Wheels (31 page)

He continued through the cards, pointing to his own last. "Me, I
didn't include wheels and an engine; I'd have got around to it when you
came back to talk for real
.”

Lantern Jaw looked crestfallen.
"An old dealer trick, friend," Smokey said,
"designed for shoppers like you, and the name of the game is 'Bring 'em back
later!
"' He added sharply, "Do you believe me
.”

"Yeah. I believe you
.”

Smokey rammed his point home. "So nine dealers after you started-right
here and nowis where you got your first honest news, where somebody
leveled with you. Right
.”

The other said ruefully, "Sure looks that way.
" Great I That's how we run this shop
.”

Smokey draped a hand genially
around Lantern Jaw's shoulders. "So, friend, now you got the starting
flag. What you do next is drive back to all those other dealers for more
prices, the real ones, close as you can get
.”

The man grimaced; Smokey appeared not to notice. "After that, when you're ready for more honest news,
like a drive
away price which includes everything, come back to me
.”

The
dealer held out a beefy hand. "Good luck I". Hold it," Lantern Jaw said. "Why not tell me now
.”

"Because you aren't serious yet. Because you'd still be wasting my time
and yours
.”

The man hesitated only briefly. "I'm serious. What's the honest price
.”

Smokey warned him, "Higher'n any of those fake ones. But my price has the
options you want, sales tax, license, a tank of gas, nothing hidden, the
works . .
.”

Minutes later they shook hands on twenty
-
four hundred and fifty dollars.
As the salesman began his paper work, Smokey strolled away, continuing to
prowl the showroom.
Almost at once Adam saw him stopped by a self-assured, pipe-smoking
newcomer, handsomely dressed in a Harris tweed jacket, immaculate slacks
and alligator shoes. They talked at length and, after the man left, Smokey returned to Adam, shaking his head.
"No sale there!
A doctor
!
They're the worst to do business with. Want
giveaway prices; afterwards, priority service, and always with a free loan
car, as if I had 'em. on the shelf like Band-Aids. Ask any dealer about
doctors. You'll touch a nerve
.”

He was less critical, soon after, of a stockily built, balding man with
a gravelly voice, shopping for a car for his wife. Smokey introduced him
to Adam as a local police chief, Wilbur Arenson. Adam, who had
encountered the chief's name frequently in newspapers, was aware of
cold, blue eyes sizing him up, his identity stored away routinely in the
policeman's memory. The two retired to Smokey's office where a deal was
consummated -Adam suspected a good one for the customer. When the police
chief had gone, Smokey said, "Stay friendly with the cops. Could cost
me plenty if I got parking tickets for all the cars my service
department has to leave on the street some days
.”

A swarthy, voluble man came in and collected an envelope which was
waiting for him in the main floor reception office. On his way out,
Smokey intercepted him and shook hands warmly. Afterward he explained,
"He's a barber, and one of our bird dogs. Gets people in his chair;
while he cuts their hair, he talks about how good a deal he got here,
how great the service is. Sometimes his customers say they're coming
over, and if we make a sale the guy gets his little cut
.”

He had twenty
or so regular bird dogs, Smokey revealed, including service station
operators, a druggist, a beauty parlor operator, and an undertaker. As
to the last, "A guy dies, his wife wants to sell his car, maybe get
something smaller. More of ten'n not, the undertaker's got her
hypnotized, so she'll go where he says, and if it's here, we take care
of him
.”

They returned to the mezzanine office for
2 1
coffee, laced with brandy out of a bottle produced by Smokey from a desk
drawer.
Over their drinks the dealer introduced a new subject
the Orion.
"It'll be big when it hits, Adam, and that's the time we'll sell as many
Orions here as we can get our hands on. You know how it is
.”

Smokey
swirled the mixture in his cup. "I was thinking
if you could use your pull
to get us an extra allocation, it'd be good for Teresa and them kids
.”

Adam said sharply, "It would also put money in Smokey Stephensen's
pocket
.”

The dealer shrugged. "So we help each other
.”

"In this case we don't. And I'll ask you not to bring it up, or anything
else like it, ever again
.”

A moment earlier Adam had tensed, his anger rising at the proposal which
was so outrageous that it represented everything the company Conflict of
Interest committee was set up to prevent. Then, amusement creeping in, he
settled for the moderate reply. Clearly, where sales and business were
concerned, Smokey Stephensen was totally amoral and saw nothing wrong in
what had been suggested. Perhaps a car dealer had to be that way. Adam
wasn't sure; nor was he sure, yet, what he would recommend to Teresa.
But he had gained the first impressions which he came for. They were
mixed; he wanted to digest and think about them.

Chapter
thirteen

Hank Kreisel, lunching in Dearborn with Brett DeLosanto, represented the
out-of-sight portion of an iceberg.
Kreisel, fifty-five-ish, lean, muscular, and towering over most other
people like a collie in a pack of terriers, was the owner of his own
company which manufactured auto parts.
The world, when it thinks of Detroit, does so in terms of name-famed
auto manufacturers, dominated by the Big Three. The impression is
correct, except that major car makers represent the portion of the
iceberg in view. Out of sight are thousands of supplemental firms, some
substantial, but most small, and with a surprising segment operating out
of holes-in-the-wall on petty cash financing, In the Detroit area they
are anywhere and everywhere
downtown, out in suburbs, on side roads,
or as satellites to bigger plants. Their work quarters range from snazzy
compages to ramshackle warehouses, converted churches or one-room lofts.
Some are unionized, many are not, although their total payrolls run to
billions yearly. But the thing they have in common is that a Niagara of
bits and pieces-some large, but mostly small, many unrecognizable as to
purpose except by experts-flow outward to create other parts and, in the
end, the finished automobiles. Without parts manufacturers, the Big
Three would be like honey processors bereft of bees.
In this sense, Hank Kreisel was a bee. In another sense he was a master
sergeant of Marines. He had been a Marine top kick in the Korean War,
and still looked the part, with short hair only slightly graying, a
neatly trimmed mustache, and a ramrod stance when he stood still,
though this was seldom. Mostly he moved in urgent, precise, clipped
movements-go, go, goand talked the same way, from the time of rising early
in his Grosse Pointe home until ending each active day, invariably well into
the next. This and other habits had brought him two heart attacks, with a
warning from his physician that one more might be fatal. But Hank Kreisel
regarded the warning as he would once have reacted to news of a potential
enemy ambush in the jungle ahead. He pressed on, hard as ever, trusting in
a personal conviction of indestructibility, and luck which had seldom f
ailed him.
It was luck which had given him a lifetime, so far, filled with the two
things Hank Kreisel relished most-work and women. Occasionally the luck
had failed. Once had been during a fervid affair in rest camp with a
colonel's wife, after which her husband personally busted Master Sergeant
Kreisel down to private. And later, in his Detroit manufacturing career,
disasters had occurred, though successes well outnumbered them.
Brett DeLosanto had met Kreisel when the latter was in the Design-Styling
Center one day, demonstrating a new accessory. They had liked each other
and, partly through the young designer's genuine curiosity about how the
rest of the auto industry worked and lived, had become friends. It was
Hank Kreisel whom Brett had planned to meet on the frustrating day
downtown when he had had the parking lot encounter with Leonard Wingate.
But Kreisel had failed to make it that day and now, two months later, the
pair were keeping their postponed luncheon date.
"I've wondered, Hank," Brett DeLosanto said. "How'd you get started with
the auto parts bit
.”

"Long story
.”

Kreisel reached for the neat sourmash Bourbon which was his
habitual drink and took an ample sip. He was relaxing and,
while dressed in a well-cut business suit, had the buttons of his vest
undone, revealing that he wore both suspenders and a belt. He added, "Tell
you, if you like
.”

"Go ahead
.”

Brett had worked through
the past severa
l nights at the
Design-Styling Center, had caught up with sleep this morning, and now
was relishing the daytime freedom before returning to his design board
later this afternoon.
They were in a small private apartment a mile or so from the Henry Ford
Museum and Greenfield Village. Because of its proximity, also, to Ford
Motor Company headquarters, the apartment appeared on the books of
Kreisel's company as his "Ford liaison office
.”

In fact, the liaison was
not with Ford but with a lissome, leggy brunette named Elsie, who lived
in the apartment rent-free, was on the payroll of Kreisel's company
though she never went there, and in return made herself available to
Hank Kreisel once or twice a week, or more often if he felt like it. The
arrangement was easygoing on both sides. Kreisel, a considerate,
reasonable man, always telephoned before putting in an appearance, and
Elsie saw to it that he had priority.
Unknown to Elsie, Hank Kreisel also had a General Motors and Chrysler
liaison office, operating under the same arrangement.
Elsie, who had prepared lunch, was in the kitchen now.
"Hold it
.”

Kreisel told Brett. "Just remembered something. You know Adam
Trenton
.”

"Very well
.”

"Like to meet him. Word's out he's a big comer. Never hurts to make
high-grade friends in this business
.”

The statement was characteristic
of Kreisel, a mixture of directness and amiable cynicism which men, as
well as women, found appealing.
Elsie rejoined them, her every movement an overt sexuality which a simple,
tight black dress accentuated. The ex-Marine patted her rump affectionately.
"Sure, I'll fix a meeting
.”

Brett grinned. "Here
.”

Hank Kreisel shook his head. "The Higgins Lake cottage. A weekend party.
Let's aim at May. You choose a date. I'll do the rest
.”

"Okay, I'll talk with Adam. Let you know
.”

When he was with Kreisel, Brett
found himself using the same kind of staccato sentences as his host. As
to a party, Brett had already attended several at Hank Kreisel's cottage
hideaway. They were swinging affairs which he enjoyed.
Elsie seated herself at the table with them and resumed her lunch, her
eyes moving between the two men as they talked. Brett knew, because he had
been here before, that she liked to listen but seldom joined in.
Brett inquired, "What made you think of Adam
.”