Wheels

The moment Smokey had seen her, during a visit to the bank a year ago, he sensed a potential ally. Subsequently he telephoned, invited Yolanda to lunch and from that point let their friendship grow. Now, they met every two months or so; in between he sent her flowers, or candy which she devoured by the pound, and twice Smokey had taken her overnight to a motel. The latter occasions he preferred not to think about too much, but Yolanda - who had few such experiences come her way-remained pathetically grateful, a gratitude she repaid with periodic and useful intelligence from the bank.

"Our adjusters are planning some surprise dealer stock audits," she advised him on the phone last night. "I thought you'd want to know - your name is on the list."

He had asked, instantly alert, "When do the audits start?"

"First thing tomorrow, though no one's supposed to know." Yolanda added,

"I couldn't call sooner because I've been working late and didn't think I should use an office phone."

"You're a bright kid. How long's the list?"

"Eight dealers are on it. I copied the names. Shall I read them?"

He blessed her thoroughness. "Please, baby."

Smokey was relieved to find his own name last but one. If the adjusters took the names in order, which was normal, it meant they wouldn't get to him until three days from now. So he had two days to work with, which wasn't much, but better than having a snap audit pulled tomorrow. He noted the other dealers' names. Three were acquaintances whom he would tip off; some other time they might repay the favor.

He told Yolanda, "You're a sweet kid to call me. We haven't seen enough of each other lately."

They ended with exchanges of affection, and Smokey sensed this was going to cost him another night at the motel, but it was worth it.

Next morning, early, he summoned Lottie, whom he also obliged in basic ways occasionally, but who never, at any time, failed to call him "Mr. Stephensen, sir." Her report - that the Stephensen dealership was seriously out of trust - resulted.

"Out of trust - meant that Smokey had sold cars, but had not turned the proceeds over to the bank which loaned him the money to buy them to begin with. The cars were the bank's security against its loan; therefore, since it had not been informed otherwise, the bank believed the cars were still safely in Smokey's inventory. In fact, forty-three thousand dollars worth of cars was gone.

Some sales had been reported to the bank over the past few weeks, but by no means all, and an audit of the dealership's stock - which banks and finance companies insisted on periodically - would reveal the deficiency.

The ex-race driver ruminated as he rubbed his beard again.

Smokey knew, as did all auto dealers, that it was normal for a dealership to be out of trust occasionally, and sometimes necessary. The trick was not to go too far, and not to get caught.

A reason for the problem was that car dealers had to find cash for each new car they took into stock, usually borrowing from banks or finance companies. But sometimes borrowing was not enough. A dealer's cash might be short, yet cash was needed - to pay for still more cars if the immediate sales outlook was good, or to meet expenses.

What dealers did, of course, was go slow in processing their paper work after any sale was consummated. Thus, a dealer might receive payment from a customer who bought a car, then subsequently the dealer would take a leisurely week or so to report the sale to his own creditors, the bank or finance company. During that time the dealer had the use of the money involved. Furthermore, at the end of it there would be more sales overlapping, which in turn could be processed slowly, so the dealer could use - again temporarily - the many from those. In a way, it was like a juggling act.

Banks and finance companies knew the juggling went on and - within reason - condoned it by allowing dealers to be briefly, if unofficially, out of trust." They were unlikely, however, to tolerate an out-of-trust figure as large as Smokey's was at this moment.

Smokey Stephensen said softly, "Lottie, we gotta get some cars back in stock before those audit guys get here."

"I thought you'd say that, Mr. Stephensen, sir, so I made a list." The bookkeeper passed two clipped sheets across the desk. "These are all our customer deliveries for the past two weeks."

"Good girl!" Smokey scanned the list, noting approvingly that Lottie had included an address and telephone number against each name, as well as noting the model of car purchased and its price. He began ticking addresses which were reasonably near.

"We'll both get on the phone," Smokey said. "I've marked fourteen names to start. I'll take the top seven; you call the others. We need cars tomorrow morning, early. You know what to say."

"Yes, Mr. Stephensen, sir." Lottie, who had been through this before, was copying Smokey's notations on a duplicate list of her own. She would do her telephoning from the downstairs cubicle where she worked.

When Lottie had gone, Smokey Stephensen dialed the first number on his list. A pleasant female voice answered, and he identified himself.

"Just called," Smokey announced in his most mellifluous salesman's style,

"to see how you good folks are enjoying that new car we had the privilege of selling you."

"We like it." The woman sounded surprised. "Why? Is anything wrong?"

"Nothing in the least wrong, ma'am. I'm simply making a personal check, the way I do with all my customers, to make sure everybody's happy.

That's the way I run my business."

"Well," the woman said, "I guess it's a good way. Not many people seem to care that much nowadays."

"We care." Smokey had a cigar going by now; his feet were on the desk, chair tilted back. "All of us here care very much indeed. And about that, I have a suggestion for you."

"Yes?"

"Now that you've given your car some initial use, why not run it in to us tomorrow, let our service department give it a thorough check. That way we can see if anything wrong has shown up, as well as adjust anything else that's needed."

"But we've had the car less than a week .

"All the more reason," Smokey said expansively, "for making sure everything's in tiptop shape. We'd like to do it for you; we really would. And there'll be no charge."

"You're certainly a different kind of car dealer," the woman on the phone said.

"I'd like to think that, ma'am. In any case, it's kind of you to say so."

They arranged that the car would be brought to the service department by eight o'clock the following morning. Smokey explained he wanted to allot one of his best mechanics to the job, and this would be easier if the car came early. The woman's husband, who usually drove to his office downtown, would either ride with someone else or take a bus.

Smokey made another call with similar results. With the two after that, he met resistance tomorrow would not be convenient to release the cars; sensing firmness, he didn't press the point.

Making the fifth call he revised his tactics, though for no particular reason except as a change.

"We're not absolutely certain," Smokey informed the car's owner - a man who answered the telephone himself - "but we think your new car may have a defect. Frankly, I'm embarrassed to have to call you, but the way we feel about our customers, we don't like to take the slightest chance."

"No need to be embarrassed," the man said. "I'm glad you did call. What's the trouble?"

"We believe there may be a small exhaust leak, with carbon monoxide seeping into the passenger compartment. You or your passengers wouldn't smell it, but it might be dangerous. To be honest, it's something we've discovered on a couple of cars we received from the factory this week, and we're checking all others we've had recently to be on the safe side. I hate to admit it, but it looks as if there may have been a minor factory error."

"You don't have to tell me; I know how it is," the man said. "I'm in business myself, get labor problems all the time. The kind of help you get nowadays, they just don't care. But I sure appreciate your attitude."

"It's the way I run my shop," Smokey declared, "as I'm sure you do yours. So we can count on having your car here tomorrow morning?"

"Sure can. I'll run it in early."

"That's a big load off my mind. Naturally, there'll be no charge and, by the way, when you use the car between now and tomorrow, do me a favor and drive with a window open." The artist in Smokey could seldom resist the extra embellishment.

"Thanks for the tip! And I'll tell you something, mister - I'm impressed. Shouldn't be surprised if we do business again."

Smokey hung up, beaming.

At midmorning, Lottie Potts and her employer compared results. The bookkeeper had managed to get four cars promised for next day, Smokey five. The total of nine would have been enough if all the cars arrived, but between now and tomorrow morning some owners might change their minds or have problems arise to prevent them coming. Smokey decided to be safe.

He selected another eight names from Lottie's list, and the two of them went back to telephoning. By noon, the owners of thirteen cars, in all, had agreed to return them to the Stephensen dealership early the following day for a variety of reasons.

Next was a conference between Smokey and his service manager, Vince Mixon.

Mixon was a cheerful whippet of a man, bald and in his late sixties, who ran the service department like a skillful maitre d'. He could diagnose instantly the ailments of any car, his organizational work was good, and customers liked him. But Vince Mixon had a weakness: he was an alcoholic.