From a shelf in the miniscule kitchen, the girl took a rum bottle with
about an inch of liquor in it, which she divided equally between two
glasses. Adding ice and Coke, she gave one to Wingate, the other to
Rollie. The three of them sat down in the all-purpose room.
"There'll be some money coming to you from the film people for using
your place tonight," Wingate said. "It won't be much; it never is. But
I'll see you get it."
May Lou gave an unsure smile. Rollie Knight said nothing.
The executive sipped his drink. "You knew about the garnishee? The
second one?"
Rollie still didn't answer.
"Somebody tol' him today at work," May Lou said. "They said he don't get
his paycheck no more? That right?"
"He doesn't get part of it. But if he loses his job there'll be no more
checks anyway-for anybody." Wingate went on to explain about gar-
nishees-the attachment of a worker's pay at source by court order, which
creditors obtained. He added that, while auto companies and other
employers detested the garnishee system, they had no choice but to
comply with the law.
As Wingate suspected, neither Rollie nor May Lou had understood the
earlier garnishee, nor was Rollie aware that a second one-under company-
union rules-could get him fired.
"There's a reason for that," Wingate said. "Garnishees make a lot of
work for the payroll department, which costs the company money."
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Rollie blurted, "Bullshitl" He got up and walked around.
Leonard Wingate sighed. "If you want my honest opinion, I think you're
right. It's why IT try to help you if I can. If you want me to."
May Lou glanced at Rollie. She moistened her lips. "He wants you to,
mister. He ain't been himself lately. He's been... well, real upset."
Wingate wondered why. If Rollie had learned about the garnishee only
today, as May Lou said, obviously he had not been worrying because of
that. He decided not to press the point.
"What I can do," the executive told them,.and you must understand this
is only if you want it, is have someone look over your finances for you,
straighten them out if we can, and try to get you started fresh."
He went on, explaining how the systemdevised by Jim Robson, a plant
personnel manager for Chrysler, and copied nowadays by other com-
panies-worked.
What they must do, he informed Rollie and May Lou, was give him, here and
now, a list of all their debts. He would hand these to a senior Personnel
man in Rollie's plant. The Personnel man, who did this extracurricular job
on his own time, would go over everything to see how much was owing. Then
he would phone the creditors, one by one, urging them to accept modest
payments over a long period and, in return, withdraw their garnishees.
Usually they agreed because the alternative was pointed out: that the man
concerned would lose his job, in which event they would receive nothing,
garnishee or not.
The employee-in this case Rollie Knightwould then be asked: What is the
minimum amount of money you can live on weekly?
Once this was decided, Rollie's paycheck would be intercepted each week
and routed to the
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Personnel Department. There, every Friday, he would report and endorse the
check over to the Personnel man making the arrangements. The Personnel
man's office-Wingate told them-was usually crowded with fifty or so
workers who had been in financial trouble and were being helped to
straighten out. Most were grateful.
Afterward, the Personnel man would deposit Rollie's paycheck in a
special account-in the Personnel man's name since the company took no
official part in the arrangement. From this account he would issue
checks to creditors for the sums arranged, giving Rollie another
check-for the balance of his wages, on which he must live. Eventually,
when all debts were cleared, the Personnel man would bow out and Rollie
would receive his paycheck normally.
Records were open to inspection and the service operated solely to help
workers in financial trouble, without charge of any kind.
"It won't be easy for you," Wingate warned. "To make it work, youll have
to live on very little money."
Rollie seemed about to protest, but May Lou interjected quickly, 'We kin
do it, mister." She looked at Rollie, and Wingate was aware of a mixture
of authority and childlike affection in her eyes. "You'll do it," she
insisted. "Yes, yo' will."
Half-smiling, Rollie shrugged.
But it was clear that Rollie Knight was still worried-really worried,
Leonard Wingate suspected-about something else. Once more he wondered
what it was.
"We've been sitting here," Barbara Zaleski said as Leonard Wingate
joined them, "speculating on whether those two are going to make it."
Barbara, the only one in the group who was a Press Club member, was host
to the other three.
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She, Brett DeLosanto, and Wes Gropetti had waited at the bar. Now, the
four of them moved to a table in the dining room.
As press clubs went, Detroies was among the best in the country. It was
small, well-run, with an excellent cuisine, and membership was sought
after. Surprisingly, despite an exciting day-to-day affinity with the
auto industry, the club's walls were almost bare-self-consciously, some
thought -of mementos of the tie. The only one, which greeted visitors
on entering, was a downbeat front page from 1947, its headline reading:
FORD DEAD
Dies in Oil-Lit, Unheated House
War and space travel, in contrast, were represented prominently, perhaps
proof that newsmen sometimes suffer from hyperopia.
When they had ordered drinks, Wingate answered Barbara~s question.
"I wish I could say yes. But I'm not sure, and the reason is the system.
We talked about it earlier. People like us can cope with the system,
more or less. Mostly, people like them can't."
"Leonard," Brett said, "tonight you've been sounding like a
revolutionary."
"Sounding isn't being one." Wingate smiled dourly. "I don't think I have
the guts; besides, I'm disqualified. I've a good job, money in the bank.
As soon as anyone has those, they want to protect them, not blow it all
up. But I'll tell you this: I know what makes people of my race
revolutionaries."
He touched a bulge in the jacket of his suit. It was a collection of
papers May Lou had given him before he left. They were invoices, time
payment contracts, demands from finance companies. Out of curiosity,
Wingate had gone over them briefly
wheels-299
in his car, and what he had seen amazed and angered him.
He repeated to the other three the substance of his talk with Rollie and
May Lou, omitting figures, which were private, but apart from that the
others knew the story anyway, and he was aware they cared.
He said, "You saw the furniture they had in that room."
The others nodded. Barbara said, "It wasn't good, but..."
"Be honest," Wingate told her. "You know as well as I do, it was a bunch
of shoddy junk."
Brett protested, "So what I If they can't afford much..."
"But you'd never know they couldn't, not from the price they paid." Once
more, Wingate touched the papers in his pocket. "I just saw the invoice,
and I'd say the invoice price is at least six times what the furniture was
worth. For what they paid, or rather signed a finance contract foi, those
two could have had quality stuff from a reputable outfit like J. L.
Hudson's or Sears."
Barbara asked, "Then why didn't they?"
Leonard Wingate put both hands on the table, leaning forward, "Because,
my dear innocent, well-to-do friends, they didn't know any better. Because
nobody ever taught them how to shop around or buy carefully. Because there
isn't much point learning any of that if you've never had any real money.
Because they went to a white-run store in a black neighborhood, which
cheated them-but good I Because there are plenty of those stores, not just
in Detroit, but other places too. I know. We've seen other people travel
this route."
There was silence at the table. Their drinks had come, and Wingate sipped
a neat Scotch on the rocks. Af ter a moment he went on, "There's
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also a little matter of the finance charges on the furniture and some
other things they bought. I did some figuring. It looks to me as if the
interest rate was between nineteen and twenty percent."
Wes Gropetti whistled softly.
Barbara queried, "When your Personnel man talks to the creditors, the
way you said he would, can he (to anything to get the furniture bill or
finance charges lowered?"
"The finance charges, maybe." Leonard Wingate nodded. "I'll probably
work on that myself. When we call a finance outfit and use our company's
name, they're apt to listen and be reasonable, They know there are ways
a big auto manufacturer can put the squeeze on, if we take a mind to.
But as to furniture..." He shook his head. "Not a chance. Those
crooks'd laugh. They sell their stuff for as much as they can get, then
turn their paper over to a finance company at a discount. It's little
guys like Knight-who can't afford it-who pay the difference."
Barbara asked, "Will he keep his job? Rollie, I mean."
"Providing nothing else happens," Wingate said, "I think I can promise
that."
Wes Gropetti urged, "For Christ sake, that's enough talk I Let's eat I"
Brett DeLosanto, who had been unusually quiet through most of the
evening, remained so during the meal which followed. What Brett had seen
tonight-the conditions under which Rollie Knight and May Lou lived;
their cramped, mean room in the run-down, garbage-reeking apartment
house; countless other buildings in the area, either the same or worse;
the general malaise and poverty of the major portion of the inner city-
had affected him deeply. He had been in the inner city before, and
through its streets, but never with
wheels--301
the same insight or sense of poignancy he had known within the past few
hours.
He had asked Barbara to let him watch tonight's filming, partly from
curiosity and partly because she had become so absorbed with the
project that he had seen little of her lately. What he had not expected
was to be drawn in, mentally, as much as he had.
Not that he had been unaware of ghetto problems of Detroit. When he
observed the desperate grimness of housing, he knew better than to ask:
Why don't people move somewhere else? Brett already knew that
economically and socially, people here-specifically, black people-were
trapped. High as living costs were in the inner city, in suburbs they
were higher still, even if the suburbs would let blacks move there-and
some wouldn't, still practicing discrimination in a thousand subtle and
not-so-subtle ways. Dearborn, for example, in which Ford Motor Company
had its headquarters, at last count didn't have a single black
resident, due to hostility of white, middleclass families who supported
wily maneuverings by its solidly established mayor.
Brett knew, too, that efforts to aid the inner city had been made by
the well-meaning New Detroit Committee-more recently, New Detroit
Inc.-established after the area's 1967 riots. Funds had been raised,
some housing started. But as a committee member put it: "We're long on
proclamations, short on bricks."
Another had recalled the dying words of Cecil Rhodes: "So little
done-so much to do."
Both comments had been from individuals, impatient with the smallness
of accomplishment by groups-groups which included the city, state, and
federal governments. Tbough the 1967 riots were now years away, nothing
beyond sporadic
302-wheels
tinkering had been done to remedy conditions which were the riots' cause.
Brett wondered: If so many, collectively, had failed, what could one
person, an individual, hope to do?
Then he remembered: Someone had once asked that about Ralph Nader.
Brett sensed Barbara's eyes upon him and turned toward her. She smiled,
but made no comment on his quietness; each knew the other well enough
by now not to need explanations of moods, or reasons for them. Barbara
looked her best tonight, Brett thought. During the discussion earlier
her face had been animated, reflecting interest, intelligence, warmth.
No other girl of Brett's acquaintance rated quite as high with him,
which was why he went on seeing her, despite her continued, obstinate
refusal to join him in bed.
Brett knew that Barbara had gained a lot of satisfaction from her
involvement with the film, and working with Wes Gropetti.
Now Gropetti pushed back his plate, dabbing a napkin around his mouth
and beard. The little film director, still wearing his black beret, had
been eating Beef Stroganoff with noodles, washed down generously with
Chianti. He gave a grunt of satisfaction.
'Wes," Brett said, "do you ever want to get involved-really
involved-with subjects you do films about?"
The director looked surprised. "You mean do crusading crap? Chivvy
people up?"
-Yes,~ Brett acknowledged, "that's the kind of crap I mean."
"A pox on thatl Sure, I get interested; I have to be. But. after that
I take pictures, kiddo. That's all." Gropetti rubbed his beard, removing
a fragment of noodle which the napkin had missed. He added, "A buttercup
scene or a sewer-once I know iCs there, all I want axe the right lens,
wheels--303
camera angle, lighting, sound synch. Nuts to involvementl Involvement's
a full-time job."
Brett nodded. He said thoughtfully, "That's what I think, too."
In his car, driving Barbara home, Brett said, "It's going well, isn't
it? The film."
"So welll" She was near the middle of the front seat, curled close
beside him. If he moved his face sideways he could touch her hair, as
he had already, several times.
"I'm glad for you. You know that."
"Yes," she said. "I know."
"I wouldn't want any woman I lived with not to do something special,
something exclusively her own."
. If I ever live with you, I'll remember that."
It was the first time either of them had mentioned the possibility of
living together since the night they had talked about it several months
ago.
"Have you thought any more?"
"I've thought," she said. "That's all."
Brett waited while he threaded traffic at the Jefferson entrance to the
Chrysler Freeway, then asked, "Want to talk about it?"
She shook her head negatively.
"How much longer will the film. take?"
"Probably another month."
"You'll be busy?"
"I expect so. Why?"
"I'm taking a trip," Brett said. "To California."
But when she pressed him, he declined to tell her why.
chapter nineteen
The long, black limousine slowed, swung left, then glided smoothly, between
weathered stone pillars, into the paved, winding driveway of Hank Kreisel's
Grosse Pointe home.
Kreisel's uniformed chauffeur was at the wheel. Behind him, in the plush
interior, were Kreisel and his guests, Erica and Adam Trenton. The car's
interior contained-among other things -a bar, from which the parts
manufacturer had served drinks as they drove.
It was late evening in the last week of July.
They had already dined-at the Detroit Athletic Club downtown. The Trentons
had met Kreisel there, and a fourth at dinner had been a gorgeous girl,
with flashing eyes and a French accent, whom Kreisel introduced merely as
Zo6. He added that she was in charge of his recently opened export liaison
office.
Zoii, who proved an engaging companion, excused herself after dinner and
left. Then, at Hank Kreisel's suggestion, Adam and Erica accompanied him
home, leaving their own car downtown.
This evening's arrangements had been an outcropping of Adam's weekend at
Hank Kreisel's lakeside cottage. Following the cottage affair, the parts
manufacturer telephoned Adam, as arranged, and they set a date. Inclusion
of Erica in the invitation made Adam nervous at first, and he hoped
Kreisel would make no references to the cottage weekend in detail, or
Rowena in particular. Adam still remembered Rowena vividly, but she was
in the past, and prudence and common sense dictated she remain there. He
need not have worried. Hank Kreisel was discreet; they talked of
wheals-305
other things-next season's prospects for the Detroit Lions, a recent
scandel in city government, and later the Orion, some of whose parts
Kreisel's company was now manufacturing in enormous quantities. After a
while Adam relaxed, though he still wondered what, precisely, Hank Kreisel
wanted of him.
That Kreisel wanted something he was sure, because Brett DeLosanto had
told him so. Brett and Barbara had been invited tonight but couldn't
make it-Barbara was busy at her job; Brett, who was leaving soon for the
West Coast, had commitments to finish first. But Brett confided
yesterday, "Hank told me what he's going to ask, and I hope you can do
something because there's a lot more to it than just us." The air of
mystery had irritated Adam, but Brett refused to say more.
Now, as the limousine stopped at Krelsel7s sprawling, ivy-draped
mansion, Adam supposed he would know soon.
The chauffeur came around to open the door and handed Erica out. With
their host following, Erica and Adam moved onto the lawn nearby and
stood together, the big house behind them, in the growing dusk.
The elegant garden, whose manicured lawn, well-trimmed trees and shrubs
wore the patina of professional care, sloped downward to the unclut-
tered, boulevarded lanes of Lake Shore Road, the roadway offering no
interruption-except for occasional traffic-to a panoramic view of Lake
St. Clair.
The lake was still visible, though barely; a line of white wavelets
marked its edge, and f ar out from shore, lights of lake freighters
flickered. Closer at hand a tardy sailboat, using its outboard as a
hurry-home, headed for a Grosse Pointe Yacht Club mooring.
"It's beautiful," Erica said, "though I always
306-wheels
think, when I come to Grosse Pointe, it isn't really part of Detroit."
"If you lived here," Hank Kreisel answered,
you'd know it was. Plenty of us still smell of gasoline. Or had grease
under our fingernails once."
Adam said dryly, "Most Grosse Pointe fingernails have been clean for a
long time." But he knew what Kreisel meant. The Grosse Pointes, of
which there were five-all separate fiefdoms and traditional enclaves of
great wealth-were as much a part of the auto world as any other segment
of Greater Detroit. Henry Ford Il lived down the street in Grosse
Pointe Farms, with other Fords sprinkled nearby like rich spices. Other
auto company wealth was here too-Chrysler and General Motors fortunes,
as well as those of industry suppliers: big, older names like Fisher,
Anderson, Olson, Mullen, and newer ones like Kreisel. The money's
current custodians hobnobbed in socially exclusive clubs-at the apex
the creaking, overheated Country Club, with a waiting list so long that
a new, young applicant without family ties could expect to be admitted
at senility. Yet for all its exclusiveness, Grosse Pointe was a
friendly place-a reason why a soupgon of salaried auto executives made
it their home, preferring its "family" scene to the more
management-oriented Bloomfield Hills.
Once, older Grosse Pointers looked down patrician noses at automotive
money. Now it dominated them, as it dominated all Detroit.
A sudden, night breeze from the lake stirred the air and set leaves
rustling overhead. Erica shivered.
Hank Kreisel suggested, 'let's go in."
The chauffeur, who appeared to double in butlerage, swung heavy front
doors open as they approached the house.
wheels--307
A few yards inside, Adam stopped. He said incredulously, "I'll be damned
I"
Beside him, Erica, equally surprised, stood staring. Then she giggled.
The main floor living room into which they had stepped had all the
accouterments of elegance -deep broadloom, comfortable chairs, sofas,
sideboards, bookshelves, paintings, a hi-fi playing softly, and
harmonious lighting. It also had a fullsize swimming pool.
The pool, some thirty feet long, was attractively blue tiled, with a
deep end, shallow end, and a three-tiered diving board.
Erica said, "Hank, I shouldn't have laughed. I'm sorry. But it's...
surprising."
"No reason not to laugh," their host said amiably. 'Most people do. Good
many think I'm nuts. Fact is, I like to swim. Like to be comfortable,
too."
Adam was looking around him with an amazed expression. "Its an old
house. You must have ripped the inside out."
"Sure did."
Erica told Adam, "Quit making like an engineer and let's go swimming."
Obviously pleased, Kreisel said, "You want to?"
"You're looking at an Island girl. I could swim before I could talk."
He showed her to a corridor. "Second door down there. Lots of swimsuits,
towels."
Adam followed Kreisel to another changing room.
Minutes later, Erica executed a dazzling swallow dive from the highest
board. She surf aced, laughing. "This is the best living room I was ever
in."
Hank Kreisel, grinning, dived from a lower board. Adam plunged in from
the side.
308-wheels
When they bad all swum, Kreisel led the way -the three of them
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