young designer's mind, realizing that beneath a surface flippancy he
possessed instinctive wisdom, common sense, and a broad compassion. His
opinion now might be important. Also, Brett knew Rollie Knight, having
met him through Barbara and the Auto City filming.
Wingate decided: He would telephone and, if possible, meet Brett
tonight.
May Lou had slipped into the apartment unnoticed. Wingate didn't know
how much she had heard or knew. He supposed it didn't matter.
He motioned to the door. "Can you lock that?"
May Lou nodded. "Yes."
"I'm going now," Leonard Wingate told Rollie and May Lou, "but I'll be
back. Lock the door after me and keep it locked. Don't let anyone else
in. When I come, I'll identify myself by name and voice. You
understand?"
"Yes, mister." May Lou's eyes met his. Small as she was, scrawny and
unimpressive, he was aware of strength.
Not far from the Blaine apartment house, Leonard Wingate found a pay
phone in an allnight Laundromat.
wheels 491
He had the phone number of Brett's apartment in a notebook and dialed
it. The Laundromat's washers and dryers were noisy and he covered one
ear so he could hear the ringing tone at the other end. The ringing
continued unanswered, and he hung up.
Wingate remembered a conversation with Brett a day or two ago in which
Brett mentioned that he and Barbara would be meeting Adam and Erica
Trenton-whom Leonard Wingate knew slightly-later in the week. Wingate
decided to try there.
He called Directory Assistance for the Trentons' suburban number. But
when he dialed it, there was no answer either.
More than ever now, he wanted to reach Brett DeLosanto.
Leonard Wingate recalled something else Brett had told him: Barbara's
father was still on the critical list at Ford Hospital. Wingate rea-
soned: The chances were, Barbara and Brett were together, and Barbara
would leave word at the hospital about where she could be reached.
He dialed the hospital's number. After waiting several minutes, he spoke
with a floor nurse who admitted, yes they did have means of getting in
touch with Miss Zaleski.
Wingate knew he would have to he to get the information. "I'm her cousin
from Denver and I'm calling from the airport." He hoped the Laundromat's
noises sounded sufficiently like airplanes. "I've flown here to see my
uncle, but my cousin wanted me to meet her first. She said if I called
the hospital you'd always know where I could find her."
The nurse observed tartly, "We're not running a message agency here."
But she gave him the information: Miss Zaleski was at the Detroit
Symphony tonight with Mr. and Mrs. Trenton and
492-wheels
Mr. DeLosanto. Barbara had even left the seat numbers. Wingate blessed her
thoroughness.
He had left his car outside the Laundromat. Now he headed for Jefferson
Avenue and the Civic Center, driving fast. A fine rain had begun while
he was telephoning; road surfaces were slick.
At Woodward and Jefferson, crowding his chances, he beat an amber light
and swung into the forecourt of the Ford Auditorium -blue-pearl-
granite-and-marble-f aced showplace of the Detroit Symphony Orchestra.
Around the Auditorium, other Civic Center buildings towered-Cobo Hall,
Veterans' Memorial, the City-County Buildingmodern, spacious, brightly
floodlit. The Civic Center area was often spoken of as a fountainheadthe
beginning of a vast urban renewal program for downtown Detroit.
Unfortunately, while the head was finished, almost nothing of the body
was in sight.
A uniformed attendant by the Auditorium's main doors stepped forward.
Before the man could speak, Leonard Wingate told him, "I have to locate
some people who are here. It's an emergency." In his hand he held the
seat numbers he had copied down while speaking with the hospital nurse.
The doorman conceded: Since the performance was in progress and there
was no other traffic, the car could remain "just for a few minutes,"
with the key in the ignition.
Wingate passed inside through two sets of doors. As the second doors
closed, music surrounded him.
An usherette turned from watching the stage and the orchestra. She said,
low-voiced, "I won't be able to seat you until intermission, sir. May
I see your ticket?"
"I don't have one." He explained his purpose and showed the girl the
seat numbers. A male usher joined them.
wheels 493
The seats, it seemed, were near the front and center.
"If you'd take me to the row," Wingate urged, "I could signal Mr.
DeLosanto to come out."
The usher said firmly, "We couldn't allow that, sir. It would disturb
everybody."
"How long to intermission?"
The ushers were unsure.
For the first time, Wingate was aware of what was being played. He had
been a music lover since childhood and recognized Prokofiev's Romeo and
Juliet Orchestral Suite. Knowing that conductors used varying
arrangements of the suite, he asked, "May I see a program?" The
usherette gave him one.
The passage he had identified was the opening of the "Death of Tybalt."
With relief, he saw it was the final portion of the work before an
intermission.
Even waiting impatiently, the music's magnificence swept over him. The
swif t-surging opening theme moved on to a quickening timpani solo with
strokes of death-like hammer blows... Tybalt had killed Romeo's
friend Mercutio. Now, on the dying Tybalt, Romeo wreaked vengeance he
had sworn... Horn passages wailed the tragic paradox of human
destructiveness and folly; the full orchestra swelled to a crescendo of
doom...
Wingate's skin prickled, his mind drawing parallels between the music
and the reason for his presence here.
The music ended. As a thunder of applause swept through the Auditorium,
Leonard Wingate hurried down an aisle, escorted by the usher. Word was
passed quickly to Brett DeLosanto whom Wingate saw at one. Brett
appeared surprised, but began moving out, followed by Barbara and the
Trentons.
494 wheels
In the foyer, they held a hurried conference.
Without wasting time on details, Wingate revealed that his search for
Brett had been because of Rollie Knight. And since they were still down-
town, Wingate's intention was that the two of them go directly to Rollie
and May Lou's apartment.
Brett agreed at once, but Barbara raised difficulties, wanting to go
with them. They argued briefly, Leonard Wingate opposing the idea, and
Brett supported him. In the end it was agreed that Adam would take Erica
and Barbara to Brett's Country Club Manor apartment and await the others
there. Neither Adam, Erica, nor Barbara felt like returning to the
concert.
Outside, Wingate led Brett to his waiting car. The rain had stopped.
Brett, who was carrying a topcoat, threw it on the back seat, on top of
one of Wingate's already there. As they pulled away, Leonard Wingate
began a swift-paced explanation, knowing the journey would be short.
Brett listened, asking an occasional question. At the description of the
murder-robbery, he whistled softly. Like countless others he had read
published reports of the killing at the plant; also, there was a
personal link since it seemed likely that events that night had hastened
Matt Zaleski's stroke.
Yet Brett felt no enmity toward Rollie Knight. It was true that the
young black worker was no innocent, but there were degrees of guilt,
whether recognized in law or not. Wingate obviously believed-and Brett
accepted-that Rollie had become enmeshed a little at a time, in part
unwillingly, his freedom of choice diminishing like a weakening swimmer
drawn toward a vortex. Nonetheless, for what Rollie Knight had done,
there were debts he would have to pay. No one could, or should, help him
escape them.
wheels--495
"The one thing we can't do," Brett said, "is help him get away from
Detroit."
"I figured that, too." If the crime had been lesser, Wingate thought, they
might have chanced it. But not with murder.
'What he needs is something he didnt have those other times-the best
lawyer you can get with money."
"He doesn't have money."
"Then I'll raise it. I'll put some up myself, and there'll be others."
Brett was already thinking of people to approach-some, outside the usual
ranks of charity bestowers, who felt strongly about social injustice and
racial prejudice.
Wingate said, "He'll have to surrender to the police; I can't see any
other way. But if we've a strong lawyer he can insist an protection in
jail." He wondered-though not aloud-how effective the protection would be,
lawyer or not.
"And with a good trial lawyer," Brett said, "he might, just might, get a
break."
"Maybe."
'Vill Knight do as we say?"
Wingate nodded. "He'll do it."
"Then we'll find a lawyer in the morning. Hell handle the surrender.
Tonight, the two of them-the girl as well-had better stay with Barbara and
me."
The Personnel man shot a glance across the car's front seat. "You sure?"
"I'm sure. Unless you've a better idea."
Leonard Wingate shook his head. He was glad he had found Brett DeLosanto.
Though nothing the young designer had said or done so far was beyond
Wingate's own powers of reasoning and decision, Brett's presence and
clearheadedness was reassuring. He possessed an instinctive leadership,
too, which Wingate, with his training,
496-wheels
recognized. He wondered if Brett would be content to remain designing all
his years.
They were at the 12th and Blaine intersection. Outside the rundown,
paint-peeling apartment house, they got out of the car and Wingate
locked it.
As usual, the odor of garbage was strong.
Ascending the worn wooden stairway to the apartment house third floor,
Wingate remembered he had told Rollie and May Lou he would identify
himself from outside by name and voice. He need not have bothered.
The door he warned them to keep locked was open. Part of the lock was
hanging loose where some force-undoubtedly a violent blow-had splintered
it.
Leonard Wingate and Brett went in. Only May Lou was inside. She was
putting clothes into a cardboard suitcase.
Wingate asked, "Where's Rollie?"
Without looking up, she answered, "Gone."
"Gone where?"
"Some guys come. They took him."
"How long ago?"
"Right after you went, mister." She turned her head. They saw she had
been crying.
"Listen," Brett said, "if we get descriptions we can warn the police."
Leonard Wingate shook his head. He knew it was too late. He had a
feeling it had been too late from the beginning. He knew, too, what he
and Brett DeLosanto were going to do now. They would walk away. As so
many in Detroit walked away or, like the priest and Levite, crossed over
on the other side.
Brett was silent.
Wingate asked May Lou, "What will you do?"
She closed the cardboard suitcase. Ill make out."
wheels--497
Brett reached into a pocket. With a gesture, Wingate stopped him. "Let
me."
Without counting them, he took what bills he had and pressed them into
May Lou's hand. "I'm sorry," he, said. "I guess it doesnt mean much, but
I'm sorry."
They went downstairs.
Outside, when they came to the car, its nearside door hung open. The
window glass was broken. The two topcoats which had been on the car's
back seat were gone.
Leonard Wingate cradled his head in his arms on the car roof. When he
looked up, Brett saw his eyes were wet.
"Oh, God I" Wingate said. He raised his arms beseechingly to the black
night sky. "Oh, Godl This heartless cityl"
Rollie Knight's body was never found. He simply disappeared.
chapter thirty-one
"It's your life, not mine," Adam told Brett DeLosanto. "But I wouldn't be a
friend if I didn't say that I think you're being hasty, and making an
enormous mistake."
It was close to midnight, and the five of them -Adarn and Erica, Barbara
and Brett, and Leonard Wingate-were in the Country Club Manor apartment.
Brett and Wingate had joined the others half an hour ago, having driven
from the inner city. The conversation had been gloomy. When they had
exhausted all that could be said about Rollie Knight, Brett announced his
intention to leave the automobile industry and to submit a letter of
resignation tomorrow.
Adam persisted, "In another five years you could be heading up
Design-Styling."
"There was a time," Brett said, "when that was the only dream I had-to be
a Harley Earl, or a Bill Mitchell, or Gene Bordinat, or an Elwood Engel.
Don't misunderstand me-I think they've all been great; some are still. But
it isn't for me, that's all."
Leonard Wingate said, "There are other reasons, though, aren't there?"
"Yes, there are. I don't think car manufacturers, who do so much
long-range planning for themselves, have done more than a thimbleful of
planning and service for the community they live in."
Adam objected, "That may have been true once; it isn't any more.
Everything's changed or changing f ast. We see it every day-in management
attitudes, community responsibility, the kind of cars we're building,
relations with government,
wheels--499
acknowledgment of consumers. This isn't the same business it was even two or
three years ago."
"I'd like to believe it," Brett said, "if only because obviously you do.
But I can't, and I'm not alone. Anyway, from now on I'll be working on the
outside."
Erica asked, "What will you do?"
"If you want the truth," Brett told her, "Ill be damned if I know."
"It wouldn't surprise me," Adam said, "if you got into politics. Id like
you to know that if you do, I'll not only vote for you, I'll contribute
to your campaign."
Wingate said, "Me, too." It was strange, he thought, that only this
evening he had sensed Brett's leadership and wondered how long he would
stay in design.
Brett grinned. "One of these days that may cost you both. I'll remember."
"One thing he's going to do," Barbara told the others, "is paint. If I
have to chain him to an easel and bring his meals. If I have to support
the two of us."
"Speaking of support," Brett said, "I've thought of starting a small
design business of my own."
. If you do," Adam predicted, "it won't stay small because you can't help
being a success. Also, you'll work harder than you ever did."
Brett sighed. 'That's what I'm afraid of."
But even if it happened, he thought, he would be his own man, would speak
with an independent voice. That was what he wanted most, and so did
Barbara. Brett glanced at her with a love which seemed to increase day by
day. Whatever unknown quantities were coming, he knew that they would
share them.
'There were rumors," Barbara said to Adam, "that you might leave the
company too."
500-wheels
"Where did you hear that?"
"Oh, around."
Adam thought: It was hard to keep any secret in Detroit. He supposed Perce
Stuyvesant, or someone close to him, had talked.
Barbara pressed him. "Well, are you leaving?"
"An offer was made to me," Adam said. "I thought about it seriously for
a while. I decided against it."
He had telephoned Perce Stuyvesant a day or two ago and explained: There
would be no point in going to San Francisco to speak of terms and details;
Adam was an automobile man and would remain one.
As Adam saw it, a good deal was wrong with the auto industry, but there
was a great deal more that, overwhelmingly, was right. The miracle of the
modern automobile was not that it sometimes failed, but that it mostly
didn't; not that it was costly, but that-for the marvels of design and
engineering it embodied-it cost so little; not that it cluttered highways
and polluted air, but that it gave free men and women what, through
history, they had mostly craved-a personal mobility.
Nor, for an executive to spend his working life, was there any more
exciting milieu.
"All of us see things in different ways," Adam told Barbara. "I guess you
could say I voted for Detroit."
Soon afterward they said goodnight.
On the short drive from Maple and Telegraph to Quarton Lake, Adam said,
"You didn't say much tonight."
"I was listening," Erica answered. "And thinking. Besides, I wanted you
to myself, to tell you something."
"Tell me now."
wheels-501
'Well, it rather looks as if I'm pregnant. Look out l-don't swerve like
that "
"Just be glad," he said, as he pulled into a driveway, "you didn't tell
me on the Lodge at rush hour."
"Whose driveway is this?"
"Who the hell cares?" He put out his arms, held her, and kissed her
tenderly.
Erica was half laughing, half crying. "You were such a tiger in Nassau.
It must have happened there."
He whispered, "I'm glad I was," then thought: It could be the very best
thing for them both.
Later, when they were driving again, Erica said, "I've been wondering
how Greg and Kirk will feel. You've two grown sons, then suddenly a baby
in the family."
"They'll love it. Because they love you. Just as I do." He reached for
her hand. "I'll phone and tell them tomorrow."
'Well," she said, "between us we seem to be creating things."
It was true, he thought happily. And his life was full.
Tonight he had Erica, and this.
Tomorrow, and in days beyond, there would be Farstar.
about the author
Born In Luton, England, in 1920, Arthur Hailey was educated in English
schools until age 14. He joined the British Royal Air Force in 1939 and
served as a pilot and flight lieutenant during World War If and in the
Middle and Far East. In 1947 Mr. Hailey emigrated to Canada, where he was
a real estate salesman, a business paper editor, and then a sales and
advertising executive. In 1956 he scored his first writing success with
a TV drama, "Flight Into Danger," which was subsequently a movie and a
novel, RUNWAY ZERO-EIGHT.
Mr. Hailey, one of the great storytellers of our time, has millions of
devoted readers, and his novels are published in every major language. His
sensational bestsellers include HOTEL, AIRPORT, THE FINAL DIAGNOSIS, IN
HIGH PLACES-and his newest one, WHEELS.
Mr. Hailey lives in the Bahamas with his wife Sheila and their teen-age
children: Jane, Steven, and Diane. Arthur Hailey cherishes his family
privacy, avoiding publicity except-as he puts it-"when a new book comes
out, and my publishers insist I do my duty."
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