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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.

 


wheels-205

 


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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