Would the idea work, Adam wondered? Was there a need, the way Hank Kreisel claimed? Was it a worthwhile project to which one of the Big Three auto companies might lend its world prestige?
Adam began firing questions based on his product planner’s training in critical analysis. The questions embraced marketing, expected sales, distribution, local assembly, costs, parts, techniques for shipping, servicing, repair. Each point Adam raised, Kreisel seemed to have thought of and been prepared for, with the needed figures in his brain, and the responses showed why the parts manufacturer’s own business had become the success it was.
Later, Hank Kreisel personally drove Adam and Erica to their car downtown.
Heading home, northward, on the John Lodge Freeway, Erica asked Adam, “Will you do what Hank wants? Will you get him in to see the chairman and the others?”
“I don’t know.” His voice betrayed doubts. “I’m just not sure.”
“I think you should.”
He glanced sideways, half-amused. “Just like that?”
Erica said firmly, “Yes, just like that.”
“Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me I’m involved with too much already?” Adam was remembering the Orion, its introduction nearing week by week, with demands on his own time increasing, as they would for months ahead. Yet Farstar, now in early phases, was also requiring his concentration and working hours, at the office and at home.
Another thing on his mind was Smokey Stephensen. Adam knew he must resolve soon the question of his sister Teresa’s investment in the auto dealership where he was overdue for another visit and a showdown with Smokey over several issues. Somehow, next week, he must try to fit that in.
He asked himself: Did he really want to take on something more?
Erica said, “It wouldn’t take time. All Hank’s asking is for an introduction so he can demonstrate his machine.”
Adam laughed. “Sorry! It doesn’t work that way.” He explained: Any idea passed on for consideration at the summit of the company must have exhaustive analysis and views appended because nothing was ever dumped casually on the president’s or chairman’s desk. Even working through Elroy Braithwaite and Hub Hewitson, the executive vice-president—as Adam would have to—the ground rules still applied. Neither would authorize approach to the next higher echelon until an entire proposal had been sifted, costs worked out, market potential mapped, specific recommendations made.
And rightly so. Otherwise hundreds of crackpot schemes would clog the policymaking process.
In this instance—though other people might be involved later-Adam, initially, would have to do the work.
Something else: If farm products division had turned down Hank Kreisel’s thresher scheme, as he admitted, Adam could make enemies by reviving it, whether success or failure followed. The farm products arm, though small by comparison with automotive operations, was still a part of the company, and making enemies anywhere was never a good idea.
In the end, tonight, Adam had been impressed by his host’s demonstration and ideas. But would Adam gain by involvement? Would it be wise or foolish to become Hank Kreisel’s sponsor?
Erica’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Even if there were some work, I should think it might be a lot more useful than those other things you do.”
He answered sarcastically, “I suppose you’d like me to drop the Orion, Farstar …”
“Why not? Those won’t feed anybody. Hank’s machine will.”
“The Orion will feed you and me.”
Even as he said it, Adam knew his last remark was smug and foolish, that they were drifting into a needless argument, but Erica flashed back, “I suppose that’s all you care about.”
“No, it isn’t. But there’s a whole lot more to think of.”
“For instance, what?”
“For instance, Hank Kreisel’s an opportunist.”
“I liked him.”
“So I noticed.”
Erica’s voice was ice. “Just what do you mean by that?”
“Oh, hell!-nothing.”
“I said: What do you mean?”
“All right,” Adam answered, “while we were by the pool, he was mentally undressing you. You knew it, too. You didn’t seem to mind.”
Erica’s cheeks were flushed. “Yes, I did know! And no, I didn’t mind! If you want the truth, I liked it.”
He said sourly, “Well, I didn’t.”
“I can’t think why.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Hank Kreisel’s a man, and acts like one. That way, he makes a woman feel a woman.”
“I suppose I don’t.”
“No, you bloody well don’t!” Her anger filled the car. It shook him. He had the sense to know this had gone far enough.
Adam made his tone conciliatory. “Look, maybe lately if I haven’t been …”
“You objected because Hank made me feel good. A woman. Wanted.”
“Then I’m sorry. I suppose I said the wrong thing, didn’t think enough about it.” He added, “Besides, I want you.”
“Do you? Do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then why don’t you take me any more? Don’t you know it’s two months since you did? Before that, weeks and weeks. And you make me feel so cheap telling you.”
They had left the freeway. Conscience-stricken, Adam stopped the car. Erica was sobbing, her face against the window on the other side. He reached gently for her hand.
She snatched it back. “Don’t touch me!”
“Look,” Adam said, “I guess I’m a first-class dope …”
“No! Don’t say it! Don’t say anything!” Erica choked back tears. “Do you think I want you to take me now? After asking? How do you think a woman feels who has to ask?”
He waited a while, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do or say. Then he started the car and they drove the rest of the way to Quarton Lake in silence.
As usual, Adam let Erica out before heading into the garage. Leaving, she told him quietly, “I’ve thought a lot, and it isn’t just tonight. I want a divorce.”
He said, “We’ll talk about it.”
Erica shook her head.
When he came in, she was already in the guest room with the door locked. That night, for the first time since their marriage, they were in the same house and slept apart.
20
“Gimme the bad news,” Smokey Stephensen told Lottie Potts, his bookkeeper. “How much am I out of trust?”
Lottie, who looked and frequently behaved like a female Uriah Heep, but had a mind as sharp as razor blades, did quick arithmetic with a slim gold pencil.
“Counting those cars we just delivered, Mr. Stephensen, sir, forty-three thousand dollars.”
“How much cash is in the bank, Lottie?”
“We can meet the payroll this week and next, Mr. Stephensen, sir. Not much more.”
“Um.” Smokey Stephensen rubbed a hand over his heavy beard, then leaned back, lacing his fingers over his belly which had grown larger lately; he reminded himself, absently, that he must do something about his weight soon, like going on a diet, though the thought depressed him.
Characteristically, Smokey was not alarmed about the financial crisis in which, this morning, he suddenly found himself. He had weathered others and would manage this one somehow. He pondered over Lottie’s figures, doing further mental calculations of his own.
The day was Tuesday, in the first week of August, and the two of them were in Smokey’s mezzanine office at the big suburban car dealership, Smokey behind his desk, wearing the blue silk jacket and brightly patterned tie which were like a uniform. Lottie, across from him, waited deferentially, several accounting ledgers spread open around her.
Smokey thought: There weren’t many women around nowadays with Lottie’s attitude. But then, if nature snarled at you at birth, making you as ugly as Lottie, you had to compensate in other ways. By God!—she was a dog. At thirty-five,
or thereabouts, she looked fifty, with her lumpish, lopsided features, buck teeth, the suggestion of a squint, nondescript all-direction hair, appearing as if first grown on a coconut, a voice that grated like metal rims on cobblestones … Smokey switched his thoughts away, reminding himself that Lottie was utterly devoted, unquestionably loyal, unfailingly reliable, and that together they had clambered out of scrapes he might never have survived without her staff work.
Smokey had followed a dictum all his life: If you want a woman to stick beside you, pick an ugly one. Pretty girls were a luxury, but fickle. Ugly ones stayed to slice the meat and stir the gravy.
It was another ugly girl who had precipitated this morning’s crisis. Smokey was grateful that she had.
Her name was Yolanda and she had telephoned him at home late last night.
Yolanda worked for the downtown bank which Smokey dealt with, and which financed his dealer’s inventory of cars. She was a vice-president’s secretary, with access to confidential information.
Another thing about Yolanda was that stripped to bra and panties she weighed two hundred pounds.
The moment Smokey had seen her, during a visit to the bank a year ago, he sensed a potential ally. Subsequently he telephoned, invited Yolanda to lunch and from that point let their friendship grow. Now, they met every two months or so; in between he sent her flowers, or candy which she devoured by the pound, and twice Smokey had taken her overnight to a motel. The latter occasions he preferred not to think about too much, but Yolanda—who had few such experiences come her way—remained pathetically grateful, a gratitude she repaid with periodic and useful intelligence from the bank.
“Our adjusters are planning some surprise dealer stock audits,” she advised him on the phone last night. “I thought you’d want to know—your name is on the list.”
He had asked, instantly alert, “When do the audits start?”
“First thing tomorrow, though no one’s supposed to know.” Yolanda added, “I couldn’t call sooner because I’ve been working late and didn’t think I should use an office phone.”
“You’re a bright kid. How long’s the list?”
“Eight dealers are on it I copied the names. Shall I read them?”
He blessed her thoroughness. “Please, baby.”
Smokey was relieved to find his own name last but one. If the adjusters took the names in order, which was normal, it meant they wouldn’t get to him until three days from now. So he had two days to work with, which wasn’t much, but better than having a snap audit pulled tomorrow. He noted the other dealers’ names. Three were acquaintances whom he would tip off; some other time they might repay the favor.
He told Yolanda, “You’re a sweet kid to call me. We haven’t seen enough of each other lately.”
They ended with exchanges of affection, and Smokey sensed this was going to cost him another night at the motel, but it was worth it.
Next morning, early, he summoned Lottie, whom he also obliged in basic ways occasionally, but who never, at any time, failed to call him “Mr. Stephensen, sir.” Her report—that the Stephensen dealership was seriously out of trust—resulted.
“Out of trust” meant that Smokey had sold cars, but had not turned the proceeds over to the bank which loaned him the money to buy them to begin with. The cars were the bank’s security against its loan; therefore, since it had not been informed otherwise, the bank believed the cars were still safely in Smokey’s inventory. In fact, forty-three thousand dollars worth of cars was gone.
Some sales had been reported to the bank over the past few weeks, but by no means all, and an audit of the dealership’s stock—which banks and finance companies insisted on periodically—would reveal the deficiency.
The ex-race driver ruminated as he rubbed his beard again.
Smokey knew, as did all auto dealers, that it was normal for a dealership to be out of trust occasionally, and sometimes necessary. The trick was not to go too far, and not to get caught.
A reason for the problem was that car dealers had to find cash for each new car they took into stock, usually borrowing from banks or finance companies. But sometimes borrowing was not enough. A dealer’s cash might be short, yet cash was needed—to pay for still more cars if the immediate sales outlook was good, or to meet expenses.
What dealers did, of course, was go slow in processing their paper work after any sale was consummated. Thus, a dealer might receive payment from a customer who bought a car, then subsequently the dealer would take a leisurely week or so to report the sale to his own creditors, the bank or finance company. During that time the dealer had the use of the money involved. Furthermore, at the end of it there would be more sales overlapping, which in turn could be processed slowly, so the dealer could use—again temporarily—the money from those. In a way, it was like a juggling act.
Banks and finance companies knew the juggling went on and—within reason—condoned it by allowing dealers to be briefly, if unofficially “out of trust.” They were unlikely, however, to tolerate an out-of-trust figure as large as Smokey’s was at this moment.
Smokey Stephensen said softly, “Lottie, we gotta get some cars back in stock before those audit guys get here.”
“I thought you’d say that, Mr. Stephensen, sir, so I made a list.” The bookkeeper passed two clipped sheets across the desk. “These are all our customer deliveries for the past two weeks.”
“Good girl!” Smokey scanned the list, noting approvingly that Lottie had included an address and telephone number against each name, as well as noting the model of car purchased and its price. He began ticking addresses which were reasonably near.
“We’ll both get on the phone,” Smokey said. “I’ve marked fourteen names to start. I’ll take the top seven; you call the others. We need cars tomorrow morning, early. You know what to say.”
“Yes, Mr. Stephensen, sir.” Lottie, who had been through this before, was copying Smokey’s notations on a duplicate list of her own. She would do her telephoning from the downstairs cubicle where she worked.
When Lottie had gone, Smokey Stephensen dialed the first number on his list. A pleasant female voice answered, and he identified himself.
“Just called,” Smokey announced in his most mellifluous salesman’s style, “to see how you good folks are enjoying that new car we had the privilege of selling you.”
“We like it.” The woman sounded surprised. “Why? Is anything wrong?”
“Nothing in the least wrong, ma’am. I’m simply making a personal check, the way I do with all my customers, to make sure everybody’s happy. That’s the way I run my business.”
“Well,” the woman said, “I guess it’s a good way. Not many people seem to care that much nowadays.”
“We care.” Smokey had a cigar going by now; his feet were on the desk, chair tilted back. “All of us here care very much indeed. And about that, I have a suggestion for you.”
“Yes?”
“Now that you’ve given your car some initial use, why not run it in to us tomorrow, let our service department give it a thorough check. That way we can see if anything wrong has shown up, as well as adjust anything else that’s needed.”
“But we’ve had the car less than a week …”
“All the more reason,” Smokey said expansively, “for making sure everything’s in tiptop shape. We’d like to do it for you; we really would. And there’ll be no charge.”
“You’re certainly a different kind of car dealer,” the woman on the phone said.
“I’d like to think that, ma’am. In any case, it’s kind of you to say so.”
They arranged that the car would be brought to the service department by eight o’clock the following morning. Smokey explained he wanted to allot one of his best mechanics to the job, and this would be easier if the car came early. The woman’s husband, who usually drove to his office downtown, would either ride with someone else or take a bus.
Smokey made another call with similar results. With
the two after that, he met resistance—tomorrow would not be convenient to release the cars; sensing firmness, he didn’t press the point. Making the fifth call he revised his tactics, though for no particular reason except as a change.
“We’re not absolutely certain,” Smokey informed the car’s owner—a man who answered the telephone himself—“but we think your new car may have a defect. Frankly, I’m embarrassed to have to call you, but the way we feel about our customers, we don’t like to take the slightest chance.”
“No need to be embarrassed,” the man said. “I’m glad you did call. What’s the trouble?”
“We believe there may be a small exhaust leak, with carbon monoxide seeping into the passenger compartment. You or your passengers wouldn’t smell it, but it might be dangerous. To be honest, it’s something we’ve discovered on a couple of cars we received from the factory this week, and we’re checking all others we’ve had recently to be on the safe side. I hate to admit it, but it looks as if there may have been a minor factory error.”
“You don’t have to tell me; I know how it is,” the man said. “I’m in business myself, get labor problems all the time. The kind of help you get nowadays, they just don’t care. But I sure appreciate your attitude.”
“It’s the way I run my shop,” Smokey declared, “as I’m sure you do yours. So can we count on having your car here tomorrow morning?”
“Sure can. I’ll run it in early.”
“That’s a big load off my mind. Naturally, there’ll be no charge and, by the way, when you use the car between now and tomorrow, do me a favor and drive with a window open.” The artist in Smokey could seldom resist the extra embellishment.
“Thanks for the tip! And I’ll tell you something, mister—I’m impressed. Shouldn’t be surprised if we do business again.”
Smokey hung up, beaming.
At midmorning, Lottie Potts and her employer compared results. The bookkeeper had managed to get four cars promised for next day, Smokey five. The total of nine would have been enough if all the cars arrived, but between now and tomorrow morning some owners might change their minds or have problems arise to prevent them coming. Smokey decided to be safe. He selected another eight names from Lottie’s list, and the two of them went back to telephoning. By noon, the owners of thirteen cars, in all, had agreed to return them to the Stephensen dealership early the following day for a variety of reasons.
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