Bantam Books by Arthur Hailey 17 страница

game, too." He looked at Adam shrewdly. "I guess a different kind of game

than yours."

Adam acknowledged, "Yes."

"Not so fancy pants as over at that think factory, huh? "

Adam made no answer. Smokey contemplated the glowing tip of his cigar,

then went on. "Remember this: a guy who gets to be a car dealer didn't

make the game, he doesn't name the rules. He joins the game and plays the

way it's playedfor real, like strip poker. You know what happens if you

lose at strip poker?"

"I guess so."

"No guessing to it. You end up with a bare ass. It's how I'd end here if

I didn't play hard, for real, the way you've seen. And though she'd look

nicer 'n me bare-assed"-Smokey chuckled"so would that sister of yours.

I'll ask you to remember that, Adam." He stood up. "Let's play the game

some more.-

He was, after all, Adam realized, getting an untrammeled inside view of

the dealership in operation. Adam accepted Smokey's viewpoint that trading

in cars-new and used-was a tough, competitive business in which a dealer

who relaxed or was softhearted could disappear from sight quickly, as many

had. A car dealership was the firing line of automobile marketing. Like

any firing line it was no place for the overly sensitive or anyone

obsessed with ethics. On the other hand, an alert, shrewd wheeler-dealer-

as Smokey Stephensen appeared to be-could make an exceedingly good living,

which was part of the reason for Adam's inquiry now.

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Another part was to learn how Smokey might adapt to changes in the future.

Within the next decade, Adam knew, major changes were coming in the

present car dealership system, a system which many-inside the industry and

out-believed archaic in its present form. So far, existing dealers-a

powerful, organized bloc--had resisted change. But if manufacturers and

dealers, acting together, failed to initiate reforms in the system soon,

it was certain that government would step in, as it had already in other

industy areas.

Car dealers had long been the auto industry's least reputable arm, and

while direct defrauding had been curbed in recent years, many observers

believed the public would be better served if contact between

manufacturers and car buyers were more direct, with fewer intermediaries.

Likely in the future were central dealership systems, factory-operated,

which could deliver cars to customers more efficiently and with less

overhead cost than now. For years, a similar system had been used

successfully with trucks; more recently, car fleet users and car leasing

and rental companies, who bought directly, were demonstrating large

economies. Along with such direct sales outlets, f actory-operated

warranty and service centers were likely to be established, the latter

offering more consistent, better-supervised service than many dealers

provided now.

What was needed to get such systems started -and what auto companies would

secretly welcome-was more external, public pressure.

But while dealerships would change, and some fall by the way, the more

efficient, betteroperated ones were likely to remain and prosper. One

reason was the dealers' most commanding argument for existence-their

disposal of used cars.

206-wheels

A question for Adam to decide was: Would Smokey Stephensen's-and Teresa's

-dealership progress or decline amid the changes of the next few years?

He was already debating the question mentally as he followed Smokey from

the mezzanine office down the stairway to the showroom floor.

For the next hour Adam stayed close to Smokey Stephensen, watching him in

motion. Clearly, while letting his sales staff do their work, Smokey kept

a sensitive finger on the pulse of business. Little escaped him, He had

an instinct, too, about when his own intervention might nudge a teetering

sale to its conclusion.

A lantern-jawed, cadaverous man who had come in from the street without

glancing at the cars displayed, was arguing with a salesman about price.

The man knew the car he wanted; equally obviously, he had shopped

elsewhere.

He had a small card in his hand which he showed to the salesman, who shook

his head. Smokey strolled across the showroom. Adam positioned himself so

he could observe and hear.

"Let me see." Smokey reached out, plucking the card deftly from Lantern

Jaw's fingers. It was a business card with a dealer insignia on the front;

on the back were penciled figures. Nodding amiably, his manner robbing the

action of offense, Smokey studied the figures. No one bothered with

introductions; Smokey's proprietorial air, plus the beard and blue silk

jacket were his identification. As he turned the card his eyebrows went

up. "From an Ypsilanti dealer. You live there, friend?"

"No," Lantern Jaw said. "But I like to shop around."

"And where you shop, you ask for a card with the best price difference

between your trade-in and the new car. Right?"

The other nodded.

wheels-207

"Be a good sport," Smokey said. "Show me the cards from all the other

dealers."

Lantern Jaw hesitated, then shrugged. "Why not?" From a pocket he produced

a handful of cards and gave them to Smokey who counted them, chuckling.

Including the one he already held, there were eight. Smokey spread the

cards on a desk top nearby, then, with the salesman, craned over them.

"The lowest offer is two thousand dollars," the salesman read out, "and

the highest twenty-three hundred."

Smokey motioned. "The report on his trade."

The salesman passed over a sheet, which Smokey glanced at, then handed

back. He told the lantern-jawed man, "I guess you'd like a card from me,

too."

"Sure would."

Smokey took out a business card, turned it over, and scribbled on the

back.

Lantern Jaw accepted the card, then looked up sharply. "This says fifteen

hundred dollars."

Smokey said blandly, "A nice round figure."

"But you won't sell me a car for that I"

"You're damn right I won't, friend. And III tell you something else.

Neither will any of those others, not at the prices they put on their

cards." Smokey swept the business cards into his hand, then returned them

one by one. "Go back to this place, they'll tell you their price didn't

include sales tax. This one-they've left out the cost of options, maybe

sales tax, too. Here, they didn't add dealer prep, license, and some more

..." 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,

208-wheels

"designed for shoppers like you, and the name of the game is 'Bring 'em back

latert"' 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 ap-

peared not to notice. "After that, when you're ready for more honest news,

like a driveaway 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 twentyfour 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

wheels 209

length and, after the man left, Smokey returned to Adam, shaking his head.

"No sale there I A doctorl 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 0-wheels

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 thinkingif 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,

212-wheels

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,

wheels-213

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 sever.il 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.

214 wheels

Elsie rejoined them, her every movement an overt sexuality which a simple,

tight black dress accentuated. The ex-Marine patted her rump af-

fectionately.

"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?"

"The Orion. He okayed add-ons, I'm told. Last minute hot stuff. I'm making

one of 'em."

"You are! Which one? The brace or floor reinforcement?"

"Brace."

"Hey, I was in on that! That's a big order."

Kreisel gave a twisted grin. "It'll make me or break me. They need five

thousand braces fast, like yesterday. After that, ten thousand a month.

Wasn't sure I wanted the job. Schedule's tough. Still plenty of headaches.

But they figure I'll deliver."

Brett already knew of Hank Kreisel's reputation for reliability about

deliveries, a quality which auto company purchasing departments cherished.

One reason for it was a talent for tooling improvisations which slashed

time and cost, and while

wheels-215

not a qualified engineer himself, Kreisel could leapfrog mentally over

many who were.

"I'll be damnedt" Brett said. "You and the Orion."

"Shouldn't surprise you. Industry's full of people crossing each other's

bridges. Sometimes pass each other, don't even know it. Everybody sells

to everybody else. GM sells steering gears to Chrysler. Chrysler sells

adhesives to GM and Ford. Ford helps out with Plymouth windshields. I

know a guy, a sales engineer. Lives in Flint, works for General Motors.

Flint's a GM company town. His main customer's Ford in Dearborn-for

engineering design of engine accessories. He takes confidential Ford

stuff to Flint. GM guards it from their own people who'd give their ears

to see it. The guy drives a Ford car-to Ford, his customer. His GM

bosses buy it for him."

Elsie replenished Hank Kxeisers Bourbon; Brett had declined a drink

earlier.

Brett told the girl, "He's always telling me things I didn't know."

"He knows a lot." Her eyes, smiling, switched from the young designer's

to Kreisel's. Brett sensed a private message pass.

"Hey I You two like me to leave?"

"No hurry." The ex-Marine produced a pipe and lit it. "You want to hear

about parts?" He glanced at Elsie. "Not yours, baby." Plainly he meant:

Those are for me.

"Auto parts," Brett said.

"Right." Kreisel gave his twisted grin. "Worked in an auto plant before

I enlisted. After Korea, went back. Was a punch press operator. Then a

foreman."

"You've made the big leagues fast."

"Too f ast, maybe. Anyway, I'd watched how production worked-metal

stampings. The Big Three are all the same. Must have the f anciest

21 6--wheels

machines, high-priced buildings, big overhead, cafeterias, the rest. All

that stuff makes a two-cent stamping cost a nickel."

Hank Kreisel drew on his pipe and wreathed himself in smoke. "So I went

to Purchasing. Saw a guy I know. Told him I figured I could make the

same stuff cheaper. On my own."

"Did they finance you?"

"Not then, not later. Gave me a contract, though. There and then for a

million little washers. When I'd quit my job I had two hundred dollars

cash. No building, no machinery." Hank Kreisel chuckled. "DIdn't sleep

that night. Dead scared. Next day I tore around. Rented an old billiard

hall. Showed a bank the contract and the lease; they loaned me dough to

buy scrap machinery. Then I hired two other guys. The three of us fixed

the machinery up. They ran it. I rushed out, got more orders." He added

reminiscently, "Been rushing ever since."

'You're a saga," Brett said. He had seen Hank Kreisel's impressive

Grosse Pointe home, his half dozen bustling plants, the converted

billiard hall still one of them. He supposed, conservatively, Hank

Kreisel must be worth two or three million dollars.

"Your friend in Purchasing," Brett said. "Tbe one who gave you the first

order. Do you ever see him?,'

"Sure. He's still there-on salary. Same job. Retires soon. I buy him a

meal sometimes."

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