Chapter 12


Now, winter gripped the Motor City. November had gone, then Christmas, and in early January the snow was deep, with skiing in northern Michigan, and ice heaped high and solidly along the shores of Lakes St. Clair and Erie.

As the new year came in, so preparations intensified for the Orion's debut, scheduled for mid-September. Manufacturing division, already huddled over plans for months, moved closer to plant conversions which would start in June, to produce the first production run Orion - job One, as it was called - in August. Then, six weeks of production - shrouded in secrecy - would be needed before the car's public unveiling. Meanwhile, Purchasing nervously co-ordinated an armada of materials, ordered, and due on vital days, while Sales and Marketing began hardening their endlessly debated, oft-changed plans for dealer introductions and promotion. Public Relations pressed forward with groundwork for its Lucullan freeload which would accompany the Orion's introduction to the press. Other divisions, in greater or less degree according to their functions, joined in the preparation.

And while the Orion program progressed, many in the company gave thought to Farstar, which would follow Orion, though its timing, shape, and substance were not yet known. Among these were Adam Trenton and Brett DeLosanto.

Something else which Adam was concerned with in January was the review of his sister Teresa's investment, bequeathed by her dead husband, in the auto dealership of Smokey Stephensen.

Approval from the company for Adam to involve himself with one of its dealers, however tenuously, had taken longer than expected, and had been given grudgingly after discussion by the Conflict of Interest committee. In the end, Hub Hewitson, executive vice-president, made a favorable ruling after Adam approached him personally. However, now that the time had come to fulfill his promise to Teresa, Adam realized how little he really needed, or wanted, an extra responsibility. His work load had grown, and an awareness of physical tension still bothered him. At home, relations with Erica seemed neither better nor worse, though he accepted the justice of his wife's complaint - repeated recently - that nowadays they had scarcely any time together. Soon, he resolved, he would find a way to put that right, but first, having accepted this new commitment, he would see it through.

Thus, on a Saturday morning, after arrangements made by telephone, Adam paid his first call on Smokey Stephensen.

The Stephensen dealership was in the northern suburbs, close to the boundary lines of Troy and Birmingham. Its location was good - on an important crosstown route, with Woodward Avenue, a main northwest artery, only a few blocks away.

Smokey, who had clearly been watching the street outside, strode through the showroom doorway onto the sidewalk, as Adam stepped from his car.

The ex-race driver, heavily bearded and now corpulent in middle-age, boomed, "Welcome! Welcome!" He wore a dark blue silk jacket with carefully creased black slacks and a wide, brightly patterned tie.

"Good morning," Adam said, "I'm . . ."

"No need to tell me! Seen your picture in Automotive News. Step in!"

The dealer held the showroom doorway wide.

"We always say there's only two reasons for a man to pass through here - to get out of the rain or buy himself wheels. I guess you're the exception."

Inside he declared, "Within half an hour we'll be using first names. I always say, why wait that long?" He held out a bear paw of a hand. "I'm Smokey."

"I'm Adam," Adam said. He managed not to wince as his hand was squeezed.

"Let me have your car keys." Smokey beckoned a young salesman who hurried across the showroom floor. "Park Mr. Trenton's car carefully, and don't sell it. Also, be sure you treat him with respect. His sister owns forty-nine percent of this joint, and if business don't pick up by noon, I may mail her the other fifty-one." He winked broadly at Adam.

"It's an anxious time for all of us," Adam said. He knew, from sales reports, that a post-holiday lull was being felt this year by all auto makers and dealers. Yet, if only car buyers knew, this was the best time in any year to make a favorable financial deal. With dealers heavily stocked with cars forced on them by factories, and sometimes desperate to reduce inventory, a shrewd car buyer might save several hundred dollars on a mediumpriced car, compared with buying a month or so later.

"I should be selling color televisions," Smokey growled. "That's what dopes put money in around Christmas and New Year's."

"But you did well at model changeover."

"Sure did." The dealer brightened. "You seen the figures, Adam?"

"My sister sent them to me."

"Never fails. You'd think people'd learn. Fortunately for us, they don't." Smokey glanced at Adam as they walked across the showroom. "You understand, I'm speaking freely?"

Adam nodded. "I think we should both do that."

He knew, of course, what Smokey Stephensen meant. At model introduction time - from September through November - dealers could sell every new car which factories would let them have. Then, instead of protesting the number of cars consigned - as they did at other times of year - dealers pleaded for more. And despite all adverse publicity about automobiles, the public still flocked to buy when models were new, or after major changes. What such buyers didn't know, or didn't care about, was that this was open season on customers, when dealers could be toughest in bargaining; also, the early cars after any production change were invariably less well made than others which would follow a few months later. With any new model, manufacturing snags inevitably arose while engineers, foremen, and hourly workers learned to make the car. Equally predictable were shortages of components or parts, resulting in manufacturing improvisations which ignored quality standards. As a result, an early car was often a poor buy from a quality point of view.

Knowledgeable buyers wanting a new model waited until four to six months after production began. By that time, chances were, they would get a better car because bugs would have been eliminated and production - except for Monday and Friday labor problems which persisted through all seasons - would be smoothly settled down.

Smokey Stephensen declared, "Everything's wide open to you here, Adam - like a whorehouse with the roof off. You can see our books, files, inventories, you name it; just the way your sister would, as she's entitled to. And ask questions, you'll get straight answers."

"You can count on questions," Adam said, "and later I'll need to see those things you mentioned.

What I also want - which may take longer - is to get a feeling about the way you operate."

"Sure, sure; any way you want is fine with me." The auto dealer led the way up a flight of stairs to a mezzanine which ran the length of the showroom below. Most of the mezzanine was occupied by offices. At the top of the stairs the two men paused to look down, viewing the cars of various model lines, polished, immaculate, colorful, which dominated the showroom floor. Along one side of the showroom were several cubicle-type offices, glass-paneled, for use by salesmen. An open doorway gave access to a corridor, leading to Parts and Service, out of sight.

Already at midmorning, despite the quiet season, several people were viewing the cars, with salesmen hovering nearby.

"Your sister's got a good thing going here, poor old Clyde's dough working for her and all them kids." Smokey glanced at Adam shrewdly.

What's Teresa stewing over? She's been getting checks. We'll have a year-end audited statement soon."

Adam pointed out, "Mostly it's the long term Teresa's thinking of. You know I'm here to advise her: Should she sell her stock or not?"

"Yeah, I know." Smokey ruminated. "I don't mind telling you, Adam, if you advise 'sell,' it'll make things rugged for me."

"Why?"

"Because I couldn't raise the dough to buy Teresa's stock. Not now, with money tight."

"As I understand it," Adam said, "if Teresa decides to sell her share of the business, you have a sixty-day option to buy her out. If you don't, then she's free to sell elsewhere."

Smokey acknowledged, "That's the way of it." But his tone was glum.

What Smokey didn't relish, obviously, was the possibility of a new partner, perhaps fearing that someone else would want to be active in the business or could prove more troublesome than a widow two thousand miles away. Adam wondered what, precisely, lay behind Smokey's unease. Was it a natural wish to run his own show without interference, or were things happening in the dealership which he preferred others not to know? Whatever the reason, Adam intended to find out if he could.

"Let's go in my office, Adam." They moved from the open mezzanine into a small but comfortable room, furnished with green leather armchairs and a sofa. A desk top and a swivel chair had the same material. Smokey saw Adam look around.

"The guy I got to furnish this wanted it all red. I told him, "Nuts to that! The only red'll ever get in this business'll be by accident."'

One side of the office, almost entirely window, fronted the mezzanine.

The dealer and Adam stood looking down at the showroom as if from a ship's bridge.

Adam motioned toward the row of sales offices below, "You have a monitoring system?"

For the first time, Smokey hesitated. "Yeah."

"I'd like to listen. The sales booth right there." In one of the glassed enclosures a young salesman, with a boyish face and a shock of blond hair, faced two prospective customers, a man and a woman. Papers were spread over a desk between them."

"I guess you can." Smokey was less than enthusiastic. But he opened a sliding panel near his desk to reveal several switches, one of which he clicked. Immediately, voices became audible through a speaker recessed into the wall.

". . . course, we can order the model you want in Meadow Green." The voice was obviously the young salesman's. "Too bad we don't have one in stock."

Another male voice responded; it had an aggressive nasal quality. "We can wait. That's if we make a deal here. Or we might go someplace else."

"I understand that, sir. Tell me something, merely out of interest. The Galahad model, in Meadow Green; the one you were both looking at. How much more do you think that would cost?"

"I already told you," the nasal voice said. "A Galahad's out of our price range."

"But just out of interest - name any figure. How much more?"

Smokey chuckled. "Attaboy, Pierre!" He seemed to have forgotten his reluctance about Adam listening. "He's selling 'em up."

The nasal voice said grudgingly, "Well, maybe two hundred dollars."

Adam could see the salesman smile. "Actually," he said softly, "it's only seventy-five."

A woman's voice interceded. "Dear, if it's only that much . . ."

Smokey guffawed. "You can hook a woman that way, every time. The dame's already figured she's saved a hundred and twenty-five bucks. Pierre hasn't mentioned a cuppla options extra on that Galahad. But he'll get to it."

The salesman's voice said, "Why don't we take another look at the car?

I'd like to show you . . ."

As the trio rose, Smokey snapped off the switch.

"That salesman," Adam said. "I've seen his face . . ."

"Sure. He's Pierre Flodenhale."

Now Adam remembered. Pierre Flodenhale was a race driver whose name, in the past year or two, had become increasingly well-known nationally. Last season he had had several spectacular wins.

"When things are quiet around the tracks," Smokey said, "I let Pierre work here. Suits us both. Some people recognize him; they like to have him sell them a car so they can tell their friends. Either way, he's a good sales joe. He'll cinch that deal."

"Perhaps he'd buy in as a partner. If Teresa drops out."

Smokey shook his head. "Not a chance. The kid's always broke; it's why he moonlights here. All race drivers are the same - blow their dough faster'n they make it, even the big winners. Their brains get flooded like carburetors; they figure the purse money'll keep coming in forever."

"You didn't."

"I was a smart cookie. Still am."

They discussed dealer philosophy. Smokey told Adam, "This never was a sissie business; now it's getting tougher. Customers are smarter. A dealer has to stay smarter still. But it's big, and you can win big."

At talk of consumerism, Smokey bridled. "The 'poor consumer' is taking goddamn good care of himself. The public was greedy before; consumerism made it worse. Now, everybody wants the best deal ever, with free service forevermore. How about a little 'dealerism' sometime? A dealer has to fight to survive."

While they talked, Adam continued to watch activity below. Now he pointed to the sales booths again. "That first one. I'd like to hear."

The sliding panel had remained open. Smokey reached out and clicked a switch.

". . . deal. I'm telling you, you won't do better anywhere else." A salesman's voice again; this time an older man than Pierre Flodenhale, graying, and with a sharper manner. The prospective customer, a woman whom Adam judged to be in her thirties, appeared to be alone. Momentarily he had a guilty sense of snooping, then reminded himself that use of concealed microphones by dealers, to monitor exchanges between salesmen and car buyers, was widespread. Also, only by listening as he was doing now, could Adam judge the quality of communication between Smokey Stephensen's dealership and its clients.

"I'm riot as sure as you," the woman said. "With the car I'm trading in as good as it is, I think your price is a hundred dollars high." She started to get up. "I'd better try somewhere else."

They heard the salesman sigh. "I'll go over the figures one more time."

The woman subsided. A pause, then the salesman again. "You'll be financing the new car, right?"

"Yes."

"And you'd like us to arrange financing?"

"I expect so." The woman hesitated. "Well, yes."

From his own knowledge, Adam could guess how the salesman's mind was working. With almost every financed sale a dealer received a kickback from the bank or finance company, usually a hundred dollars, sometimes more. Banks and others made the payments as a means of getting business, for which competition was keen. In a tight deal, knowledge that the money would be coming could be used to make a last-minute price cut, rather than lose the sale entirely.

As if he had read Adam's mind, Smokey murmured, "Chuck knows the score.

We don't like to lose our kickback, but sometimes we have to."

"Perhaps we can do a little better." It was the salesman in the booth again. "What I've done is, on your trade . . ."

Smokey snapped the switch, cutting the details off .

Several newcomers had appeared in the showroom; now a fresh group moved into another sales booth. But Smokey seemed dissatisfied. "To make the joint pay I have to sell two thousand five hundred cars a year, and business is slow, slow."

Knuckles rapped on the office door outside. As Smokey called, "Yeah," it opened to admit the salesman who had been dealing with the woman on her own. He held a sheaf of papers which Smokey took, skimmed over, then said accusingly, "She outbluffed you. You didn't have to use all the hundred.

She'd have settled for fifty."

"Not that one." The salesman glanced at Adam, then away. "She's a sharpie.

Some things you can't see from up here, boss. Like what's in people's eyes. I tell you, hers are hard."

"How would you know? When you gave my money away, you were probably looking up her skirts, so you let her take you."

The salesman looked pained.

Smokey scribbled a signature and handed the papers back. "Get the car delivered."

They watched the salesman leave the mezzanine and return to the booth where the woman waited.

"Some things to remember about salesmen," Smokey Stephensen said. "Pay 'em well, but keep 'em off balance, and never trust one. A good many'll take fifty dollars under the desk for a sweet deal, or for steering finance business, as soon as blow their nose."

Adam motioned to the switch panel. Once more Smokey touched it and they were listening to the salesman who had left the office moments earlier.

". . . your copy. We keep this one."

"Is it properly signed?"


"Sure is." Now that the deal was made, the salesman was more relaxed; he leaned across the desk, pointing. "Right there. The boss's fist."

"Good." The woman picked up the sales contract, folded it, then announced, "I've been thinking while you were away, and I've decided not to finance after all. I'll pay cash, with a deposit check now and the balance when I pick up the car on Monday."

There was a silence from the sales booth.

Smokey Stephensen slammed a meaty fist into his palm. "The smartass bitch!"

Adam looked at him inquiringly.

"That lousy broad planned that! She knew all along she wouldn't finance."

From the booth they heard the salesman hesitate. "Well . . . that could make a difference."

"A difference to what? The price of the car?" The woman inquired coolly,

"How could it unless there's some concealed charge you haven't told me about? The Truth in Lending Act . . ."

Smokey stormed from the window to his desk, snatched up an inside phone and dialed. Adam saw the salesman reach for a receiver.

Smokey snarled, "Let the cow have the car. We'll stand by the deal." He slammed down the phone, then muttered, "But let her come back for service after warranty's out, she'll be sorry!"

Adam said mildly, "Perhaps she'll think of that, too."

As if she had heard him, the woman looked up toward the mezzanine and smiled.

"There's too many know-it-alls nowadays." Smokey returned to stand beside Adam. "Too much written in the newspapers; too many twobit writers sticking their noses where they've no goddamn business. People read that crap." The dealer leaned forward, surveying the showroom. "So what happens? Some, like that woman, go to a bank, exchange financing before they get here, but don't tell us till the deal is made. They let us think we're to set up the financing. So we figure our take - or some of it - into the sale, then we're hooked, and if a dealer backs out of a signed sales contract, he's in trouble. Same thing with insurance; we like arranging car insurance because our commission's good; life insurance on finance payments is even better." He added moodily, "At least the broad didn't take us on insurance, too."

Each incident so far, Adam thought, had given him a new, inside glimpse of Smokey Stephensen.

I suppose you could look at it from a customer's point of view," Adam prompted. "They want the cheapest financing, most economical insurance, and people are learning they don't get either from a dealer, and that they're better off arranging their own. When there's a payoff to the dealer - finance or insurance - they know it's the customer who pays because the extra money's incorporated in his rates or charges."

Smokey said dourly, "A dealer's gotta live, too. Besides, what people didn't used to know, they didn't worry after."

In another sales booth below, an elderly couple were seating themselves, a salesman facing them. A moment earlier, the trio had walked from a demonstrator car they had been examining. As Adam nodded, under Smokey's hand a switch clicked once more.

". . . really like to have you folks for clients because Mr. Stephensen runs a quality dealership and we're happiest when we sell to quality people."

"That's a nice thing to hear," the woman said.

"Well, Mr. Stephensen's always telling us salesmen, 'Just don't think of the car you're selling today. Think of how you can give folks good service; also that they'll be coming back two years from now, and perhaps another two or three after that."'

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?"

"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.

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