Adam turned to Smokey. "Did you say that?"
The dealer grinned. "If I didn't, I should have."
Over the next several minutes, while they listened, a trade-in was discussed. The elderly couple was hesitant about committing themselves to a final figure - the difference between an allowance for their used car and the price of a new one. They lived on a fixed income, the husband explained - his retirement pension.
At length the salesman announced, "Look, folks, like I said, the deal I've written up is the very best we can give anybody. But because you're nice people, I've decided to try something I shouldn't. I'll write an extra sweet deal for you, then see if I can con the boss into okaying it."
"Well . . ." The woman sounded doubtful. "We wouldn't want . . ."
The salesman assured her, "Let me worry about that. Some days the boss is not as sharp as others; we'll hope this is one. What I'll do is change the figures this way: On the trade . . ."
It amounted to a hundred dollars reduction of the end price. As he switched off, Smokey appeared amused.
Moments later, the salesman knocked on the office door and came in, a filled-in sales contract in his hand.
"Hi, Alex." Smokey took the proffered contract and introduced Adam, adding, "It's okay, Alex; he's one of us."
The salesman shook hands. "Nice to know you, Mr. Trenton." He nodded to the booth below. "Were you tuned in, boss?"
"Sure was. Too bad, ain't it, this is one of my sharp days?" The dealer grinned.
"Yeah." The salesman smiled back. "Too bad."
While they chatted, Smokey made alterations to the figures on the sales papers. Afterward he signed, then glanced at his watch. "Been gone long enough?"
"I guess so," the salesman said. "Nice to have met you, Mr. Trenton."
Together, Smokey and the salesman left the office and stood on the open mezzanine outside.
Adam heard Smokey Stephensen raise his voice to a shout. "What you tryin' on? You wanna make a bankrupt outa me?"
"Now, boss, just let me explain."
"Explain! Who needs it? I read figures; they say this deal means a great fat loss."
In the showroom below, heads turned, faces glanced upward to the mezzanine. Among them were those of the elderly couple in the first booth.
"Boss, these are nice people." The salesman was matching Smokey's voice in volume. "We want their business, don't we?"
"Sure I want business, but this is charity."
"I was just trying . . ."
"How about trying for a job someplace else?"
"Look, boss, maybe I can fix this up. These are reasonable people . .."
"Reasonable, so they want my skin!"
"I did it, boss; not them. I just thought maybe . . ."
"We give great deals here. We draw the line at losses. Understand?"
"I understand."
The exchange was loud as ever. Two of the other salesmen, Adam observed, were smiling surreptitiously. The elderly couple, waiting, looked perturbed.
Again the dealer shouted. "Hey, gimme back those papers!"
Through the open doorway Adam saw Smokey seize the sales contract and go through motions of writing, though the alterations were already made.
Smokey thrust the contract back. "Here's the very best I'll do. I'm being generous because you put me in a box." He winked broadly, though the last was visible only on the mezzanine.
The salesman returned the wink. As he went downstairs, Smokey reentered his office and slammed the door, the sound reverberating below.
Adam said drily, "Quite a performance."
Smokey chuckled. "Oldest ploy in the book, and still works sometimes."
The listening switch for the first sales booth was still on; he turned the volume up as the salesman rejoined the elderly couple who had risen to their feet.
"Oh, we're so sorry," the woman said. "We were embarrassed for you. We wouldn't have had that happen . . ."
The salesman's face was suitably downcast. "I guess you folks heard."
"Heard!" the older man objected. "I should think everybody within five blocks heard. He didn't have to talk to you like that."
The woman asked, "What about your job?"
"Don't worry; as long as I make a sale today I'll be okay. The boss is a good guy, really. Like I told you, people who deal here find that out.
Let's look at the figures," The salesman spread the contract on the desk, then shook his head. "We're back to the original deal, I'm afraid, though it's still a good one. Well, I tried."
"We'll take it," the man said; he seemed to have forgotten his earlier doubts. "You've gone to enough trouble . . ."
Smokey said cheerfully, "In the bag." He switched off and slumped into one of the green leather chairs, motioning Adam to another. The dealer took a cigar from his pocket and offered one to Adam, who declined and lit a cigarette.
"I said a dealer has to fight," Smokey said, "and so he does. But it's a 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 played for 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.
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 industry 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, factory-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, better operated ones were likely to remain and prosper. One reason was the dealers' most commanding argument for existence - their disposal of used cars.
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?"