Wheels

"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.

"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!"

"You're damn right I won't, friend. And I'll 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, "designed for shoppers like you, and the name of the game is 'Bring 'em back later!"' 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 now is where you got your first honest news, where somebody leveled with you. Right?"

The other said ruefully, "Sure looks that way."

"Great! 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 appeared 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!"

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

"No sale there! A doctor! 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 often'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 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 thinking if 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 13

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, though this was seldom. Mostly he moved in urgent, precise, clipped movements - go, go, go and 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 failed 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.