martini-weighted luncheon, Keith Yates-Brown, the account supervisor,
had sent for Barbara next day.
In his handsome office on the agency's top floor, Yates-Brown had
seemed morose in contrast with his genial, showman's manner of the day
before. He looked grayer and older, too, and several times in the later
stages of their conversation turned toward his office window, looking
across the Manhattan skyline toward Long Island Sound, as if a portion
of his mind was far away. Perhaps, Barbara thought, the strain of
permanent affability with clients required a surly counterbalance now
and then.
There had certainly been nothing friendly about Yates-Brown's opening
remark af ter they exchanged "good mornings."
"You were snooty with the client yesterday," he told Barbara. "I didn't
like it, and you should know better."
She said nothing. She supposed Yates-Brown was referring to her pointed
questioning of the company advertising manager: Was there nothing you
liked? Absolutely nothing at all? Well, she still believed it justified
and wasn't going to grovel now. But neither would she antagonize
Yates-Brown needlessly until she heard about her new assignment.
"One of the early things you're supposed to learn here," the account
supervisor persisted, "is to show restraint sometimes, and swallow
hard."
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"Okay, Keith," Barbara said, "I'm swallowing now."
He had had the grace to smile, then returned to coolness.
"What you're being given to do requires restraint; also sound judgment,
and, naturally, imagination. I suggested you for the assignment,
believing you to possess those qualities. I still do, despite yesterday,
which I prefer to think of as a momentary lapse."
Oh, Godl, Barbara wanted to exclaim. Stop making like you're in a
pulpit, and get onl But she had the sense not to say it.
"The project is one which has the personal interest of the client's
chairman of the board." Keith Yates-Brown mouthed "chairman of the
board" with awe and reverence. Barbara was surprised he hadn't stood,
saluting, while he said it.
"As a result," the account chief continued, "you will have the
responsibility- a large responsibility affecting all of us at OJL-of
reporting, on occasions, to the chairman personally."
Well, Barbara could appreciate his feelings there. Reporting directly
to the chairman about anything was a large responsibility, though it
didn't frighten her. But since the chairman-if he chose to exercise
it-had a life and death power over which advertising agency the company
used, Barbara could picture Keith Yates-Brown and others hovering
nervously in the wings.
"rhe project," Yates-Brown added, "is to make a film."
He had gone on, filling in details as far as they were known. The film
would be about Detroit: the inner city and its people, their problems
-racial and otherwise-their way of life, points of view, their needs.
It was to be a factual, honest documentary. In no way would it be
company or industry propaganda; the company's name would
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appear only once-on the credits as sponsor. Objective would be to point up
urban problems, the need to reactivate the city's role in national life,
with Detroit the prime example. The film's first use would be for
educational and civic groups and schools across the nation. It would
probably be shown on television. If good enough, it might go into movie
houses.
The budget would be generous. It would allow a regular film-making
organization to be used, but the OJL agency would select the film maker
and retain control. A top-flight director could be hired, and a script
writer, if needed, though Barbarain view of her copywriter's
experience-might choose to write the script herself.
Barbara would represent the agency and be in over-all charge.
With a sense of rising excitement as YatesBrown spoke, Barbara remembered
Teddy Osch's words of yesterday at lunch. The creative director had said:
All I can tell you is, I wish it were me instead of you. Now she knew why.
Not only was the assignment a substantial compliment to her
professionally, it also represented a strong creative challenge which she
welcomed. Barbara found herself looking appreciatively-and certainly more
tolerantly -on Keith Yates-Brown.
Even the account supervisor's next words diminished her appreciation only
slightly.
"You'll work out of the Detroit office as usual," he had said, "but we
shall want to be informed here of everything that's going on, and I mean
everything. Another thing to bear in mind is what we spoke of
earlier-restraint. It's to be an honest film, but don't get carried away.
I do not believe we want, or the chairman of the board will want, too much
of-shall we say? -a Socialist point of view."
Well, she had let that one go, realizing there
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would be plenty of ideas, as well as points of view, she would have to
fight for eventually, without wasting time on abstract arguments now.
A week later, af ter other activities she was involved in bad been
reassigned, Barbara began work on the project, tentatively titled: Auto
City.
Across Brett DeLosanto's dining table, Barbara told Leonard Wingate,
"Some of the early things have been done, including choosing a
production company and a director. Of course, there'll be more planning
before filming can begin, but we hope to start in February or March."
The tall, graying Negro considered before answering. At length he said,
"I could be cynical and smart, and say that making a film about
problems, instead of solving them or trying to, is like Nero fiddling.
But being an executive has taught me life isn't always that simple;
also, communication is important." He paused, then added, "What you
intend might do a lot of good. If there's a way I can help, I will,"
"Perhaps there is," Barbara acknowledged. "I've already talked with the
director, Wes Gropetti, and something we're agreed on is that whatever
is said about the inner city must be through people who live there
-individuals. One of them, we believe, should be someone coming through
tbe'hard core'hiring program."
Wingate cautioned, "Hard core hiring doesn't always work. You might
shoot a lot of film about a person who ends up a failure."
"If that's the way it happens," Barbara insisted, "that's the way we'll
tell it. We're not doing a remake of Pollyanna."
"Then there might be someone," Wingate said thoughtfully. "You remember
I told you-one afternoon I trailed the instructor who stole the checks,
then lied to get them endorsed."
182-wheels
She nodded. "I remember."
"Next day I went back to see some of the people he'd visited, I'd noted
the addresses; my office matched them up with names." Leonard Wingate
produced a notebook and turned pages. "One of them was a man I had a
feeling about. I'm not sure what kind of feeling, except I've persuaded
him to come back to work. Here it is." He stopped at a page. "His name
is Rollie Knight."
Earlier, when Barbara arrived at Brett's apartment, she had come by
taxi. Late that evening, when Leonard Wingate had gone-after promising
that the three of them would meet again soon -Brett drove Barbara home.
The Zaleskis lived in Royal Oak, a middleclass residential suburb
southeast of Birmingham. Driving crosstown on Maple, with Barbara on
the front seat close beside him, Brett said, "Nuts to this I" He
braked, stopped the car, and put his arms around her. Their kiss was
passionate and long.
" Listen I" Brett said; he buried his face in the soft silkiness of her
hair, and held her tightly. "What the hell are we doing headed this
way? Come back and stay with me tonight. We both want it, and there's
not a reason in the world why you shouldn't."
He had made the same suggestion earlier, immediately after Wingate
left. Also, they had covered this ground many times before.
Barbara sighed. She said softly, "I'm a great disappointment to you,
aren't IT'
"How do I know if you're a disappointment, when you've never let me
find out?"
She laughed lightly. He had the capacity to make her do that, even at
unexpected moments. Barbara reached up, tracing her fingers across
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Brett's forehead, erasing the frown she sensed was there.
He protested, "It isn't fairl Everybody who knows us just assumes we're
sleeping together, and you and I are the only ones who know we're not.
Even your old man thinks we are. Well, doesn't he?"
"Yes," she admitted. "I think Dad does."
"I know damn well he does. What's more, every time we meet, the old
buzzard lets me know he doesn't like it. So I lose out two ways, coming
and going."
"Darling," Barbara said, "I know, I know."
"Then why aren't we doing something-right now, tonight? Barb, hon,
you're twenty-nine; you can't possibly be a virgin, so what's our
hangup? Is it me? Do I smell of modeling clay, or offend you in some
other way?"
She shook her head emphatically. "You attract me in every way, and I
mean that just as much as all the other times I've said it."
"We've said everything so many times." He added morosely, "None of the
other times made any more sense than this one."
"Please," Barbara said, "let's go home."
"My home?"
She laughed. "No, mine
When the car was moving, she touched Brett's arm. "I'm not sure either;
about making sense, I mean. I guess I'm just not thinking the way
everyone else seems to do nowadays; at least, I haven't yet. Maybe it's
old-fashioned.. ~"
"You mean if I want to get to the honey pot, I have to marry you."
Barbara said sharply, "No, I don't. I'm not even sure I want to marry
anybody; I'm a career gal, remember? And I know you're not marriage-
minded."
184-wheels
Brett grinned. "You're right about that. So why don't we live together?"
She said thoughtfully, "We might."
"You're serious?"
"I'm not sure. I think I could be, but I need time." She hesitated.
"Brett, darling, if you'd like us not to see each other for a while, if
you're going to be frustrated every time we meet..."
'We tried that, didn't we? It didn't work because I missed you." He said
decisively, "No, we'll go on this way even if I make like a corralled
stallion now and then. Besides," he added cheerfully, "you can't hold
out forever."
There was a silence as they drove. Brett turned onto Woodward Avenue,
heading south, then Barbara said, "Do something for me.'
'What?"
"Finish the painting. The one we looked at tonight."
He seemed surprised. "You mean that might make a difference to us?"
"I'm not sure. I do know it's part of you, a specially important part;
something inside that ought to come out."
"Like a tapeworm?"
She shook her head. "A great talent, just as Leonard said. One that the
auto industry won't ever give its proper chance to, not if you stay with
car designing, and grow old that way.-
"Listenl-I'll finish the painting. I intended to, anyway. But you're in
the car racket, too. Where's your loyalty?"
"At the office," Barbara said. "I only wear it until five o'clock. Right
now I'm me, which is why I want you to be you-the best, real Brett De-
Losanto."
"How'd I know him if I met the guy?" Brett mused. "Okay, so painting
sends me, sure. But d'you know what the odds are against an artist,
wheels-185
any artist, becoming great, getting recognized and, incidentally, well
paid?"
They swung into the driveway of the modest bungalow where Barbara and
her father lived. A gray hardtop was in the garage ahead of them. "Your
old man's home," Brett said. "It suddenly feels chilly."
Matt Zaleski was in his orchid atrium, which adjoined the kitchen, and
looked up as Brett and Barbara came in through the bungalow's side door.
Matt had built the atrium soon after buying the house eighteen years
ago, on migrating here from Wyandotte. At that time the move northward
to Royal Oak had represented Matt's economic advancement from his
boyhood milieu and that of his Polish parents. The orchid atrium had
been intended to provide a soothing hobby, offsetting the mental stress
of helping run an auto plant. It seldom had. Instead, while Matt still
loved the exotic sight, texture, and sometimes scent of orchids, a
growing weariness during his hours at home had changed the care of them
from pleasure to a chore, though one which, mentally, he could never
quite discard.
Tonight, he had come in an hour ago, having stayed late at the assembly
plant because of some critical materials shortages, and after a sketchy
supper, realized there was some potting and rearrangement which could
be put off no longer. By the time he heard Brett's car arrive, Matt had
relocated several plants, the latest a yellow-purple Masdevallia
triangularis, now placed where air movement and humidity would be
better. He was misting the flower tenderly when the two came in.
Brett appeared at the open atrium doorway. "Hi, Mr. Z."
Matt Zaleski, who disliked being called Mr. Z., though several others
at the plant addressed him that way, grunted what could have been a
186-wheels
greeting. Barbara joined them, kissed her father briefly, then returned to
the kitchen and began making a hot malted drink for them all.
"Gee"' Brett said. Determined to be genial, he inspected the tiers and
hanging baskets of orchids. "It's great to have lots of spare time you can
spend on a setup like this." He failed to notice a tightening of Matt's
mouth. Pointing to a Catasetum saccatum growing in fir bark on a ledge,
Brett commented admiringly, "That's a beauty I It's like a bird in
flight."
For a moment Matt relaxed, sharing the pleasure of the superb purple-brown
bloom, its sepals and petals curving upward. He conceded, "I guess it is
like a bird. I never noticed that."
Unwittingly, Brett broke the mood. 'Was it a fun day in Assembly, Mr. Z.?
Did that rolling erector set of yours hold together?"
"If it did," Matt Zaleski said, "it's no thanks to the crazy car designs
we have to work with."
"Well, you know how it is. We like to throw you iron pants guys something
that's a challenge; otherwise you'd doze off from the monotony."
Good-natured banter was a way of life with Brett, as natural as breathing.
Unfortunately, he had never realized that with Barbara's father it was
not, and was the reason Matt considered his daughter's friend a smart
aleck.
As Matt Zaleski scowled, Brett added, "fou'll get the Orion soon. Now
that's a playpen that'll build itself."
Matt exploded. He said, heavy-handedly, "Nothing builds itself I That's
what you cocksure kids don't realize. Because you and your kind come here
with college degrees, you think you know it all, believe everything you
put on paper will work out. It doesn'tf It's those like me-iron pants, you
call us; working slobs-who have to fix it so it does..." The words
roiled on.
wheals-187
Behind Matt's outburst was his tiredness of tonight; atso the knowledge
that, yes, the Orion would be coming his way soon; that the plant where
he was second in command would have to build the new car, would be torn
apart to do it, then put together so that nothing worked the way it
had; that the ordinary problems of production, which were tough enough,
would quickly become monumental and, for months, occur around the
clock; that Matt himself would draw the toughest trouble-shooting
during model changeover, would have little rest, and some nights would
be lucky if he got to bed at all; furthermore, he would be blamed when
things went wrong, He had been through it all before, more times than
he remembered, and the next time-coming soon-seemed one too many.
Matt stopped, realizing that he had not really been talking to this
brash kid DeLosanto-much as he disliked him-but that his own emotions,
pent up inside, had suddenly burst through. He was about to say so,
awkwardly, and add that he was sorry, when Barbara appeared at the
atrium door. Her face was white.
"Dad, you'll apologize for everything you just said."
Obstinacy was his first reaction. "I'll do what?"
Brett interceded; nothing bothered him for long. He told Barbara, "It's
okay; he doesn't have to. We had a mild misunderstanding. Right, Mr.
Z.?11
"Nol" Barbara, usually patient with her father, stood her ground. She
insisted, "Apologize I If you don't, I'll leave here now. With Brett.
I mean it."
Matt realized she did.
Unhappily, not really understanding anything, including children who
grew up and talked
1 88-wheals
disrespectfully to parents, young people generally who behaved the way
they did; missing his wife, Freda, now dead a year, who would have
never let this happen to begin with, Matt mumbled an apology, then
locked the atrium door and went to bed.
Soon after, Brett said goodnight to Barbara, and left.
chapter twelve
Now, winter gripped the Motor City. November bad gone, then Christmas, and
in early January the snow was deep, with skiing in northern Michigan, and
ice heaped high and solidly along the shores of Lakes St. Clair and Erie.
As the new year came in, so preparations intensified for the Orion's
debut, scheduled for mid-September. Manufacturing division, already
huddled over plans for months, moved closer to plant conversions which
would start in June, to produce the first production run Orion-job One,
as it was called-in August. Then, six weeks of production-shrouded in
secrecy-would be needed before the car's public unveiling. Meanwhile,
Purchasing nervously co-ordinated an armada of materials, ordered, and
due on vital days, while Sales and Marketing began hardening their
endlessly debated, oft-changed plans for dealer introductions and
promotion. Public Relations pressed forward with groundwork for its
Lucullan freeload which would accompany the Orion's introduction to the
press. Other divisions, in greater or less degree according to their
functions, joined in the preparation.
And while the Orion program progressed, many in the company gave thought
to Farstar, which would follow Orion, though its timing, shape, and
substance were not yet known. Among these were Adam Trenton and Brett
DeLosanto.
Something else which Adam was concerned with in January was the review
of his sister Teresa's investment, bequeathed by her dead husband, in
the auto dealership of Smokey Stephensen.
Approval from the company for Adam to
190-wheels
involve himself with one of its dealers, however tenuously, had taken
longer than expected, and had been given grudgingly after discussion by
the Conflict of Interest committee. In the end, Hub Hewitson, executive
vice-president, made a favorable ruling after Adam approached him person-
ally. However, now that the time had come to fulfill his promise to
Teresa, Adam realized how little he really needed, or wanted, an extra
responsibility. His work load had grown, and an awareness of physical
tension still bothered him. At home, relations with Erica seemed neither
better nor worse, though he accepted the justice of his wife's
complaint-repeated recently-that nowadays they had scarcely any time
together. Soon, he resolved, he would find a way to put that right, but
first, having accepted this new commitment, he would see it through.
Thus, on a Saturday morning, after arrangements made by telephone, Adam
paid his first call on Smokey Stephensen.
The Stephensen dealership was in the northern suburbs, close to the
boundary lines of Troy and Birmingham. Its location was good-on an im-
portant crosstown route, with Woodward Avenue, a main northwest artery,
only a few blocks away.
Smokey, who had clearly been watching the street outside, strode through
the showroom doorway onto the sidewalk, as Adam stepped from his car.
The ex-race driver, heavily bearded and now corpulent in middle-age,
boomed, "Welcome I Welcomel" He wore a dark blue silk jacket with care-
fully creased black slacks and a wide, brightly patterned tie.
"Good morning," Adam said, 'I'm
"No need to tell mel Seen your picture in Automotive News. Step in I"
The dealer held the showroom doorway wide.
wheels-1 91
-We always say there's only two reasons for a man to pass &,ough here-to
get out of the rain or buy himself wheels. I guess you're the exception."
Inside he declared, "Within half an hour we'll be using 6rst names. I
always say, why wait that long?' He held out a bear paw of a hand. "I'm
Smokey."
"I'm Adam," Adam said. He managed not to wince as his hand was squeezed.
"Let me have your car keys." Smokey beckoned a young salesman who
hurried across the showroom floor. "Park Mr. Trenton's car carefully,
and don't sell it. Also, be sure you treat him with respect. His sister
owns forty-nine percent of this joint, and if business don't pick up by
noon, I may mail her the other fifty-one." He winked broadly at Adam.
"It's an anxious time for all of us," Adam said. He knew, from sales
reports, that a post-holiday lull was being felt this year by all auto
makers and dealei s. Yet, if only car buyers knew, this was the best
time in any year to make a favorable financial deal. With dealers
heavily stocked with cars forced on them by factories, and sometimes
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