” said Marie.
“Why’s that?”
“He has school work and an event with a girl.”
“That doesn’t sound like Buddy,” She was certain her brother liked girls, but never knew him to have much success in that department.
“That’s what I said,” replied Nelson. “How’s your semester going?”
“Good!”
“So, missing three days isn’t going to be a problem?”
“Nah, I let my profs know I was going to be out. It’s like a road game. I brought my books, I have my assignments, I have sorority sisters lined up to take the class notes.” Her parents just looked at her. “Really, I’m in good shape. I’ve learned my lesson; I don’t want to sit out any more games because of grades.”
“That’s good!” said Marie.
“So, how good do you think the team will be next season?” asked Nelson.
“Good. Maybe really good. Got a good core of juniors and seniors coming back and a couple of sophomores that will gives us some good depth. The incoming freshmen look like they could be pretty good. One freshman, Samantha Grimes, is one hell of a digger. I mean she could dig her way to China. I think she’ll play for us some next season. You know Miami is always good, but if we get a little lucky, I think we have a chance to win the conference. And you know what that means.”
“The NCAAs!”
“You know it, man.”
“Do you think you’re going to start?”
“Oh, I’m going to start. If I have to break somebody’s leg, I’m going to start.” Nelson made a face. “Lighten up, Dad. I’m just kidding. I’m working really hard in the gym. I’m the best outside hitter on the team and I’m getting it done in the classroom. You’ll see on my next grade card.”
“How’re things socially?” asked Marie.
“My social life is fine, Mom. Just fine.”
“Whatever happened to that Corey what’s-his-name? I always thought he was nice.”
“Corey what’s-his-name is a meathead. When he was elected captain, he started thinking he was God’s gift to women. Who wants to date a lineman, anyway? No offense, Dad.”
“None taken. They don’t call ‘em ‘the big uglies’ for nothing.”
“I’m focusing on the basketball and volleyball players at the moment. Tall and good-looking.”
“I always thought of myself as more of a basketball player, anyway,” said Nelson, and they laughed.
“Do you want something to eat?” asked Marie.
“No, grabbed a sandwich at the house before we left.” She took the band out of her pony tail, and ran her fingers through her hair. “Actually, I’m feeling kind of grody. Kathy’s coming to pick me up in hour or so, and I need to get cleaned up.”
“So, you had time to call your friends, but not your parents,” said Marie.
“Got to have your priorities in order, Mom.”
“You girls have plans?” asked Nelson.
“Going to start out at a frat party at U of A, I think.” She stood up. “Talk to you later.”
She went back through the living room, grabbed her bag and pounded up the stairs. Her parents smiled at each other and shook their heads.
“She’s a force of nature,” said Marie.
Nelson’s smile broadened. “The only question is, is it for good or for ill.”
Chapter 15
Thursday May 28, 1925
Antoine was seated on the front stoop when the 1918 Buick E-Six-49 pulled up to the curb.
“He’s here, Maman,” he called into the house and grabbed his case. He didn’t hear her admonition to be careful.
Thomas Bogdanovic opened the luggage compartment and Antoine stowed his valise; they hopped into the car, and Thomas made a U-turn to go back to Arlington Street.
“Gosh, what a great car!” said Antoine.
“It needed a lot of work when I got it, but it’s in near perfect condition now.”
“Gee whiz, I still can’t believe it. I’m going to the Indianapolis 500.”
“Yes, you’re a lucky man.”
“I feel bad for Doyle, though.” Ralph Doyle, a lab assistant, had an unexpected death in his family and the funeral was scheduled for race day.
“Arrangements were made. Somebody might as well use them. I’ll tell you what, though, I can’t think of anybody that will enjoy the race more than you.”
They drove up to the Middlebury neighborhood to pick up Alan Burris, a lab assistant. Then they headed northwest on Market Street to Portage Path where Randall McCullers, the other junior chemist, had spent the night with his parents.
McCullers climbed into the front seat and said, “Thanks for driving your car, Bogdanovic.”
“Say, Randall,” said Thomas, “I’d like this trip to be informal, if you don’t mind. Everybody on a first name basis.”
Randall nodded. “That would be Jake with me,” he said a little stiffly, but trying to get into the spirit.
Thomas turned to the back seat “We’re not at work; we’re four friends going to the race together. No Mr. Bogdanovic, no Mr. McCullers.” He looked directly at Antoine. “You got that?”
“Yes,” squeaked Antoine.
“What’s my name?’
“Thomas.”
“What’s his name?”
“Randall.”
“What’s his name?”
“Alan.”
“Al,” said Burris.
Antoine smiled. “Al.”
“Okay, as we discussed: we’re taking 18 West to Medina, 42 South to 40, 40 West through Indianapolis, then Tibbs Avenue north to the Speedway. I’ll drive until we stop for dinner. Then Antoine, then Al, then Randall. Three-to-four-hour shifts. Or until you get too sleepy to drive. What time do you have Randall?”
Randall had the best watch, a college graduation present from his parents, and he was known for his meticulous timekeeping. “1:36,” He said.
“Let’s synchronize on that. By my calculations we should be at the Speedway tomorrow morning before the final day of qualifying begins.”
Antoine had been driving for about an hour. Route 42 was, for the most part, a dirt road; around larger towns, there was usually some gravel mixed in. It had rained lightly early in the week, which kept the dust down and made for ideal driving conditions. The car had been mostly quiet since dinner. Thomas was in the passenger seat, Randall and Al in the back.
“This is a wonderful car to drive,” Antoine said to Thomas over the sound of air blasting trough open windows.
“It is.”
“How much does a car like this cost?”
“Not as much as you might think, if you find one that needs work. And you do the work on it yourself.”
“You work on cars?”
“Oh, yes. Like you, I’m a little car crazy.”
“You sure did a great job.”
“I wanted to be an engineer, but it just didn’t work out that way.”
“Why not?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Why did you pick me to drive after you?”
“What makes you think there’s a reason?”
“Thomas, you always have a reason.”
“Ah. I wanted to see what kind of a driver you were while it was still light.”
Antoine looked in the direction of sun. It was reddening as it got closer to the horizon.
“How am I doing?”
“No complaints. Actually, you’re more cautious than I am.”
“I don’t want to be responsible for wrecking such a beautiful machine. And I don’t want to miss my very first Indianapolis 500.”
Antoine woke up in the dark as Thomas pulled off to the side of the road. He set the hand brake, got out of the car, leaving it running, and stepped into bushes. He returned moments later, and, seeing Antoine was awake, motioned him out of the car.
“How’re you doing? Feeling like you can drive again?” he asked Antoine
“Sure thing. What time is it?”
“About five o’clock.”
“Where are we?”
“Just west of Richmond, Indiana. Maybe 70 miles from the track. Including a stop for breakfast, I’m guessing we’ve got another three or four hours.”
“Great. What’s the fuel situation?”
“Randall and I checked the level when I took over from him. We added two gallons from my reserve can, so we should have plenty to get to Indy.”
Antoine nodded.
“In two hours start looking for a place to eat breakfast. We should eat before Indianapolis.”
“Okay.”
Antoine got into the driver’s seat, released the brake, checked to make sure Thomas was settled, then eased the car into gear and pulled away. Route 40 had been built on top of many existing roads and was mostly straight and flat. He easily passed the two cars he overtook, one time going almost fifty miles an hour. It made his heart thump in his chest.
Forty minutes after taking the wheel, the houses, barns and farmlands started to brighten. With the sun coming up behind him, the car’s shadow seemed to draw him down the road. The trees, the young rows of seedlings in the fields, the fencing, the farmhouse lawns sparkled with dew. The cool, moist scent seeped into the closed cabin of the car.
Antoine sensed the stillness of the sleeping passengers, and he felt gloriously alone in a dazzlingly beautiful world, as he piloted that marvelous automobile toward a rendezvous with the gatekeepers of a world he craved to enter. It was a moment of infinite possibility, of unfamiliar joy.
A little less than hour later, the remnants of euphoria still buzzing in his brain, Antoine took the car out of gear and jammed his foot on the brake pedal with all his strength. Al Burris and Randel McCullers woke up catching themselves bumping into the front seat; Thomas slid into the foot well. The car skidded to a stop, skewed toward the middle of the road.
Thomas popped back into his seat and looked out the windshield. A small herd of dairy cows was crossing the road from left to right, from the pasture to the milking shed.
“What happened?” asked Thomas.
“I didn’t see them until I got to the top of the rise.” Thomas looked back and saw that the road took a dip where it crossed a small stream.
“Good thing you were alert.”
Antoine set the hand brake and got out of the car; the others followed. The farmer, who was standing at the gate to the milking shed, called to them, “You boys alright?”
The looked at each other and nodded.
“Yes, I think so,” said Thomas.
“You should be more careful. You might have spooked one of my cows.”
“We’re sorry, but it’s kind of a dangerous place for a crossing.”
“My family’s been crossing our cows here for more’n a hundred years and never had no trouble.”
The world’s changing, thought Antoine, but said nothing.
“We’re sorry. I hope your animals are okay.”
“Seem to be.”
“Good. I was wondering, is there a place we can get breakfast up ahead?”
“Kightstown’s about ten miles that-a-way. Place on the square called Betsy’s I think highly of.”
“Thank you.”
The last cow left the roadway.
“Good day to you,” said the farmer closing the gate.
Thomas came around the car and said quietly to Antoine. “I’ll drive now. Thanks for taking that last shift.”
Antoine smiled. “It was my pleasure.”
At half past eight Thomas pulled the car up to the gate at the Indianapolis Speedway and showed the guard his credentials. The guard directed him to the vendor parking lot. Thomas had to show his credentials again to get access to the lot.
Due to the early hour there were a number of open parking spots close to the entrance to the Speedway. The four young men got out of the Buick, stretched and blinked in the bright sunshine. Thomas took a file folder from the car and handed each of them a paper vendor pass, which gave them access to the stands, the pit and garage areas. They pinned the passes to their shirts.
They strolled, a little self-consciously, down the path to the entrance, and walked through the wide tunnel that passed under the stands. They climbed halfway up and turned to look at the track. The oval was two-and-a-half miles around, making 500 miles exactly 200 laps. Then Antoine saw men on the track, inspecting, cleaning, repairing, and the size of the track snapped to scale. He stood open-mouthed.
Thomas clapped him on the shoulder. “What do you think?”
“It’s so big. I mean I knew it was big, but…”
“This is the biggest sporting venue in the history of the world. The Colosseum in Rome held somewhere between fifty to eighty thousand people. Tomorrow there will be there will be at least twice that many people.”
“Holy mother of God,” said Randall.
“It’s a lot,” said Thomas.
“I’m not talking about that.” Randall pointed to the tote board. “DePaolo set a new track record for a single lap. Over 114 miles per hour.”
“Wow!” said Thomas. “He must have been going over 130 in the straightaway.”
“And he’s not even on the pole,” said Antoine. “Leon Duray edged him out by a tenth of a mile an hour.” Pole position was based on the average speed over four laps.
A smile of satisfaction spread over Thomas’ face. “And they’re both running on our tires.”
“Oh, this going to be a great race,” said Al.
They sat and Thomas pointed out the starting line, pit road, and the wooden buildings that housed the garages where there were dozens of trucks and trailers that transported the race cars, tires, engines and spare parts.
Antoine said, “Hey, Thomas, can’t we go poke around in the garages?”
“Be my guest. But there won’t be much to see; grease monkeys under hoods mostly, and they won’t want you in the way. Later this afternoon we can take a tour with Mr. Bainey and he’ll introduce us to owners and drivers. You’ll be able to gape at engines and mechanicals to your heart’s content. I’m going to sit right here and wait for the drivers to come out for practice laps and the last qualifying runs.”
The four were seated in the dining room of the West Indianapolis Hotel, the remnants of their dinner in disarray on the table. Antoine had ordered the meatloaf in brown gravy with mashed potatoes and green beans. He had found it tasty if not quite up to Maman Sarah’s standard. He was finishing a chocolate ice cream sundae.
Thomas, Randall and Al had ordered T-bone steaks with all the fixings and did not have room for dessert. They had teased Antoine about his choice of main course, but he figured he had the last laugh; the ice cream was excellent. Thomas and Randall were smoking cigarettes and finishing their coffee.
Al stood up and said, “If I don’t go to bed right now, I’m going to get a face full of left-over steak.”
“I’m right behind you,” said Randall, snuffing out his smoke as he rose.
A pained expression crossed on Thomas’ face. “I thought we were going out tonight.”
“I don’t think I slept more than twenty minutes in that car. Maybe tomorrow night.”
Thomas looked at Antoine. “I suppose you’re short on sleep, too.”
“Nope. I slept okay.”
“Good. Come on. We’re going out.”
“Where?”
“A little place walking distance from here. They have music. You like music, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
They left the hotel and walked two blocks south on West Street, down a darkened alley and stopped at a nondescript door. Thomas pushed a button that was discreetly placed below waist level, and a small, head-high window opened.
A rough voice said, “Can I help you?”
“Frankie Dragovic sent me.”
“Hold on.” The window closed.
“What is this place?” asked Antoine. Thomas shushed him.
The little window opened again. A different, more refined voice said, “Do you have some identification?” Thomas took out his wallet and held up his driver’s license to the window. The window closed and the door open.
“Good evening, Mr. Bogdanovic. Mr. Dragovic told us to expect you,” said the man at the door. He was tall and broad, wearing a dark, well-cut suit and a tastefully muted tie.
He waited for them to check their hats, then said “Would you follow me, please?” The man led them to a table next to the miniscule dance floor with a good view of the equally small stage. “This will be adequate, I hope.”
“It’s just fine,” said Thomas with satisfaction, as he discreetly offered the man a tip.
“Oh, no, Mr. Bogdanovic. You’re a guest of Mr. Dragovic.”
“See here, Mister...”
“Burton.”
“Mr. Burton. I would very much prefer to pay my own way.”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Dragovic insisted, and he would be quite vexed if he found out we’d taken your money.”
“I see, well, thank you then.” Mr. Burton smiled and made a slight bow. He turned, strolled to another table, and greeted a patron.
“Damn!” said Thomas.
“What’s wrong?” asked Antoine.
“It’s one thing for Frankie to provide an introduction, but it’s another thing altogether to be in his debt.”
“Why’s that?”
“That’s my worry, Antoine. Let’s just forget it and enjoy the evening.”
Antoine looked nervously around room. Thomas asked “What’s up?”
“They serve alcohol here.”
“Yes.”
“Aren’t you afraid it will be raided. I’ve been to jail; I don’t want to go back.”
“You’ve been to jail?”
“Yes. It was misunderstanding. They let me out the next day.”
“Oh.”
“So, if it’s all the same to you…”
“Sit down, Antoine. Nobody’s going to raid this place.”
“How do you know?”
“Let’s just say that some of the city council men are big music fans; that and lots of Indianapolis bigwigs come here.”
A waiter came to their table. “What can I get you, Mr. Bogdanovic?”
“Rye straight up and a glass of water.”
“And you, sir.”
“I’ll have water.”
“And a rye straight up,” said Thomas.
“Very good, sir,” replied the waiter.
Antoine gave Thomas a disapproving look.
“You don’t have to drink it. It’s embarrassing to sit here with just a glass of water.” Thomas looked around the club. “You have family in the Temperance Union?”
“No. Some ladies in our church are, of course. My dad calls them busybodies. He voted against the Eighteenth Amendment.”
“Sounds like a reasonable man.”
“But we’ve never had liquor in the house. I don’t think my dad has had more than a couple of drinks in his life.”
“Maybe too reasonable.”
“How’s that?”
“Nothing.” The waiter came by and dropped off the drinks. Thomas took a sip. “Wow! That might even be real rye whiskey.” Thomas took in Antoine’s stony expression. “So, I’ve been meaning to ask you. What was your favorite part of the day?” Antoine did not respond. “Oh, come on, wasn’t that just about the best day you’ve ever had?”
Antoine couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across his face.
“That’s the same grin you’ve had all day. Give it up!”
Antoine sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. “The sound of the engines. So. Loud.” He could still feel the flat out, straightaway acceleration in his chest. He opened his eyes. “But it was everything. The weather was perfect, the cars were a blur!” He sighed. “And meeting the drivers.” Antoine flexed his right hand. “I thought Leon Duray was going break my hand. Then Pete DePaolo shook my hand, and oh, mama!”
“You have to be a real man to drive a race car. It’s all about the turns. How fast do you go in, how much speed can you hold? You saw them slide through the turns. You have to do it predictably or the other drivers won’t know what to expect. The cars weigh about fifteen hundred pounds and you have wrestle them in and out of eight hundred turns over a five-hour period. It takes courage, strength and endurance.”
“I think you have to be out of your mind.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Thomas took a drink of water. “Have you decided where you’re going watch the race?”
“Well, I’d have a better view from the stands, but there’s something exciting about the idea of watching from the pit.”
“You might get to attend lots of 500s in your time, but there’s no guarantee you’ll ever have a pit pass again.”
“You’re suggesting the pit then.”
Thomas shrugged. “Just giving you food for thought.” He finished his rye and looked around for the waiter. “You going drink that?” he motioned to Antoine’s alcohol.
“No.” Antoine slid his drink in Thomas’ direction.
“So, you going to stick it out with Bainey? Move up to lab assistant and all that.”
“I want to be in racing fulltime. I’m a little closer to it than I was, but I’m having a little trouble seeing how I get from here to there.”
“Did you ever think about getting an engineering degree?”
“Stop drinking, Thomas; you must be drunk already.”
“Why not? You’re bright enough; I can tell from your work in the lab. And you took a good swing at that chemistry book.”
“Besides the money…”
“It’s an obstacle, but…”
“…I’m not that good at school. My kid brother, he’s the one with the book smarts. He’s the one going to college. My father and I are saving up.”
“So, your family has a plan; you’re sacrificing for that. I can respect that.” Thomas signaled the waiter for another drink.
“I’m not sacrificing anything. We’re saving the equivalent of my room and board plus a bit more. My friend Dick and I still rebuild and race cars. And we dream a little. Maybe we’ll open our own shop someday, who knows?”
“No one, I guess. You have talent; you shouldn’t feel stuck in a custodial job.”
“I don’t,” said Antoine.
“Good,” said Thomas, putting a cap on the conversation.
The room was filling up to bursting, and Antoine, looking through the haze of tobacco smoke, realized how flashy the crowd was. Most of the men sported evening wear, glittering stick pins and rings. The women, almost universally young, were dressed in the latest style: bobbed hair, filmy, knee-length, form-fitting skirts and dresses, low-cut with rounded necklines. Antoine had never seen anything like it outside of a Charlie Chaplin film. Thomas admired the discernable shape of one female derriere after another.
“Glad you came?” asked Thomas.
“I didn’t know Indianapolis was such a fancy place.”
“It’s not. Most of these folks are from New York or Chicago, here for the race, just like us.”
“Oh.”
The waiter dropped off two more drinks.
“Hey,” said Thomas, “I just wanted…” But the waiter had already zipped out of ear shot. Looking at Antoine, Thomas raised his glass and said, “Ziveli!”
Eventually, the man who had shown them to their table walked to the stage and the crowd began to applaud. He smiled and nodded, waved to a few people, then raised his arms for quiet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “It is with great pleasure that I welcome Jelly Roll Morton & His Red Hot Peppers to The West Street Cabaret,”
Six black men in tuxes and black tie paraded to the stage. One sat at the upright piano stage left, the guitarist stood behind the piano, the drummer sat at a small drum kit center stage, and the others, holding clarinet, trombone and cornet stood stage right. The six barely fit on the stage. The piano player nodded to the drummer who quietly struck his sticks four times and band launched into “Jelly Roll Blues”. Antoine had heard the tune before but couldn’t remember the name. The crowd cheered.
The intricate blues tune, with solos that featured each member of the band, and improvised sections between the horns and the piano or guitar, went on for over ten minutes. Much of it was lost on Antoine, but the extraordinary skill of the players was obvious even to him.
The crowd clapped and stamped their feet and whistled and hollered. The piano player turned to the crowd smiling, his white teeth shining in his thin, light-complected face. After a minute he held up one thin long-fingered hand, and the audience began to quiet.
“Thank you,” he said, “Thank you so much. We’re going give y’all a chance to dance here in minute, but first I’d like to introduce the members of the band.” Applause. “Behind me on guitar is Johnny St. Cyr.” Applause. “On drums, Baby Dodds.” Applause. “On clarinet, his big brother, Johnny Dodds.” Applause. “On trombone, Kid Ory, and on cornet, George Mitchell.” Applause.
With that the band launched into “The Charleston” and couples rushed to claim a place on the tiny dance floor. Not to be denied the opportunity, couples spilled out into the spaces between tables and then many danced around their own table.
A young woman stopped and spoke into Thomas’ ear. He shook his head and said, “No, thanks.” She shrugged and moved on.
“What did she want?” asked Antoine.
“She asked me to dance.”
“No fooling? Why didn’t you?”
Not wanting to admit he didn’t know the Charleston, he said, “She’s too expensive for me.”
This seemed to confirm something that Antoine had been worrying about. “You mean she’s an ‘H’?”
“An ‘H’. What’s an ‘H’?”
“You know, a whore.”
Thomas bent over with laughter. “Oh, Antoine. You’re such an innocent. That word starts with a ‘W’.”
“It does?”
“Yes. And what I meant was, she’s a rich girl and much too good for the likes of me.”
The band went on to play a mix of danceable tunes like China Boy and Somebody Loves Me with some of Morton’s own compositions such as The Wolverine Blues.
After a little less than hour, Morton stood up and said, “We’re going to take a little break now. So, y’all stick around, and we’ll be back shortly.” The audience applauded as the musicians left the stage.
Antoine yawned and said, “Well, that’s about enough for me. I’m going back to the hotel.”
“Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport,” said Thomas, slurring his words.
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Two?”
“You’ve had at least four. Two you ordered for me, plus two of your own.”
“Five?”
“Okay, you’re coming with me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. We have to get to the track in morning and you need to sleep this off.”
“I don’t want to go.” Antoine pulled his arm to get him to his feet. “Alright, have it your way. But you’re no fun.” Thomas took two dollars out of his pocket and put them on the table.
Antoine half-steadied, half-carried Thomas out of the club and up the street for a little more than a block. Then Thomas doubled over and vomited on the steps of the Farmer’s Bank of Indiana. When he was done, Antoine let him slide down and lie on the steps, being careful to keep him out of his own puke. Antoine sat down next to him, letting Thomas rest for a minute.
“Okay, old chum, time to get up.”
“Just leave me here. The steps feel nice and cold on my face.”
“Nope, can’t do that.”
Just then a constable came around the corner from Merrill street. “What have we got here?”
“My friend is sick.”
“Is he drunk?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I think he might have had some bad beef.”
“Are you sure you boys haven’t been drinking?”
“Oh, no, officer. We haven’t.” Antoine barely emphasized the “we”. The constable looked him, not believing a word. “Look officer, I just need to get him to the hotel across the street. Help me get him there, and we’ll be out of your hair.”
The constable slowly nodded. Between them they got Thomas to his feet, across Merrill Street, into the lobby of the hotel, and onto the settee next to the elevator. Antoine went to get their keys, returned and pushed the elevator call button.
Seeing that they were indeed guests at the hotel, the constable said, “Let this be a lesson to you about the perils of drink.”
“Thank you, officer. I will.”
The constable nodded stiffly and walked back out into the pleasant midwestern night air.
Antoine was thrilled but already weary; the race was a little more than two-and-a-half hours old and just past the halfway point. Thomas had given him cotton wadding to put in his ears before the race, but that did not ameliorate the bone rattling sound energy that blasted through his body as the cars roared by the pit. It was exhausting and he had taken several breaks by walking to the middle of the infield.
He couldn’t see much of the race from the pit observation area anyway. The cars went by in a blur. It was easier to follow the progress on the infield tote board. DePaolo, his current favorite, was leading the race by a large margin, almost thirty seconds, and had lapped many of the other drivers.
Bennett Hill, Ira Vail, M. C. Jones, and Jules Ellingboe were all out of the race due to mechanical failures. Herbert Jones had crashed coming into turn one in lap sixty-nine; he had only minor injuries, and the car, which was too damaged to continue, was easily rolled off the track.
The pit stops were exciting, though. The driver pulled into pit road and into his own pit stall. The crew leaped over the barrier. Two men refueled the car, and six men engaged in the complicated dance of changing tires on the front and back of the car. Two men, one at each tire, loosened the lug nuts. Two jacked up the car. The wrench men and tire wranglers worked to remove the lug nuts. The jack men helped the tire wranglers replace the old tires with new and hurried back to the jacks. The wranglers and wrench men replaced the lug nuts, and the wrench men tighten the nuts. When the crew chief saw that all tasks were completed and the pit crew was safe, he patted the driver on the shoulder and the car pulled away. Once clear of pit road, the driver carefully re-entered the track and gunned the engine.
Antoine watched as Pete DePaolo drove his number 12 car into the pit on lap 104. He jumped out of the car, which was unusual, and showed his hands to the crew chief. Fred Duesenberg, the builder and owner of DePaolo’s car, was always nearby when his car pitted. He took one look at DePaolo’s hands and motioned to Norman Batten, the relief driver, to get into the car. Antoine could see that DePaolo was objecting, but Duesenberg reached across and physically urged him to cross over the barrier. Duesenberg then escorted DePaolo to the dispensary.
Duesenberg returned alone minutes later, and looked up at the tote board. Dave Lewis, driving a Miller Special, had already passed Batten. Ten minutes later he was passed by another car. DePaolo returned twenty-five minutes after being yanked from his car; his hands were heavily bandaged. At that point Batten was in third place and steadily losing ground to Harry Hartz.
DePaolo started a conversation with Duesenberg which quickly escalated to an argument; DePaolo gestured at the tote board and then toward the track. Duesenberg tried to walk away from him. But just then Hartz passed Batten, and Duesenberg started to listen to DePaolo. Duesenberg called to the crew chief, who nodded and got out a big chalkboard with number “12” and wrote “PIT” on it. He sent one of the pit crew down to the end of pit road to hold up the chalkboard were the drivers could see it.
Batten pitted and DePaolo got back in the car. Batten had driven the car for 21 laps, and by the time DePaolo was back on the track his car had fallen to fifth place.
Minutes later in lap 127 Earl Cooper crashed into the wall in the same place as Herbert Jones, but this was worse. Cooper had trouble getting out his car and there was debris strewn across the track. The caution flag came out, and the drivers slowed down and bunched up. There was no passing during a caution, so everybody pitted. Once the drivers were back on the track, DePaolo consolidated his position; the first five cars were snugged up, one behind another. The four laps of caution also gave DePaolo a chance to get used to driving with bandages on his hands.
Fifteen laps later DePaolo took back the lead, and held it for forty-nine of the last sixty laps. When he took his victory lap, he was the first driver to finish with an average speed of more than a hundred miles an hour.
As evening fell, the Bainey contingent was in the crowd overflowing the Duesenberg stall in the garage. The Duesenberg team passed out champagne in paper cups, and Thomas handed one to Antoine.
“You know I don’t drink this stuff,” he shouted into Thomas’ ear.
“Oh, come on. Our boy won. Live a little.”
Antoine took a sip and wrinkled his nose.
Chapter 16
April 23, 1926
Antoine leaned nervously against the wall opposite Bainey’s office. In the past three years he had been in the office exactly twice, and both times he had been with a of group of other employees. Elmer Johns, the office custodian, opened the door, smiled at Antoine and went back down the hall in the direction of the general offices.
“Antoine,” called Bainey, “come on in and close the door.” Bainey motioned to a chair. “Have a seat, Antoine. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mr. Bainey. How about you?” Antoine had some trouble interpreting Bainey’s pinched expression.
“Good, good.”
“Have I done something wrong?” asked Antoine.
“No, no. Quite the contrary. Myron has been very pleased with your work.” Myron Jones was the lab manager and Antoine’s boss. “In fact, everybody thinks you’re doing a great job.”
“That’s good. I was worried there for a minute.”
“There’s no way to sugarcoat this, Antoine. I’ve sold the company to Goodyear.”
“What?”
“They’ve been after me for years. They want the racing tire business, my chemists, the patents. They’ve offered me two to three times the value of the company. Pocket change to them, but a lot of money to me. And to be honest, they’ve been squeezing me on the profit side. Another five years, I’m not sure I would still be in business.”
“I see.”
“You’ll have your job here for at least three more months while Goodyear figures out where to move everything. They want to move the lab to Goodyear property and sell the building. I’ve secured jobs at Goodyear for pretty much everybody here. Most are getting comparable positions. The chemists, the sales people, accountants and so on. And they’re keeping the tire plant for the foreseeable future.”
“But not me.”
“They don’t have anything like a lab custodian.”
“So, I’m out of a job.”
“No, not if you don’t want to be. They will give you a job in the main plant at 9 more cents an hour. The time you have worked here will count toward your seniority, so you won’t be as exposed to layoffs as a new hire.”
“Oh.”
“I’m disappointed, too. I was hoping for something better. But look, I’m bound to get into something else. Not sure what at the moment, but when I do, I’ll find something good for you. And that’s a promise. I have your address and phone number.” He picked up a card from his desk and stood to hand it to Antoine. “Here is my home address and telephone number. Drop me a line every now and then to let me know how you’re doing. And if there’s ever anything I can do to help, just let me know.”
The next morning, a Saturday, Antoine stayed in bed until his father had left for work; after eating breakfast he sat at the table reading the paper from the night before and drinking coffee. Both were unusual activities.
Just after eight Marie ran into the kitchen carrying her Raggedy Ann doll. She had just started morning kindergarten the previous September, and, as a result, she didn’t see much of Antoine during the week. She leapt into his lap and kissed him on the cheeks. He hugged and kissed her back, closed his eyes and came just short of crying.
Sarah sailed into the room, “Good morning, Antoine,” she said, her voice ringing like a bell.
“Good morning.”
“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked him as she did every morning.
“No, thank you,” he replied as he did every morning. He turned back to Marie. “And how is Ann this morning?”
“You should ask her,” said Marie.
“Good morning, Ann. How are you today?” He turned his ear to the doll, then looked at Marie. “I’m sorry I can’t seem to hear her.”
Marie whispered moistly into his other ear, “She says, ‘I’m good.’”
He said to the doll, “Miss Ann, I’m shocked. You should say, ‘I’m well.’”
Marie whispered, “She says, ‘I don’t like to say I’m well.’”
“And you, Miss Marie, how are you today?”
She dimpled and said, “I’m well.’”
Antoine laughed and she squirmed out of his lap. She sat at her own place and fed the doll an imaginary breakfast while her mother fixed hers.
When Sarah came to the table with Marie’s breakfast plate, she kissed Antoine on the top of his head and said, “You know, she loves school, but every day when she comes home, she wants to know where Antoine is.”
She had said this often over the last eight months, and, even today, it made him smile. “I miss her, too. She changes so fast.”
With breakfast and kitchen chores complete, Sarah and Marie went off to other parts of the house, but Antoine continued to sit at the kitchen table. A little before eleven, Jimmy came into the kitchen looking blurry-eyed. Sarah followed right after him to warm his breakfast.
“What’re you doing?” Jimmy asked Antoine.
“Just sitting here.”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?”
“I’m thinking about taking the day off.” Sarah turned to look at him.
“Are you feeling well?” she asked.
“I’m fine?”
“Did you get fired?” asked Jimmy.
“No, of course not. Well, not exactly.” He explained the situation at the office.
“Oh, Antoine, I’m so sorry,” said Sarah.
“What’re you going to do?” asked Jimmy.
“Work for Goodyear, at least for a while, I guess.”
“That’s a terrible idea.”
“The plan stays the same. If I have to work in the plant, then that’s what I’m going to do.”
“Maybe I should get a part time job after school.”
“And what about Honor Society and French Club and basketball?”
“I’ll just have to give them up.”
“The hell you will! Pardon, Maman. As you’ve said, colleges care about the after-school activities.”
“They do, but…”
“No buts. Your job is to do well in school. Papa and I will worry about paying for college.”
Three weeks later Antoine was sitting out on the receiving dock at the rear of the building, breathing in the smell of burnt rubber from the Goodrich plant across the street. His enthusiasm for his job had waned and his breaks tended to stretch out a little longer every day. The door to the dock opened and Antoine turned to see Thomas stepping out the building.
“There you are.”
“Need my help?”
“No. I want to talk.”
“Pull up a chair.”
Bogdanovic sat down on the end of the dock next to Antoine. “How are you?” he asked.
Antoine shrugged.
“Yeah, it’s a tough break. What’re you going to do?”
“Work for Goodyear ‘til something better comes along. How about you?”
“The same, but I’m looking really hard for that something better.” He patted his shirt pocket for his pack of cigarettes, but he’d left on his desk. “Look, the plants are a pretty rough-and-tumble place.”
“Yeah? How would you know?”
“My father, my uncles and a bunch of my cousins work in the rubber mills.”
“Oh, I had no idea.”
“And that’s the way they want it.” He smiled. “I’ve been talking to my uncle about you, and the family has agreed to look out for you.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“I think it is, Antoine. At least until you get your bearings and make some connections of your own. There are guys there that will kick your ass just for the fun of it. There are others that don’t like competition.”
“Competition?”
“Yeah, anybody that might take their job. You, for instance.”
“Oh.”
“There’re all kinds of guys at the plant. There’re bullies, there’re hillbillies, there’re Ku Klux Klansmen. There are company men and guys trying to organize a union. There are cliques and loners. But there’re no soft guys.”
“And your folks? What’re they?”
“Some are one thing, some’re another. But family comes first.” He reached into his pocket. “So, look, when you find out your shift and your job, we’ll have you over for Sunday dinner. It’s a big family event at my mother’s house every week. They’ll get you fixed up.”
“Fixed up?”
“You’ll see.” Bogdanovic pursed his lips. “Church is an important part of the day for us. Would you be willing to come?
“To church?” asked Antoine a little alarmed.
“Yes. Don’t worry; we can’t convert you. You couldn’t join the Serbian Church if you wanted to. It would be a show of respect.”
He nodded slowly and said, “Alright.”
“Great!” Bogdanovic stood up. “Just let me know when you get your Goodyear assignment and I’ll set it up with the family.”
“Okay.”
“Good. We’ll talk then,” said Thomas, and slipped back into the building.