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 du-
334 wheels
plicity 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 ftnd 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
followthrough, 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, 'Vhose 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."
wheels--335
"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 dyou 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 bankruptcyl Not if I play it my way.
Only if we do it yours."
"So you say."
"Never mind what I sayl I'll get my bookkeeper here right now I I'll
prove it I"
"I've already been over the books with Miss Potts."
"Then, goddam, you'll go over them again with me I" 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,
336-wheels
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 trend in new car sales. The alternative was a temporary
management which-as Smokey pointed outmight 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 un-
derstood the wisdom of his company's Conflict of Interest rules which
forbade auto company employees to become involved-financially or other-
wise-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 ac-
cused 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."
wheels-337
"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."
"You sure you can't? Not for the sake of Teresa and them kids?"
"I'm sure."
Smokey Stephensen rubbed his beard and ruminated. His outward anger had
gone, and when he spoke his voice was low, with a note of pleading.
"I'll ask you to do one thing, Adamand, sure, it'd help me-but you'd be
doing it for Teresa."
"Doing what?"
Smokey urged, 'Walk out of here right nowl Forget what you know about
today! Then gimme two months to get finances back in shape because
there's nothing wrong with this business that that amount of time won't
fix. You know it."
"I don't know it."
"But you know the Orion's coming, and you know what it'll do to sales."
Adam hesitated. The reference to the Orion was like a flag planted in
his own back yard. If he believed in the Orion, obviously he believed
that, with it, Stephensen Motors would do well.
Adam asked curtly, "Suppose I agreed. What happens at the end of two
months?"
The dealer pointed to the black loose-leaf notebook. "You hand over them
notes to your company marketing guys, the way you said you would. So,
okay, I'd have to sell out or lose the franchise,
338-wheels
but it'd be a growing business that was sold. Teresa'd get twice as much
for her half, maybe more, than she would from a forced sale now."
Adam hesitated. Though it still involved dishonesty, the compromise
held a compelling logic.
"Two months," the ex-race driver pleaded. "That ain't so much to ask."
"One month," Adam said decisively. "One month from today; that's all."
As Smokey visibly relaxed and grinned, Adam knew he had been conned.
And now the decision was made, it left Adam depressed because he had
acted against his own conscience and good judgment. But he was
determined he would turn over to his company's marketing department, a
month from now, the notes on Stephensen Motors.
Smokey, unlike Adam, was not depressed but buoyant. Though-with a
dealer's instinct-he had asked for two months, he had wanted one.
In that time a lot might happen; something new could always turn up.
chapter twenty-one
A svelte United Air Lines ground hostess brought coffee to Brett DeLosanto
who was telephoning from United's 100,000-Mile Club at Detroit Metro-
politan Airport. It was close to 9 A.M., and the pleasantly appointed club
lounge was quiet in contrast to the noisy, bustling terminal outside. No
strident flight announcements were ever made here. The service-as became
the VIP crowdwas more personal, and muted.
"There's no enormous hurry, Mr. DeLosanto," the girl said as she put the
coffee on a table beside the tilt-back chair in which Brett was
reclining while he phoned, "but Flight 81 to Los Angeles will begin
boarding in a few minutes."
"Thanksl" Brett told Adam Trenton with whom he had been conversing for
the past few minutes, "I have to go soon. The bird to Paradise awaits."
"Never thought of L.A. as being that," Adam said.
Brett sipped his coffee. "It's part of California, which viewed from
Detroit is Paradise whichever way you slice the oranges."
Adam was speaking from his office at the company staff building, where
Brett had called him. They had been discussing the Orion. A few days
ago, with Job One-the first production Orion-only two weeks away,
several color matching problems had arisen affecting soft trim inside
the car. A design "surveillance group," which stayed with any new car
through all its stages of production, had reported that some interior
plastic delivered for manufacture looked "icy"-a serious fault-and
upholstery, carpeting, and head lining were not the exact match they
ought to be.
340-wheels
Colors were always a problem. Any car had as many as a hundred separate
pieces which must match a color key, yet the materials had differing
chemical compositions and pigment bases, making it difficult to achieve
identical color shades. Working against a deadline, a design team and
representatives from Purchasing and Manufacturing had finally rectified
all differences, news just received by Adam with relief.
Brett had been tempted to mention the newer project, Farstar, on which
work was proceeding excitingly on several fronts. But he caught himself
in time, remembering he was on an outside telephone, also that this
airline club room, where several other passengers relaxed while awaiting
flights, was used by executives from competing companies.
"Something you'll be pleased to know," Adam told Brett. "I decided to
try to help Hank Kreisel with his thresher. I sent young Castaldy over
to Grosse Pointe to look at it; he came back full of enthusiasm, so then
I talked with Elroy Braithwaite who seemed favorable. Now, we're prepar-
ing a report for Hub."
"Greatl" The young designer's pleasure was genuine. He realized he had
let emotion sway judgment in putting pressure on Adam to support Hank
Kreisel's scheme, but so what? More and more, nowadays, Brett believed
the auto industry had public obligations it was not fulfilling, and
something like the thresher gave the industry a chance to utilize its
resources in filling an admitted need.
"Of course," Adam pointed out, "the whole thing may never get past Hub."
"Let's hope you pick a 'cloud-of-dust' day to tell him."
Adam understood the reference. Hub Hewitson, the company's executive
vice-president, when
wheels-341
liking an idea, whirled himself and others into instant, feverish action,
raising-as associates put it-clouds of dust. The Orion had been a Hub
Hewitson dust cloud, and still was; so had other successes, failures too,
though the latter were usually forgotten as fresh Hewitson dust erupted
elsewhere.
"I'll look out for one of those days," Adam promised. "Have a good
trip."
"So long, friend." Brett swallowed the remainder of his coffee, patted
the airline hostess amiably on the rump as he passed her, then headed
for the flight departure gate.
United's Flight 81-Detroit nonstop to Los Angeles-took off on schedule.
Like many who live frenetic lives on the ground, Brett enjoyed
transcontinental air travel in the luxury of first class. Any such
journey assured four or five hours of relaxation, interspersed
pleasantly with drinks, good food and service, plus the complacent
knowledge of not being reachable by telephone or otherwise, no matter
how many urgencies boiled over down below.
Today, Brett used much of the journey merely to think, reviewing aspects
of his lifepast, present, future-as he saw them. Thus occupied, the time
passed quickly and he was surprised to realize, during an announcement
from the flight deck, that nearly four hours had elapsed since takeoff.
"We're crossing the Colorado River, folks," the captain's voice rattled
on the p.a. "This is a point where three states meet- California, Ne-
vada, Arizona-and it's a beautiful day in all of them, with visibility
about a hundred miles. Those of you sitting on the right side can see
Las Vegas and the Lake Mead area. If you're on the left, that water down
there is Lake Havasu where London Bridge is being rebuilt."
342-wheals
Brett, on the port side with a seat section to himself, peered downward.
The sky was cloudless and though they were Mgh-at thirty-nine thousand
feet-he could see, easily and sharply, the shape of the bridge below.
"Funny thing about that bridge," the captain went on chattily. "Story
is-the people who bought it from the British got their bridges mixed. They
thought they were buying the bridge on all those London travel posters,
and no one told them until too late that that one is Tower Bridge, and
London Bridge was a bitty old bridge upstream. Ha I ha I"
Brett continued to look down, knowing from the terrain below that they
were now over California. Ile said aloud, "Forever bless my native state,
its sunshine, oranges, screwball politics, religions, and its nuts."
A passing stewardess inquired, "Did you say something, sir?" She was
young, willowy and tanned, as if her off-duty hours were spent exclusively
at the beach.
"Sure did. I asked, What's a California girl like you doing for dinner
tonight?"'
She flashed an impish smile. "Mostly depends on my husband. Sometimes he
likes to eat at home; other times we go..."
"Okay," Brett said. "And the hell with women's lib I At least in the old
days, when airlines fired girls who got married, you knew which were the
unclipped wing ones."
"If it makes you feel any better," she told him, "if I weren't going home
to my husband, I'd be interested."
He was wondering if that piece of blandishment was in the airline
stewardess manual when the p.a. system came alive once more.
"This is your captain again, folks. Guess I should have told you to make
the most of that
wheels-343
hundred-mile visibility we've been enjoying. We've just received the
latest Los Angeles weather. They're reporting heavy smog, with visibility
in the L.A. area reduced to one mile or less."
They would be landing, the captain added, in another fifty minutes.
The first smog traces were evident over the San Bernardino Mountains.
With Flight 81 still sixty miles from the Pacific Coast, Brett, looking
out, reflected: Sixty milesl On his last trip, barely a year ago, no
smog bad appeared until Ontario, another twenty-five miles westward.
Each time be came here, it seemed, the photochemical smog spread farther
inland over the loveliness of the Golden State like an evil fungus.
Their Boeing 720 was losing height now for the approach to Los Angeles
International, but instead of landmarks below becoming clearer, they
were blurring beneath an increasing gray-brown haze which nullified
color, sunshine, seascape. The panoramic view of Santa Monica Bay which
approaching air travelers used to behold was mostly, nowadays, a memory.
As they continued descending and the smog grew worse, Brett DeLosanto's
mood became increasingly melancholy.
Ten miles east of the airport, as the captain had predicted, visibility
diminished to a mile, so that at 11:30 A.M. Pacific Daylight Time, the
ground was barely visible.
After landing, in the United Terminal a brisk young man named Barclay
from the company's regional office was awaiting Brett.
"I have a car for you, Mr. DeLosanto. We can drive directly to your
hotel, or the college if you wish."
"Hotel first." Brett's official purpose in being here was to visit the
Art Center College of Design, Los Angeles, but he would go there later.
Though the aerial view of his beloved Cah- 344 wheels
fornia under its despoiling, filthy blanket had depressed him, Brett's
spirits revived at the sight and sound of the airport's surging ground
traffic at closer quarters. Cars, either singly or en masse, always excited
him, especially in California where mobility was a way of life, with more
than eleven percent of' the nation's automobiles crammed within the state.
Yet the same source had helped create an air pollution which was
inescapable; already, Brett felt an irritation of the eyes, his nostrils
prickled; without doubt the unclean brume was deeply in his lungs. He asked
Barclay, "Has it been as bad as this for long?"
"About a week. Seems now, a partly clear day is an exception, a real clear
one about as rare as Christmas." The young man wrinkled his nose. "We tell
people it isn't all made by cars, that a lot is industrial haze."
"But do we believe it?"
"Hard to know what to believe, Mr. DeLosanto. Our own people tell us we
have engine emission problems licked. Do you believe that?"
"In Detroit I believe it. When I get here I'm not so sure."
What it came down to, Brett knew, was the balance between economics and
numbers. It was possible, now, to build a totally emission-free auto
engine, but only at high cost which would make the cars employing it as
remote from everyday use as a nobleman's carriage once was from the foot-
slogging peasantry. To keep costs reasonable engineering compromises had
to be made, though even with compromises, present emission control was
excellent, and better by far than envisioned only a lustrurn ago. Yet
sheer numbers-the daily, weekly, monthly, yearly proliferation of cars-
undid the end effect, as was smoggily evident in California.
wheels--345
They were at the car Brett would use during his stay.
"I'll drive," Brett said. He took the keys from Barclay.
Later, having checked in at the Beverly Hilton, and shed Barclay, Brett
drove alone to the Art Center College of Design on West Third Street. CBS
Television City towered nearby, with Farmers' Market huddled behind. Brett
was expected, and was received with dual enthusiasmas a representative of
a company which hired many of each year's graduates, and as a distin-
guished alumnus himself.
The relatively small college buildings were, as usual, busily crowded,
with all usable space occupied and nothing wasted on frills. The entrance
lobby, though small, was an extension of classrooms and perpetually in use
for informal conferences, interviews, and individual study.
The head of Industrial Design, who welcomed Brett amid a buzz of other
conversations, told him, "Maybe someday we'll take time out to plan a
quieter cloister."
"If I thought there was a chance," Brett rejoined, "I'd warn you not to.
But you won't. This place should stay the pressure cooker it is."
It was an atmosphere he knew well-perpetually work-oriented, with emphasis
on professional discipline. "This is not for amateurs," the college
catalogue declared, "this is for real." Unlike many schools, assignments
were arduously demanding, requiring students to produce, produce...
over days, nights, weekends, holidays... leaving little time for extra
interests, sometimes none. Occasionally, students protested at the
unrelenting stress, and a few dropped out, but most adjusted and, as the
catalogue put it too:
346-wheels
'Why pretend that the life they are preparing for is easy? It is not and
never will be."
The emphasis on work and unyielding standards were reasons why auto makers
respected the college and kept in touch with faculty and students.
Frequently, companies competed for the services of' top-line students in
advance of graduation. Other design colleges existed elsewhere, but Los
Angeles Art Center was the only one with a specific course in auto design,
and nowadays at least half of Detroit's annual crop of new designers
traveled the L.A. route.
Soon after arrival, surrounded by a group of students, Brett broke off to
survey the tree-shaded inner courtyard where they had gathered, and were
sipping coffee or soft drinks, and chewing doughnuts.
"Nothing's changed," he observed. "It's like coming home."
"Pretty packed living room," one of the students said.
Brett laughed. Like everything else here, the courtyard was too small, the
students elbowing for space too many. Yet for all the congestion, only the
truly talented were admitted to the school, and only the best survived the
grueling three-year course.
The exchange of talk-a reason why Brett had come--went on.
Inevitably, air pollution was on the minds of students; even in this
courtyard there was no escaping it. The sun, which should have been shin-
ing brightly from an azure sky, instead filtered dully through the thick
gray haze extending from the ground to high above. Here, too, eye and nose
irritation were constant and Brett remembered a recent U. S. Public Health
warning that breathing New York's polluted air was equal to smoking a pack
of cigarettes a day; thus nonsmokers inno-
wheels--347
cently shared a smoker's probability of death from cancer. He presumed the
same was true of Los Angeles, perhaps even more so.
On the subject of pollution, Brett urged, "Tell me what you characters
think." A decade from now students like these would be helping shape
industry policy.
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