already on his desk this morning. These, he reminded himself, he still
hadn't looked at.
On his car radio, driving to work an hour or so ago from Royal Oak, he
had heard Emerson Vale, the auto critic whom Zaleski thought of as an
idiot, firing buckshot at the industry again. Matt Zaleski had wished
then, as now, that he could install Vale on a production hot seat for
a few days and let the son-of-a-bitch find out what it really took, in
terms of effort, grief, compromise, and human exhaustion to get cars
built at all.
Matt Zaleski walked away from the mistgreen sedan. In running a plant,
you had to learn that there were moments when some things had to be
ignored, and this was one.
But at least today was Wednesday.
chapter three
At 7:30 A.M., while tens of thousands in greater Detroit had been up for
hours and were already working, others-either through choice or the nature
of their work-were still abed.
One who remained there by choice was Erica Trenton.
In a wide, French Provincial bed, between satin sheets which were smooth
against the firm surface of her young body, she was awake, but drifting
back to sleep, and had no intention of getting up for at least two hours
more.
Drowsily, only half-conscious of her own thoughts, she dreamed of a man
... no particular man, simply a vague figure... arousing her
sensually, thrusting her deeply-againl againt... as her own husband
had not, for at least three weeks and probably a month.
While she drifted, as on a gently flooding tide between wakefulness and
a return to sleep, Erica mused that she had not always been a late
riser. In the Bahamas, where she was born, and lived until her marriage
to Adam five years ago, she had often risen before dawn and helped
launch a dinghy from the beach, afterward running the outboard while her
father trolled and the sun rose. Her father enjoyed fresh fish at break-
fast and, in her later years at home, it was Erica who cooked it when
they returned.
During her initiation to marriage, in Detroit, she had followed the same
pattern, rising early with Adam and preparing breakfast which they ate
together-he zestfully, and loudly appreciative of Erica's natural talent
for cooking which she used with imagination, even for simplest meals.
By her own wish they had no live-in help, and
38-wheels
Erica kept busy, especially since Adam s twin sons, Greg and Kirk, who
were at prep school nearby, came home during most weekends and holidays.
That was the time when she had been worried about her acceptance by the
boys-Adam had divorced their mother earlier the same year, only a few
months before meeting Erica and the beginning of their brief, jet-speed
courtship. But Erica had been accepted at once by Greg and Kirk -even
gratefully, it seemed, since they had seen little of either of their
parents over several preceding years, Adam being immersed in his work,
and the boys' mother, Francine, traveling frequently abroad, as she
still did. Besides, Erica was closer to the boys' own age. She had been
barely twenty-one then, Adam eighteen years her senior, though the
differences in ages hadn't seemed to matter. Of course, the gap of years
between Adam and Erica was still the same, except that nowadays-five
years later-it seemed wider.
A reason, obviously, was that at the beginning they had devoured each
other sexually. They first made love-tempestuously-on a moonlit Bahamas
beach. Erica remembered still: the warm, jasmine-scented night, white
sand, softly lapping water, a breeze stirring palm trees, music drifting
from a lighted cruise ship in Nassau harbor. They had known each other
for a few days only. Adam had been holidaying-an aftermath to his
divorce -with friends at Lyford Cay who introduced him to Erica at a
Nassau night spot, Charley Charley's. They spent all next day together,
and others afterward.
The night on the beach was not their first time there. But on the
earlier occasions she had resisted Adam; now, she learned, she could
resist no
wheels-39
longer, and only whisper helplessly, I can get pregnant."
He had whispered back, "You're going to marry me. So it doesn't matter."
She had not become pregnant, though many times since she wished she had.
From then on, and into marriage a month later, they made love frequently
and passionately -almost unfailingly each night, then expending themselves
further (but, oh, how gloriously) on awakening in the morning. Even back
in Detroit the night and morning love-making persisted, despite Adam's
early work start which, Erica quickly discovered, was part of an auto
executive's life.
But as months went by and, after that, the first few years, Adam's passion
lessened. For either of them it could never have sustained itself at the
original fevered pace; Erica realized that. But what she had not expected
was that the decline would come as early as it had, or be so
near-complete. Undoubtedly she became more conscious of the change because
other activities were less. Greg and Kirk now came home seldom, having
left Michigan for college-Greg to Columbia, en route to medical school;
Kirk to the University of Oklahoma to major in journalism.
She was still drifting... Still not quite asleep. The house, near
Quarton Lake in the northern suburb of Birmingham, was quiet. Adam had
gone. Like most in the auto industry's top echelon, he was at his desk by
half-past seven, had done an hour's work before the secretaries came.
Also, as usual, Adam had risen in time to do exercises, take a ten-minute
run outside, then, after showering, get his own breakfast, as he always
did these days. Erica had slipped out of the habit of preparing it after
Adam told her candidly that the meal was taking too long; unlike their
early years together, he chafed impatiently, want-
40-wheels
ing to be on his way, no longer enjoying their relaxed quarter hour
together at the table. One morning he had simply said, "Honey, you stay
in bed. I'll get breakfast for myself." And he had, doing the same thing
next day, and on other mornings after that, so they had drifted into the
present pattern, though it depressed Erica to know she was no longer
useful to Adam at the beginning of his day, that her imaginative breakfast
menus, the cheerfully set table and her own presence there, were more
irritating to him than pleasing.
Erica found Adam's diminishing concern about what went on at home, along
with total dedication to his job, more and more an aggravating
combination nowadays. He was also tediously considerate. When his alarm
clock sounded, Adam snapped it off promptly before it could penetrate
Erica's sleep too deeply, and got out of bed at once, though it seemed
not long ago that they had reached for each other instinctively on
waking, and sometimes coupled quickly, finding that each could bring the
other, feverishly, to a swifter climax than at night. Then, while Erica
still lay, lingering for a moment breathlessly, her heart beating hard,
Adam would whisper as he slipped from her and from the bed, 'What better
way to start a day?"
But not any more. Never in the morning, and only rarely, now, at night.
And in the mornings, for all the contact they had, they might as well
be strangers. Adam awakened quickly, performed his swift routines, and
then was gone.
This morning, when Erica heard Adam moving around in the bathroom and
downstairs, she considered changing the routine and joining him. Then
she reminded herself that all he wanted was to move fast-like the go-go
cars his Product Planning team conceived; the latest, the soon-to-
be-unveiled Orion-and be on his way. Also, with
wheels--41
his damned efficiency, Adam could make breakfast just as speedily as
Erica-for a half-dozen people if necessary, as he sometimes had. Despite
this, she debated getting up, and was still debating when she heard Adam's
car start, and leave. Then it was too late.
Where have all the flowers gone? Where the love, the life, the vanished
idyll of Adam and Erica Trenton, young lovers not so long ago? 0 where,
0 wherel
Erica slept.
When she awakened it was midmorning, and a watery autumn sun was
slanting in through slats of the venetian blinds.
Downstairs, a vacuum cleaner whined and thumped, and Erica was relieved
that Mrs. Gooch, who cleaned twice a week, had let herself in and was
already at work. It meant that today Erica need not bother with the
house, though lately, in any case, she had paid much less attention to
it than she used to do.
A morning paper was beside the bed. Adam must have left it there, as he
sometimes did. Propping herself up with pillows, her long ashblond hair
tumbling over them, Erica unfolded it.
A sizable portion of page one was given over to an attack on the auto
industry by Emerson Vale. Erica skipped most of the news story, which
didn't interest her, even though there were times when she felt like
attacking the auto world herself. She had never cared for it, not since
first coming to Detroit, though she had tried, for Adam's sake. But the
all-consuming interest in their occupations which so many auto people
had, leaving time for little else, repelled her. Erica's own father, an
airline captain, had been good at his job, but always put it behind him
mentally when he left an Island Airways cockpit to come
42-wheels
home. His greater interests were being with his family, fishing, pottering
at carpentry, reading, strumming a guitar, and sometimes just sitting in the
sun. Erica knew that even now her own mother and father spent far more time
together than she and Adam did.
It was her father who had said, when she announced her sudden plans to
marry Adam: "You're your own girl and always have been. So I won't oppose
this because, even if I did, it would make no difference and I'd sooner
you go with my blessing titan without. And maybe, in time, I'll get used
to having a son-in-law almost my own age. He seems a decent man; I like
him. But one thing I'll warn you of: He's ambitious, and you don't know
yet what ambition means, especially up there in Detroit. If the two of you
have trouble, that'll be the cause of it." She sometimes thought how
observant-and how right-her father had been.
Erica's thoughts returned to the newspaper and Emerson Vale, whose face
glared out from a two-column cut. She wondered if the youthful auto critic
was any good in bed, then thought: probably not. She had heard there were
no women in his life, nor men either, despite abortive efforts to smear
him with a homosexual tag. Humanity, it seemed, had a depressing
proportion of capons and worn-out males. listlessly, she turned the page.
There was little that held interest, from international affairs-the world
was in as much a mess as on any other day-througb to the social section,
which contained the usual auto names: the Fords had entertained an Italian
princess, the Roches were in New York, the Townsends at the Symphony, and
the Chapins duck hunting in North Dakota. On another page Erica stopped
at Ann Landers' column, then mentally began com-
wheels 43
posing a letter of her own: My problem, Ann, is a married woman's clicW.
There are jokes about it, but the jokes are made by people it isn't hap-
pening to. The plain truth is-if I can speak frankly as one woman to
another-I'm simply not getting enough... Just lately I've not been
getting any...
With an impatient, angry gesture Erica crumpled the newspaper and pulled
the bedclothes aside, She slid from the bed and went to the window where
she tugged vigorously at the blind cord so that full daylight streamed
in. Her eyes searched the room for a brown alligator handbag she had
used yesterday; it was on a dressing table. Opening the bag, she riffled
through until she found a small, leather-covered notebook which she
took-turning pages as she went-to a telephone by Adam's side of the bed.
She dialed quickly-before she could change her mind-the number she had
found in the book. As she finished, Erica found her hand trembling and
put it on the bed to steady herself. A woman's voice answered, "Detroit
Bearing and Gear."
Erica asked for the name she had written in the notebook, in handwriting
so indecipherable that only she could read it.
"What department is he in?"
"I think-sales."
"One moment, please."
Erica could still hear the vacuum cleaner somewhere outside. At least,
while that continued, she could be sure Mrs. Gooch was not listening.
There was a click and another voice answered, though not the one she
sought. She repeated the name she had asked for.
"Sure, he's here." She heard the voice call "Olliel" An answering voice
said, "I got it," then, more clearly, "HuRo."
44 wheels
-Mis is Erica." She added uncertainly, "You know; we met..."
"Sure, sure; I know. Where are you?"
"At home."
What number?"
She gave it to him.
"Hang up. Call you right back."
Erica waited nervously, wondering if she would answer at all, but when
the ring back came, she (lid so immediately.
"Hi, baby I"
"Hullo," Erica said.
"Some phones are bettern other phones for special kindsa calls."
"I understand."
"Long time no see."
Yes. It is."
A pause.
"Why'd you call, baby?"
Well, I thought... we might meet."
"Why?"
"Perhaps for a drink."
"We had drinks last time. Remember? Sat all afternoon in that goddam.
Queensway Inn bar."
"I know, but..."
"An' the same thing the time before that."
"That was the very first time; the time we met there."
"Okay, so you don't put out the first time. A dame cuts it the way she
sees; fair enough. But the second time a guy expects to hit the coconut,
not spend an afternoon of his time in a big gabfest. So I still
say-what's on your mind?"
"I thought... if we could talk, just a little, I could explain
'No dice."
She let her hand holding the phone drop down. In God's nanie, what was
she doing, even
wheels 45
talking with this There must be other men.
But where?
The phone diaphragm rasped, "You still there, baby?"
She lifted her hand again. "Yes."
"Listen, I'll ask you something. You wanna get laid?"
Erica was choking back tears; tears of humiliation, self.-disgust.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, that's what I want."
"You're sure, this time. No more big gabfest?"
Dear Godl Did he want an affidavit? She wondered: Were there really
women so desperate, they would respond to an approach so crude?
Obviously, yes.
"I'm sure," Erica said.
"That's great, kiddo I How's if we hit the sack next Wednesday?"
"I thought... perhaps sooner." Next Wednesday was a week away.
"Sorry, baby; no dice. Gotta sales trip. Leave for Cleveland in an hour.
Be there five days." A chuckle. "Gotta keep them Ohio dolls happy."
Erica forced a laugh. 'You certainly get around."
"You'd be surprised."
She thought: No, I wouldn't. Not at anything, any more.
"Call you soon's I get back. While I'm gone, you keep it warm for me."
A second's pause, then: "You be all right Wednesday? You know what I
mean?"
Erica~s control snapped. "Of course I know. Do you think I'm so stupid
not to have thought of that?"
"You'd be surprised how many don't."
In a detached part of her mind, as if she were a spectator, not a
participant, she marveled:
46-wheels
Has he ever tried making a woman feel good, instead of awful?
"Gotta go, baby. Back to the salt mines I Another day, another dollarl"
"Goodbye," Erica said.
"S'long."
She hung up. Covering her f ace with her hands, she sobbed silently until
her long, slim fingers were wet with tears.
Later, in the bathroom, washing her face and using make-up to conceal the
signs of crying as best she could, Erica reasoned: There was a way out.
It didn't have to happen a week from now. Adam could prevent it, though
he would never know.
If only, within the next seven nights he would take her, as a husband
could and should, she would weather this time, and afterward, somehow,
tame her body's urgency to reasonableness. All she sought-all she had ever
soughtwas to be loved and needed, and in return to give love. She still
loved Adam. Erica closed her eyes, remembering the way it was when he
firs'. loved and needed her.
And she would help Adam, she decided. Tonight, and other nights if
necessary, she would make herself irresistibly attractive, she'd wash her
hair so it was sweet-smelling, use a musky perfume that would tantalize,
put on her sheerest negligee... Waitl She would buy a new neg-
hgee-today, this morning, now... in Birmingham.
Hurriedly, she began to dress.
chapter four
The handsome, gray stone staff building, which could have done duty as a
state capitol, was quiet in the early morning as Adam Trenton wheeled his
cream sport coupe down the ramp from outside. Adam made a fast "S" turn,
tires squealing, into his stall in the underground, executive parking
area, then eased his lanky figure out of the driver's seat, leaving the
keys inside. A rain shower last night had slightly spotted the car's
bright finish; routinely it would be washed today, topped off with gas,
and serviced if necessary.
A personal car of an executive's own choice, replaced every six months,
and each time with all the extras he wanted, plus fuel and constant
attention, was a fringe benefit which went with the auto industry's
higher posts. Depending on which company they worked for, most senior
people made their selections from the luxury ranges-Chrysler Imperials,
LincoIns, Cadillacs. A few, like Adam, preferred something lighter and
sportier, with a high performance engine.
Adam's footsteps echoed as he walked across the black, waxed garage
floor, gleaming and immaculate.
A spectator would have seen a gray-suited, lithe, athletic man, a year
or two past forty, tall, with broad shoulders and a squarish head thrust
forward, as if urging the rest of the body on. Nowadays, Adam Trenton
dressed more conservatively than he used to, but still looked fash-
ionable, with a touch of flashiness. His facial features were clean-cut
and alert, with intense blue eyes and a straight, firm mouth, the last
tempered by a hint of humor and a strong impression, over-all, of open
honesty. He backed up
48-wheels
this impression, when he talked, with a blunt directness which sometimes
threw others off balance-a tactic he had learned to use deliberately. His
manner of walking was confident, a no-nonsense stride suggesting a man who
knew where he was going.
Adam Trenton carried the auto executive's symbol of office-a filled
attach6 case. It contained papers he had taken home the night before and
had worked on, after dinner, until bedtime.
Among the few executive cars already parked, Adam noticed two limousines
in vice-presidents' row-a series of parking slots near an exclusive
elevator which rose nonstop to the fifteenth floor, preserve of the
company's senior officers. A parking spot closest to the elevator was
reserved for the chain-nan of the board, the next for the president;
after that came vice-presidents in descending order of seniority. Where
a man parked was a significant prestige factor in the auto industry. The
higher his rank, the less distance he was expected to walk from his car
to his desk.
Of the two limousines already in, one belonged to Adam's own chief, the
Product Development vice-president. The other was the car of the
Vice-President Public Relations.
Adam bounded up a short flight of stairs, two at a time, entered a
doorway to the building's main lobbv, then continued briskly to a
regular staff elevator where he jabbed a button for the tenth floor.
Alone in the elevator, he waited impatiently while the
computer-controlled mechanism took its time about starting, then on the
way up experienced the eagerness he always felt to become immersed in
a new day's work. As always, through most of the past two years, the
Orion was at the forefront of his thoughts. Physically, Adam felt good.
Only a sense of tension troubled him-a mental tautness he had be-
wheels 49
come aware of lately, a nuisance, illogical, yet increasingly difficult
to shake off. He took a smaU, green-and-black capsule from an inside
pocket, slipped it into his mouth and gulped it down.
From the elevator, along a silent, deserted corridor which would see
little activity for another hour, Adam strode to his own office suite-a
corner location, also a token of rank, rating only a little lower than
a vice-president's parking slot.
As he went in, he saw a pile of newly delivered mail on his secretary's
desk. There was a time, earlier in his career, when Adam would have
stopped to riflle through it, to see what was interesting and new, but
he had long since shed the habit, nowadays valuing his time too much for
that kind of indulgence. One of the duties of a top-notch secretary
was-as Adam once heard the company president declare-to "filter out the
crap" from the mountain of paper which came her boss's way. She should
be allowed to go through everything first, using her judgment about what
to refer elsewhere, so that an executive mind could concern itself with
policy and ideas, unencumbered by detail which others, in lowlier posts,
could be trusted to handle.
That was why few of the thousands of letters yearly which individual car
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