Wheels

by Arthur Hailey

  Next was a conference between Smokey and his service manager, Vince Mixon.

  Mixon was a cheerful whippet of a man, bald and in his late sixties, who ran the service department like a skillful maitre d’. He could diagnose instantly the ailments of any car, his organizational work was good, and customers liked him. But Vince Mixon had a weakness: he was an alcoholic. For ten months of each year he stayed on the wagon; twice a year, regularly, he fell off, sometimes with doleful consequences on the job.

  No other employer would have tolerated the situation, and Mixon knew it; he also knew that if he lost his job, at his age he would never find another. Smokey, on the other hand, had shrewdly assessed the situation and figured advantages to himself. Vince Mixon was great when he functioned, and when he didn’t Smokey managed. Smokey could also rely on his service manager not to be bothersome if ethics were bent occasionally; also, Mixon would do anything asked of him in tricky situations, such as now.

  Together, they laid plans for tomorrow.

  As each of the recalled cars arrived, it would be whisked to the service department and washed, its interior vacuumed, the engine wiped over carefully to ensure a new appearance if the hood was raised. Glove compartments would be emptied of owners’ possessions; these were to be stored in plastic bags, the bags tagged so that contents could be replaced later. License plates would be removed, their numbers carefully noted to ensure that eventually the right plates went back on the right cars. Tires must have a coat of black paint to simulate newness, especially where any tread wear showed.

  The cars—a dozen, or thereabouts—would then be driven onto the fenced lot behind the dealership where new cars, not yet sold, were stored.

  And that was all. No other work, of any kind, would be performed, and two days from now—apart from the cleaning job—the cars would be returned to their owners exactly as brought in.

  In the meantime, however, they would be on the premises for counting and inspection by the bank’s adjusters who would be satisfied, Smokey hoped, that his inventory of unsold cars was the size it should be.

  Smokey said thoughtfully, “Those bank guys may not get here till the day after tomorrow. But the people’ll be expecting their cars back tomorrow night. You’ll have to phone everybody in the afternoon, invent a lot of excuses for holding ’em an extra day.”

  “Don’t worry,” Vince Mixon assured him, “I’ll dream up good reasons.”

  His employer eyed him sternly. “I won’t worry, long as you lay off the juice.”

  The whippet-like service manager held up a hand. “Not a teaspoonful till this is over. I promise.”

  Smokey knew from experience that the promise would be kept, but in exacting it he had ensured that a bender would soon follow. It was a strategy which the dealer seldom used, but he had to be sure of Vince Mixon for the next forty-eight hours.

  “How about odometers?” the service man asked. “Some of those cars’ll have a few hundred miles on by now.”

  Smokey pondered. There was a danger there; some bank adjusters were wise to dealer tricks and checked everything during a new car audit, odometers included. Yet messing with odometers nowadays was becoming tricky because of state laws; also, those in this year’s models were the tamperproof kind.

  “Nothing’s tamperproof,” Mixon asserted when Smokey reminded him of this. From a pocket the service manager produced a set of small, shaped metal keys. “See these? Made by a tool-and-die outfit called Expert Specialty in Greenville, South Carolina. Anybody can buy ’em and they’ll reset odometers any which way; you name it”

  “What about the new odometers—with white lines which drop if you change the numbers?”

  “The lines are from plastic cases, set to break when you mess with them. But the same people who made those keys sell new plastic cases, which won’t break, for a dollar each. I got two dozen outside, more on order.” Mixon grinned. “Leave it to me, chief. Any odometer in that bunch showing over fifty miles, I’ll turn back. Then before the owner gets the car again, I’ll fix it the way it was.”

  Happily, Smokey clapped his employee on the shoulder. “Vince, we’re in great shape!”

  By the middle of next morning, it seemed they were.

  As Smokey had anticipated, three of the promised cars failed to show, but the other ten were brought in as arranged, and were ample for his purpose. In the service department, washing, cleaning, and tire painting were going ahead briskly, taking priority over other work. Several of the cars had already been driven onto the storage lot, personally, by Vince Mixon.

  Another item of good news was that the bank adjusters were conducting their audits in the order that the eight dealers’ names appeared on Yolanda’s list. Two of the three dealers whom Smokey tipped off yesterday had telephoned, with news from themselves and other dealerships which made this clear. It meant that Stephensen Motors could be sure of being checked tomorrow, though they would be ready by this afternoon.

  Nor did Smokey have any real worries, provided he could get through today and tomorrow with his true stock position undetected. Business generally was excellent, the dealership sound, and he knew he could have his books back in order, and not be seriously out of trust, in a month or so. He admitted to himself: he had overextended a little, but then, he had gambled before and won, which was a reason he had lasted so long as a successful car dealer.

  At 11:30 Smokey was relaxing in his mezzanine office, sipping coffee laced with brandy, when Adam Trenton walked in unannounced.

  Smokey Stephensen had become slightly uneasy about Adam’s visits, of which there had been several since their first meeting early in the year. He was even less pleased than usual to see Adam now.

  “Hi!” he acknowledged. “Didn’t know you were coming in.”

  “I’ve been here an hour,” Adam told him. “Most of the time in the service department.”

  The tone of voice and a certain set to Adam’s face make Smokey uneasy. He grumbled, “Should think you might let me know when you get here. This is my shop.”

  “I would have, except you told me at the beginning …” Adam opened a black loose-leaf folder which he had carried during his last few visits and turned a page. “You told me the first time I came: ‘Everything’s wide open to you here, like a whorehouse with the roof off. You can see our books, files, inventories, just the way your sister would, as she’s entitled to.’ And later you said …”

  Smokey growled. “Never mind! Didn’t know I was talking to a recording machine.” He stared suspiciously. “Maybe you been using one.”

  “If I had, you’d have known about it. I happen to have a clear memory, and when I’m involved in something I keep notes.”

  Smokey wondered what else was in the pages of the black folder. He invited Adam, “Sit down. Coffee?”

  “No, thank you, and I’ll stand. I came to tell you this is the last time I’ll be in. I’m also informing you, because I think you’re entitled to know, that I’m recommending my sister sell her stock in your business. Also”—Adam touched the black loose-leaf folder again—“I intend to turn this over to our company marketing department”

  “You what?”

  Adam said quietly, “I think you heard.”

  “Then what the hell is in there?”

  “Among other things, the fact that your service department is, at this moment, systematically stripping several used cars of owner identification, faking them to look like new, and putting them with genuinely new cars on your storage lot. Your service manager, incidentally, has written bogus work orders on those cars for warranty which is not being performed but will be charged, no doubt, to our company. Right now I don’t know the reason for what’s happening, but think I can guess. However, since Teresa is involved, I’m going to call your bank, report what I’ve seen, and ask if they can enlighten me.”

  Smokey Stephensen said softly, “Jesus Christ!”

  He knew the roof had fallen in, in a way he had least expected. He realized, too, his o
wn mistake from the beginning: It was in being open with Adam Trenton, in giving him the run of the place the way he had. Smokey had sized up Adam as a bright, pleasant head office guy, undoubtedly good at his job or he wouldn’t have it, but naive in other areas, including the running of an auto dealership. It was why Smokey had reasoned that openness would be a kind of deception because Adam might sense if information was being held back, and it would make him curious, whereas frankness wouldn’t. Also, Smokey believed that when Adam realized his sister’s interest in the dealership was being dealt with honestly, he would not concern himself with other things. Too late, the dealer was learning he had been wrong on every count.

  “Do me one favor,” Smokey urged. “Gimme a minute to think. Then at least, let’s talk.”

  Adam answered curtly, “All you’ll be thinking of is a way to stop me, and it won’t work. And we’ve done all the talking needed.”

  The dealer’s voice rose. “How the hell you know what I’ll be thinking?”

  “All right; I don’t know. But I know this: that you’re a crook.”

  “That’s a goddam lie! I could take you to court for it.”

  “I’m perfectly willing,” Adam said, “to repeat the statement in front of witnesses, and you can summon me into any court you want. But you won’t.”

  “How a crook?” Smokey supposed he might as well find out what he could.

  Adam dropped into a chair facing the desk and opened the black loose-leaf book.

  “You want the whole list?”

  “Damn right!”

  “You cheat on warranty. You charge the manufacturer for work that isn’t done. You replace parts that don’t need replacing, then put the removed ones back in your own stock to use again.”

  Smokey insisted, “Give me one example.”

  Adam turned pages. “I’ve a lot more than one, but this is typical.” An almost-new car had come into Stephensen Motors’ service department, Adam recited, its carburetor needing minor adjustment. But instead of being adjusted, the carburetor was removed, a new one installed, the manufacturer billed for warranty. Afterward, the removed carburetor had been given the minor repair it needed to begin with, then was placed in the service department’s stock from where it was later sold as a new unit. Adam had dates, work order and invoice numbers, the carburetor identification.

  Smokey flushed. “Who said you could go snooping around my service records?”

  “You did.”

  There were procedures to prevent that kind of fraud, as Adam knew. All Big Three manufacturers had them. But the vastness of organization, as well as the volume of work going through a big service depot, made it possible for dealers like Smokey to foil the system regularly.

  He protested, “I can’t keep tab of everything goes on in Service.”

  “You’re responsible. Besides, Vince Mixon runs that shop the way you tell him, the way he’s running it today. Incidentally, another thing he does is pad customers’ bills for labor. You want examples?”

  Smokey shook his head. He had never suspected this son-of-a-bitch would be as thorough, or would even see and understand as much as he had. But even while Smokey listened, he was thinking hard, thinking the way he used to in a close race when he needed to pass or out-maneuver someone ahead of him on the track.

  “Talking of customers,” Adam said, “your salesmen still quote finance interest rates at so much a hundred dollars, even though the Truth in Lending Act makes that illegal.”

  “People prefer it that way.”

  “You mean you prefer it. Especially when an interest rate you quote as ‘nine percent per hundred’ means a true interest rate of over sixteen percent per year.”

  Smokey persisted, “That ain’t so bad.”

  “I’ll concede that. So would other dealers who do the same thing. What they might not like, though, is the way you cheat regularly on dealer sales contests. You postdate sales orders, change dates on others …”

  Audibly, Smokey groaned. He waved a hand, surrendering. “Leave it, leave it! …”

  Adam stopped.

  Smokey Stephensen knew: This guy Trenton had the goods. Smokey might slide sideways out of some, or even all, the other finagling, but not this. Periodically, auto manufacturers awarded dealer bonuses—usually fifty to a hundred dollars a car—for every new car sale during specified periods. Since thousands of dollars were involved, such contests were carefully policed, but there were ways around the policing and Smokey, at times, had used them all. It was the kind of duplicity which a manufacturer’s marketing department, if they learned of it, seldom forgave.

  Smokey wondered if Adam knew, too, about the demonstrator cars-last year’s models—which the dealership had sold as new after switching odometers. He probably did.

  How in hell could one guy find out so much in just that little time?

  Adam could have explained. Explained that to a top-flight automotive product planner, such matters as investigative research, detailed follow-through, analysis, the piecing together of fragmentary information, were all like breathing. Also, Adam was used to working fast.

  Smokey had his eyes cast down on the desk in front of him; he appeared to be taking the time to think for which he had asked a few minutes ago. Now he lifted his head and inquired softly, “Whose side you on, anyway? Just whose interests you looking out for?”

  Adam had anticipated the question. Last night and earlier today he had asked it of himself.

  “I came here representing my sister, Teresa, and her forty-nine percent financial interest in this business. I still do. But that isn’t to say I’ll condone dishonesty, and neither would Teresa, or her husband, Clyde, if he were alive. It’s why I’ll go through with what I told you.”

  “About that. First thing you gonna do is call the bank. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, Mr. Smart-ass-noble-high’-n-mighty, let me tell you what’ll happen. The bank’ll panic. Inspectors’ll be around this afternoon, tomorrow they get a court order, padlock this place, seize the stock. Okay, next you say you’ll hand them notes over to your company sales guys. Know what they’ll do.”

  “At a guess, I’d say take away your franchise.”

  “No guessin’. It’ll happen.”

  The two men eyed each other. The dealer leaned forward across the desk. “So where’s that leave Teresa and them kids? How much you think forty-nine percent of a dead business’d be worth?”

  “It wouldn’t be a dead business,” Adam said. “The company would put someone in temporarily until a new dealer could be named.”

  “A temporary guy! How well d’you think he’d run a business he doesn’t know?—into bankruptcy maybe.”

  “Since you’ve brought up bankruptcy,” Adam said, “that seems to be the way you’re headed now.”

  “Smokey slammed down a fist so hard and savagely that everything on his desk top shook. There’ll be no bankruptcy! Not if I play it my way. Only if we do it yours.”

  “So you say.”

  “Never mind what I say! I’ll get my bookkeeper here right now! I’ll prove it!”

  “I’ve already been over the books with Miss Potts.”

  “Then, goddam, you’ll go over them again with me!” Smokey was on his feet, raging, towering over Adam. The dealer’s hands clenched and unclenched. His eyes were blazing.

  Adam shrugged.

  Smokey used an inside line to phone Lottie. When she promised to come at once, he slammed the phone down, breathing hard.

  It took an hour.

  An hour of argument, of assertions by Smokey Stephensen, of the dealer’s penciled calculations with which the desk top was now strewn, of amplification of her bookkeeping by Lottie Potts, of examination of financial precedents reaching back to earlier years.

  At the end Adam admitted to himself that it could be done. Smokey just might, just could, have the business back in shape financially a month from now, allowing for certain unorthodoxies and assuming a continuing upward t
rend in new car sales. The alternative was a temporary management which—as Smokey pointed out—might prove disastrous.

  Yet to accomplish the survival of Stephensen Motors, Adam would be obliged to condone deception and defrauding of the bank’s adjusters. He had the knowledge now; it was no longer a matter of guessing. During their rehash of the facts, Smokey admitted his out-of-trust position and his scheming to survive tomorrow’s new car audit.

  Adam wished he didn’t know. He wished fervently that his sister, Teresa, had never involved him in this at all. And for the first time he understood the wisdom of his company’s Conflict of Interest rules which forbade auto company employees to become involved—financially or otherwise—with auto dealerships.

  As Lottie Potts gathered together her ledgers and left, Smokey Stephensen stood challengingly, hands on hips, his eyes on Adam. “Well?”

  Adam shook his head. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “It’ll change for Teresa,” Smokey said softly. “One month a nice fat check, next month, maybe, nothing. Another thing—all that stuff you accused me of. You never said I cheated Teresa.”

  “Because you haven’t. That’s the one area where everything’s in order.”

  “If I’d wanted to, I could have cheated her. Couldn’t I?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “But I didn’t, and ain’t that what you came here to find out?”

  Adam said wearily, “Not entirely. My sister wanted to take a long term view.” He paused, then added, “I’ve also an obligation to the company I work for.”

  “They didn’t send you here.”

  “I know that. But I didn’t expect to discover all I have and now—as a company man—I can’t ignore it.”