"Gimme the bad news," Smokey Stephensen told Lottie Potts, his bookkeeper.
"How much am I out of trust?"
Lottie, who looked and frequently behaved like a female Uriah Heep, but had a mind as sharp as razor blades, did quick arithmetic with a slim gold pencil.
"Counting those cars we just delivered, Mr. Stephensen, sir, forty-three thousand dollars."
"How much cash is in the bank, Lottie?"
"We can meet the payroll this week and next, Mr. Stephensen, sir. Not much more."
"Um." Smokey Stephensen rubbed a hand over his heavy beard, then leaned back, lacing his fingers over his belly which had grown larger lately; he reminded himself, absently, that he must do something about his weight soon, like going on a diet, though the thought depressed him.
Characteristically, Smokey was not alarmed about the financial crisis in which, this morning, he suddenly found himself. He had weathered others and would manage this one somehow. He pondered over Lottie's figures, doing further mental calculations of his own.
The day was Tuesday, in the first week of August, and the two of them were in Smokey's mezzanine office at the big suburban car dealership, Smokey behind his desk, wearing the blue silk jacket and brightly patterned tie which were like a uniform. Lottie, across from him, waited deferentially, several accounting ledgers spread open around her.
Smokey thought: There weren't many women around nowadays with Lottie's attitude. But then, if nature snarled at you at birth, making you as ugly as Lottie, you had to compensate in other ways. By God! She was a dog. At thirty-five, or thereabouts, she looked fifty, with her lumpish lopsided features, buck teeth, the suggestion of a squint, nondescript all-direction hair, appearing as if first grown on a coconut, a voice that grated like metal rims on cobblestones . . . Smokey switched his thoughts away, reminding himself that Lottie was utterly devoted, unquestionably loyal, unfailingly reliable, and that together they had clambered out of scrapes he might never have survived without her staff work.
Smokey had followed a dictum all his life: If you want a woman to stick beside you, pick an ugly one. Pretty girls were a luxury, but fickle. Ugly ones stayed to slice the meat and stir the gravy.
It was another ugly girl who had precipitated this morning's crisis.
Smokey was grateful that she had.
Her name was Yolanda and she had telephoned him at home late last night.
Yolanda worked for the downtown bank which Smokey dealt with, and which financed his dealer's inventory of cars. She was a vice-president's secretary, with access to confidential information.
Another thing about Yolanda was that stripped to bra and panties she weighed two hundred pounds.
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.
For ten months of each year he stayed on the wagon; twice a year, regularly, he fell off, sometimes with doleful consequences on the job.
No other employer would have tolerated the situation, and Mixon knew it; he also knew that if he lost his job, at his age he would never find another. Smokey, on the other hand, had shrewdly assessed the situation and figured advantages to himself. Vince Mixon was great when he functioned, and when he didn't Smokey managed. Smokey could also rely on his service manager not to be bothersome if ethics were bent occasionally; also, Mixon would do anything asked of him in tricky situations, such as now.
Together, they laid plans for tomorrow.
As each of the recalled cars arrived, it would be whisked to the service department and washed, its interior vacuumed, the engine wiped over carefully to ensure a new appearance if the hood was raised. Glove compartments would be emptied of owners' possessions; these were to be stored in plastic bags, the bags tagged so that contents could be replaced later. License plates would be removed, their numbers carefully noted to ensure that eventually the right plates went back on the right cars. Tires must have a coat of black paint to simulate newness, especially where any tread wear showed.
The cars - a dozen, or thereabouts - would then be driven onto the fenced lot behind the dealership where new cars, not yet sold, were stored.
And that was all. No other work, of any kind, would be performed, and two days from now - apart from the cleaning job - the cars would be returned to their owners exactly as brought in.
In the meantime, however, they would be on the premises for counting and inspection by the bank's adjusters who would be satisfied, Smokey hoped, that his inventory of unsold cars was the size it should be.
Smokey said thoughtfully, "Those bank guys may not get here till the day after tomorrow. But the people'll be expecting their cars back tomorrow night. You'll have to phone everybody in the afternoon, invent a lot of excuses for holding 'em an extra day."
"Don't worry," Vince Mixon assured him, "I'll dream up good reasons."
His employer eyed him sternly. "I won't worry, long as you lay off the juice."
The whippet-like service manager held up a hand. "Not a teaspoonful till this is over. I promise."
Smokey knew from experience that the promise would be kept, but in exacting it he had ensured that a bender would soon follow. It was a strategy which the dealer seldom used, but he had to be sure of Vince Mixon for the next forty-eight hours.
"How about odometers?" the service man asked. "Some of those cars'll have a few hundred miles on by now."
Smokey pondered. There was a danger there; some bank adjusters were wise to dealer tricks and checked everything during a new car audit, odometers included. Yet messing with odometers nowadays was becoming tricky because of state laws; also, those in this year's models were the tamper-proof kind.
"Nothing's tamper-proof," Mixon asserted when Smokey reminded him of this.
From a pocket the service manager produced a set of small, shaped metal keys. "See these? Made by a tool-and-die outfit called Expert Specialty in Greenville, South Carolina. Anybody can buy 'em and they'll reset odometers any which way; you name it."
"What about the new odometers - with white lines which drop if you change the numbers?"
"The lines are from plastic cases, set to break when you mess with them.
But the same people who made those keys sell new plastic cases, which won't break, for a dollar each. I got two dozen outside, more on order."
Mixon grinned. "Leave it to me, chief. Any odometer in that bunch showing over fifty miles, I'll turn back. Then before the owner gets the car again, I'll fix it the way it was."
Happily, Smokey clapped his employee on the shoulder. "Vince, we're in great shape!"
By the middle of next morning, it seemed they were.
As Smokey had anticipated, three of the promised cars failed to show, but the other ten were brought in as arranged, and were ample for his purpose. In the service department, washing, cleaning, and tire painting were going ahead briskly, taking priority over other work. Several of the cars had already been driven onto the storage lot, personally, by Vince Mixon.
Another item of good news was that the bank adjusters were conducting their audits in the order that the eight dealers' names appeared on Yolanda's list. Two of the three dealers whom Smokey tipped off yesterday had telephoned, with news from themselves and other dealerships which made this clear. It meant that Stephensen Motors could be sure of being checked tomorrow, though they would be ready by this afternoon.
Nor did Smokey have any real worries, provided he could get through today and tomorrow with his true stock position undetected. Business generally was excellent, the dealership sound, and he knew he could have his books back in order, and not be seriously out of trust, in a month or so. He admitted to himself: he had overextended a little, but then, he had gambled before and won, which was a reason he had lasted so long as a successful car dealer.
At 11:30 Smokey was relaxing in his mezzanine office, sipping coffee laced with brandy, when Adam Trenton walked in unannounced.
Smokey Stephensen had become slightly uneasy about Adam's visits, of which there had been several since their first meeting early in the year. He was even less pleased than usual to see Adam now.
"Hit" he acknowledged. "Didn't know you were coming in."
"I've been here an hour," Adam told him. "Most of the time in the service department."
The tone of voice and a certain set to Adam's face made Smokey uneasy. He grumbled, "Should think you might let me know when you get here. This is my shop."
"I would have, except you told me at the beginning . . ." Adam opened a black loose-leaf folder which he had carried during his last few visits and turned a page. "You told me the first time I came: 'Everything's wide open to you here, like a whorehouse with the roof off. You can see our books, files, inventories, just the way your sister would, as she's entitled to.' And later you said . . ."
Smokey growled. "Never mind! Didn't know I was talking to a recording machine." He stared suspiciously. "Maybe you been using one."
"If I had, you'd have known about it. I happen to have a clear memory, and when I'm involved in something I keep notes."
Smokey wondered what else was in the pages of the black folder. He invited Adam, "Sit down. Coffee?"
"No, thank you, and I'll stand. I came to tell you this is the last time I'll be in. I'm also informing you, because I think you're entitled to know, that I'm recommending my sister sell her stock in your business.
"Also" - Adam touched the black loose-leaf folder again - "I intend to turn this over to our company marketing department."
"You what?"
Adam said quietly, "I think you heard."
"Then what the hell is in there?"
"Among other things, the fact that your service department is, at this moment, systematically stripping several used cars of owner identification, faking them to look like new, and putting them with genuinely new cars on your storage lot. Your service manager, incidentally, has written bogus work orders on those cars for warranty which is not being performed but will be charged, no doubt, to our company. Right now I don't know the reason for what's happening, but think I can guess.
However, since Teresa is involved, I'm going to call your bank, report what I've seen, and ask if they can enlighten me."
Smokey Stephensen said softly, "Jesus Christ!"
He knew the roof had fallen in, in a way he had least expected. He realized, too, his own mistake from the beginning: It was in being open with Adam Trenton, in giving him the run of the place the way he had.
Smokey had sized up Adam as a bright, pleasant head office guy, undoubtedly good at his job or he wouldn't have it, but naive in other areas, including the running of an auto dealership. It was why Smokey had reasoned that openness would be a kind of deception because Adam might sense if information was being held back, and it would make him curious, whereas frankness wouldn't. Also, Smokey believed that when Adam realized his sister's interest in the dealership was being dealt with honestly, he would not concern himself with other things. Too late, the dealer was learning he had been wrong on every count.
"Do me one favor," Smokey urged. "Gimme a minute to think. Then at least, let's talk."
Adam answered curtly, "All you'll be thinking of is a way to stop me, and it won't work. And we've done all the talking needed."
The dealer's voice rose. "How the hell you know what I'll be thinking?"
"All right, I don't know. But I know this - that you're a crook."
"That's a goddamn lie! I could take you to court for it."
"I'm perfectly willing," Adam said, "to repeat the statement in front of witnesses, and you can summon me into any court you want. But you won't."
"How a crook?" Smokey supposed he might as well find out what he could.
Adam dropped into a chair facing the desk and opened the black loose-leaf book.
"You want the whole list?"
"Damn right!"
"You cheat on warranty. You charge the manufacturer for work that isn't done. You replace parts that don't need replacing, then put the removed ones back in your own stock to use again."
Smokey insisted, "Give me one example."
Adam turned pages. "I've a lot more than one, but this is typical." An almost-new car had come into Stephensen Motors' service department, Adam recited, its carburetor needing minor adjustment. But instead of being adjusted, the carburetor was removed, a new one installed, the manufacturer billed for warranty. Afterward, the removed carburetor had been given the minor repair it needed to begin with, then was placed in the service department's stock from where it was later sold as a new unit.
Adam had dates, work order and invoice numbers, the carburetor identification.
Smokey flushed. "Who said you could go snooping around my service records?"
"You did."
There were procedures to prevent that kind of fraud, as Adam knew. All Big Three manufacturers had them. But the vastness of organization, as well as the volume of work going through a big service depot, made it possible for dealers like Smokey to foil the system regularly.
He protested, "I can't keep tab of everything goes on in Service."
"You're responsible. Besides, Vince Mixon runs that shop the way you tell him, the way he's running it today.
Incidentally, another thing he does is pad customers' bills for labor. You want examples?"
Smokey shook his head. He had never suspected this son-of-a-bitch would be as thorough, or would even see and understand as much as he had. But even while Smokey listened, he was thinking hard, thinking the way he used to in a close race when he needed to pass or outmaneuver someone ahead of him on the track.
"Talking of customers," Adam said, "your salesmen still quote finance interest rates at so much a hundred dollars, even though the Truth in Lending Act makes that illegal."
"People prefer it that way."
"You mean you prefer it. Especially when an interest rate you quote as 'nine percent per hundred' means a true interest rate of over sixteen percent per year."
Smokey persisted, "That ain't so bad."
"I'll concede that. So would other dealers who do the same thing. What they might not like, though, is the way you cheat regularly on dealer sales contests. You postdate sales orders, change dates on others . . ."
Audibly, Smokey groaned. He waved a hand, surrendering. "Leave it, leave it!
Adam stopped.
Smokey Stephensen knew: This guy Trenton had the goods. Smokey might slide sideways out of some, or even all, the other finagling, but not this. Periodically, auto manufacturers awarded dealer bonuses - usually fifty to a hundred dollars a car - for every new car sale during specified periods. Since thousands of dollars were involved, such contests were carefully policed, but there were ways around the policing and Smokey, at times, had used them all. It was the kind of duplicity which a manufacturer's marketing department, if they learned of it, seldom forgave.
Smokey wondered if Adam knew, too, about the demonstrator cars - last year's models - which the dealership had sold as new after switching odometers. He probably did.
How in hell could one guy find out so much in just that little time?
Adam could have explained. Explained that to a top-flight automotive product planner, such matters as investigative research, detailed follow through, analysis, the piecing together of fragmentary information, were all like breathing. Also, Adam was used to working fast.
Smokey had his eyes cast down on the desk in front of him; he appeared to be taking the time to think for which he had asked a few minutes ago. Now he lifted his head and inquired softly, "Whose side you on, anyway? Just whose interests you looking out for?"
Adam had anticipated the question. Last night and earlier today he had asked it of himself.
"I came here representing my sister, Teresa, and her forty-nine percent financial interest in this business, I still do. But that isn't to say I'll condone dishonesty, and neither would Teresa, or her husband, Clyde, if he were alive. It's why I'll go through with what I told you."
"About that. First thing you gonna do is call the bank. Right?"
"Right."
"Okay, Mr. Smart-ass-noble-high-'n-mighty, let me tell you what'll happen. The bank'll panic. Inspectors'll be around this afternoon, tomorrow they get a court order, padlock this place, seize the stock.
Okay, next you say you'll hand them notes over to your company sales guys. Know what they'll do."
"At a guess, I'd say take away your franchise."
"No guessin'. It'll happen."
The two men eyed each other. The dealer leaned forward across the desk.
"So where's that leave Teresa and them kids? How much you think forty-nine percent of a dead business'd be worth?"
"It wouldn't be a dead business," Adam said. "The company would put someone in temporarily until a new dealer could be named."
"A temporary guy! How well d'you think he'd run a business he doesn't know? Into bankruptcy maybe."
"Since you've brought up bankruptcy," Adam said, "that seems to be the way you're headed now."
Smokey slammed down a fist so hard and savagely that everything on his desk top shook. "There'll be no bankruptcy! Not if I play it my way.
Only if we do it yours."
"So you say."
"Never mind what I say! I'll get my bookkeeper here right now! I'll prove it!"
"I've already been over the books with Miss Potts."
"Then, goddamn, you'll go over them again with me!" Smokey was on his feet, raging, towering over Adam. The dealer's hands clenched and unclenched. His eyes were blazing.
Adam shrugged.
Smokey used an inside line to phone Lottie. When she promised to come at once, he slammed the phone down, breathing hard.
It took an hour.
An hour of argument, of assertions by Smokey Stephensen, of the dealer's penciled calculations with which the desk top was now strewn, of amplification of her bookkeeping by Lottie Potts, of examination of financial precedents reaching back to earlier years.
At the end Adam admitted to himself that it could be done. Smokey just might, just could, have the business back in shape financially a month from now, allowing for certain unorthodoxies and assuming a continuing upward trend in new car sales. The alternative was a temporary management which - as Smokey pointed out - might prove disastrous.
Yet to accomplish the survival of Stephensen Motors, Adam would be obliged to condone deception and defrauding of the bank's adjusters. He had the knowledge now; it was no longer a matter of guessing. During their rehash of the facts, Smokey admitted his out-of-trust position and his scheming to survive tomorrow's new car audit.
Adam wished he didn't know. He wished fervently that his sister, Teresa, had never involved him in this at all. And for the first time he understood the wisdom of his company's Conflict of Interest rules which forbade auto company employees to become involved - financially or otherwise - with auto dealerships.
As Lottie Potts gathered together her ledgers and left, Smokey Stephensen stood challengingly, hands on hips, his eyes on Adam. "Well?"
Adam shook his head. "Nothing's changed."
"It'll change for Teresa," Smokey said softly. "One month a nice fat check, next month, maybe, nothing. Another thing - all that stuff you accused me of. You never said I cheated Teresa."
"Because you haven't. That's the one area where everything's in order."
"If I'd wanted to, I could have cheated her. Couldn't I?"
"I suppose so."
"But I didn't, and ain't that what you came here to find out?"
Adam said wearily, "Not entirely. My sister wanted to take a long term view." He paused, then added, "I've also an obligation to the company I work for."
"They didn't send you here."
"I know that. But I didn't expect to discover all I have and now - as a company man - I can't ignore it."
"You sure you can't? Not for the sake of Teresa and them kids?"
"I'm sure."
Smokey Stephensen rubbed his beard and ruminated. His outward anger had gone, and when he spoke his voice was low, with a note of pleading.
"I'll ask you to do one thing, Adamand, sure, it'd help me - but you'd be doing it for Teresa."
"Doing what?"
Smokey urged, "Walk out of here right now! Forget what you know about today! Then gimme two months to get finances back in shape because there's nothing wrong with this business that that amount of time won't fix. You know it."
"I don't know it."
"But you know the Orion's coming, and you know what it'll do to sales."
Adam hesitated. The reference to the Orion was like a flag planted in his own back yard. If he believed in the Orion, obviously he believed that, with it, Stephensen Motors would do well.
Adam asked curtly, "Suppose I agreed. What happens at the end of two months?"
The dealer pointed to the black loose-leaf notebook. "You hand over them notes to your company marketing guys, the way you said you would. So, okay, I'd have to sell out or lose the franchise, but it'd be a growing business that was sold. Teresa'd get twice as much for her half, maybe more, than she would from a forced sale now."
Adam hesitated. Though it still involved dishonesty, the compromise held a compelling logic.
"Two months," the ex-race driver pleaded. "That ain't so much to ask."
"One month," Adam said decisively. "One month from today; that's all."
As Smokey visibly relaxed and grinned, Adam knew he had been conned.
And now the decision was made, it left Adam depressed because he had acted against his own conscience and good judgment. But he was determined he would turn over to his company's marketing department, a month from now, the notes on Stephensen Motors.
Smokey, unlike Adam, was not depressed but buoyant. Though - with a dealer's instinct - he had asked for two months, he had wanted one.
In that time a lot might happen; something new could always turn up.