Arthur Hailey - Wheels

"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.