dripping-across the broadloom to deep armchairs over which the butler-
chauffeur had spread thick towels.
In a fourth chair was a gray-haired, frailappearing woman, beside her a
tray of coffee cups and liqueurs. Hank Kreisel leaned over, kissing her
cheek. He asked, "How was the day?"
"Peaceful."
"This is my wife, Dorothy," Kreisel said. He introduced Erica and Adam.
Adam could understand why Zoi~ had been left downtown.
Yet, as Mrs. Kreisel poured coffee and they chatted, she seemed to find
nothing strange in the fact that the others had had a dinner engagement
in which-for whatever reason-she was not included. She even inquired how
the food had been at the Detroit Athletic Club.
Perhaps, Adam thought, Dorothy Kreisel had come to terms with her
husband's other life away from home-his various mistresses in "liaison of-
fices," which Adam had heard of. In fact, Hank Kreisel seemed to make no
secret of his arrangements, as witness Zoi~ tonight.
Erica chatted brightly. Obviously she liked Hank Kreisel, and the evening
out, and now the swim, had been good for her. She appeared glowing, her
youthfulness evident. She had found a bikini among the available swimwear;
it was exactly right for her tall, slim figure, and several times Adam
noticed Kreisel's eyes stray interestedly Erica's way.
After a while their host seemed restless. He stood up. "Adam, like to get
changed? There's something I want to show you, maybe talk about."
So finally, Adam thought, they were coming to the point-whatever the point
was.
"You sound mysterious, Hank," Erica said-,
wheels-309
she smiled at Dorothy Kreisel. "Do I get to see this exposition too?"
Hank Kreisel gave his characteristic twisted grin. "If you did, I'd like
it."
A few minutes later they excused themselves from Mrs. Kreisel who
remained, placidly sipping coffee, in the living room.
When they had dressed, Hank Kreisel guided Adam and Erica through the main
floor of the house, explaining it had been built by a long-dead auto
mogul, a contemporary of Walter Chrysler and Henry Ford. "Solid. Outside
walls as good as Hadrian's. Still are. So I tore the inside apart, put new
guts in." The parts manufacturer opened a paneled doorway, revealing a
spiral staircase, going down, then clattered ahead. Erica followed, more
cautiously, Adam behind her.
They walked along a basement passageway, then, selecting a key from
several on a ring, Hank Kreisel opened a gray metal door. As they entered
the room beyond, bright fluorescent lighting flooded on.
They were, Adam saw, in an engineering experimental workshop. It was
spacious, organized, among the best-equipped of its kind that he had seen.
" Spend a lot of time in this place. Do pilot stuff," Kreisel explained.
"When new work comes up for my plants, bring it down here. Then figure out
best way of production at cheapest unit cost. Pays off."
Adam remembered something which Brett DeLosanto had told him: that Hank
Kreisel had no engineering degree, and his only training before beginning
business for himself was as a machinist and plant foreman.
"Over here." Kreisel led the way to a low, wide work table. An object on
it was covered by a cloth which he removed. Adam looked curiously at the
31 0-wheels
metal structure underneatb-an assemblage of steel rods, sheet metal, and
connected internal parts, the size about equal to two bicycles. On the
outside was a handle. As Adam turned it, experimentalty, parts within the
structure moved.
Adam shrugged. "Hank, I give up. What the hell is it?"
"Obviously," Erica said, "it's something he's submitting to the Museum
of Modern Art."
"Maybe that's it. What I ought to do." Kreisel grinned, then asked,
"Know much about farm machinery, Adam?"
"Not really." He turned the handle once again.
Hank Kreisel said quietly, "It's a threshing machine, Adam. Never been
one like it, or this small. And it works." His voice took on an en-
thusiasm which neither Adam nor Erica had heard before. "This
machine'll thresh any kind of grain -wheat, rice, barley. Three to five
bushels an hour. Got pictures proving it..."
"I know enough about you," Adam said. "If you say it works, it works."
"Something else works, too. Cost. Mass-produced, it'd sell for a
hundred dollars."
Adam looked doubtful. As a product planner, he knew costs the way a
football coach knows standard plays. "Surely not including your power
source." He stopped. "What is your power source? Batteries? A small gas
motor?"
"Thought you'd get around to that," Hank Kreisel said. "So I'll tell
you. Power source isn't any of those things. It's some guy turning a
handle. Same way you did just now. Same handle. Except the guy I'm
thinking of is an old Eastern geezer in a jungle village. Wearing a
slope hat. When his arms get tired, a woman or a kid'll do it. They'll
sit there, hours on end, just turn the handle. That's how we'll build
this for a hundred bucks."
wheels--311
'No power source. Too bad we can7t build cars that way." Adam laughed.
Kreisel told him, -Whatever else you do. Do me a f avor now. Don't
laugh."
"Okay, I won't. But I still can't see massproducing, in Detroit of all
places, a piece of farm machinery"-Adam nodded toward the thresher-
where you turn a handle, for hours on end, to make it work."
Hank Kreisel said earnestly, "If you'd been to places where I have,
Adam, maybe you would. Parts of this world are a long way from Detroit.
That's half our trouble in this town: we forget those other places.
Forget that people don't think like we do. We figure everywhere else is
like Detroit, or ought to be, so whatever happens should be our way:
the way we see it. If others see different, they have to be wrong
because we're Detroitt We've been like that about other things.
Pollution. Safety. Those got so hot we had to change. But there's a lot
more thinking left thafs like religion."
'With high priests," Erica put in, "who don't like old beliefs
challenged."
Adam shot her an annoyed glance which said: Leave this to me.
He pointed out, "A good many who are moving up in industry believe in
rethinking old ideas and the effect is showing. But when you talk about
a hand-operated machine-any kind of machine -that isn't a forward
change; it's going backward to the way things were before the first
Henry Ford." He added, "Anyway, I'm a car and truck man. This is f arm
machinery."
"Your company has a f arm products division."
.I'm not involved with it, and don't expect to be."
312-wheels
"Your people at the top are. And you're involved with them. They listen
to you."
"Tell me something," Adam said. "Did you put this up to our farm products
people? Did they turn you down?"
The parts manufacturer nodded affirmatively. "Them and others. Need
someone now to get me in a board room. So I can raise interest there.
Hoped you'd see it."
At last it was clear precisely what Hank Kreisel wanted: Adam's help in
gaining access to the corporate summit of his company, and presumably the
ear of the president or chairman of the board.
Erica said, "Can't you do it for him?"
Adam shook his head, but it was Hank Kreisel who told her, "He'd have to
believe in the idea first."
They stood looking at the contraption with its handle, so alien to
everything in Adam's own experience.
And yet, Adam knew, auto companies often did become involved in projects
having little or nothing to do with their principal activity of producing
cars. General Motors had pioneered a mechanical heart for use in surgery,
and other medical devices. Ford was working on space satellite
communication, Chrysler dabbling in planned communities. There were other
examples, and the reason for such programs-as Hank Kreisel shrewdly
knew-was that someone high in each company had taken a personal interest
to begin with.
"Been down to Washington about this thresher," Kreisel said. "Sounded out
a lot of guys in State. They go for this. Talk of ordering two hundred
thousand machines a year for foreign aid. It'd mean a start. But State
Department can't do manuf acturing."
wheels-313
"Hank," Adam said, "why work through another company at all? If you're
convinced, why not build and market this yourself?"
"Two reasons. One's prestige. I don't have the name. Big company like
yours does. Has the marketing setup, too. I don't."
Adam nodded. That much made sense.
"Other reason is finance. I couldn't raise the dough. Not for big
production."
"Surely, with your track record, the banks..."
Hank Kreisel chuckled. "I'm into the banks already. So deep, some days
they think I held 'em up. Never had much cash of my own. Surprising what
you can do without it."
Adam understood that, too. Plenty of individuals and companies operated
that way, and almost certainly Hank Kreisel's plants, their equipment,
inventories, this house, his place at Higgins Lake, were mortgaged
heavily. If Kreisel ever sold his business, or a part of it, he could reap
millions in cash. Until he did, like others he would continue month by
month with cash flow problems.
Again the parts manufacturer turned the thresher handle. Inside, the
mechanism moved, though accomplishing nothing now; what it needed was
grain to bite on, fed into a quart-size hopper at the top.
"Sure this is offbeat. Could say it's been a dream with me. Had it a long
time." Hank Kreisel hesitated, seeming embarrassed by the admission, but
went on, "Got the idea in Korea. Watched guys 'n dames in villages,
pounding grain with rocks. Primitive: lots of muscle, small results. Saw
a need, so started figuring this gizmo. Worked on it, on and off, ever
since."
Erica was watching Hank Kreisel's f ace intently. She, too, knew something
of his background, having learned it partly from Adam,
314 wheels
partly elsewhere. Suddenly a picture took shape in her mind: of a tough,
hard-fighting United States Marine in an alien, hostile land, yet observ-
ing native villagers with such understanding and compassion that, years
afterward, an idea born at that time could stay with him like a flame.
"Tell you something, Adam," Kreisel said. "You too, Erica. This
country's not selling farm machinery overseas. Leastways, not much. Ours
is too fancy, too sophisticated. It's like a religion with us-the way
I said: everything has to be powered. Must be electric, or use an
engine, or whatever. What's forgotten is, Eastern countries have un-
ending labor. You call for a guy to turn a handle, fifty come hurrying
like flies-or ants. But we don't like that idea. Don't like to see dams
built by coolies carrying stones. Idea offends us. We figure it's
inefficient, not American; we say it's the way the pyramids were built.
So what? Fact is: situation's there. Won't change for a long time, if
ever. Another thing: out there, not many places to repair fancy
machinery. So machines need to be simple." He took his hand away from
the thresher whose handle he had continued turning. "This is."
Adam thought: Strangely, while Hank Kreisel had been speaking-eloquently
for him-and demonstrating what he had built and believed in, he had a
Lincolnesque quality which his tall, lean figure emphasized.
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, tech-
wheels-315
niques 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."
316-wheels
Adam laughed. "Sorryl 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."
wheels-317
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 I-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 I And no, I didn't mindl 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'tI" 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?
31 8-wheels
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. Consciencestricken, 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..."
"Nol Don't say itl 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.
chapter twenty
"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,
320-wheels
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 occa-
wheels-321
sions 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."
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