Arthur Hailey - Wheels

When he was sure of a reaction, Gropetti would spring instantly back so that the camera - already operating at the director's covert signal - would catch full facial expressions and spontaneous words. Afterward, with limitless patience, Gropetti would repeat the process until he had what he sought - a glimpse of personality, good or bad, amiable or savage, but vital and real, and without the clumsy intrusion of an interviewer.

Barbara had already seen rushes and rough cuts of the results, and was excited. Photographically, they had the quality and depth of Karsh portraits, plus Gropetti's magic mix of vibrant animation.

"Since we're calling the film Auto City," Keith Yates-Brown had commented when she told him all that, "maybe you should wise up Gropetti that there are motorcars around as well as people, and we'll expect to see some - preferably our client's - on the screen."

Barbara sensed that the agency supervisor was having second thoughts about the over - all authority she had been given. But he would also know that any film project needed to have someone firmly in charge and, until the OJL agency removed or fired her, Barbara was.

She assured Yates-Brown, "There will be cars in the picture - the client's.

We're not emphasizing them, but we're not concealing them either, so most people will recognize the kind they are." She had gone on to describe the filming already done in the auto company's assembly plant, with emphasis on inner city hard core hiring - and Rollie Knight.

During the assembly plant filming, other workers nearby had been unaware that Rollie was the center of the camera's attention. Partly, this was out of consideration for Rollie, who wanted it that way, and partly to keep the atmosphere realistic.

Leonard Wingate of Personnel, who became interested in Barbara's project the night they met at Brett DeLosanto's apartment, had arranged the whole thing without fuss. All that anyone in the plant knew was that a portion of Assembly was being filmed, for purposes unexplained, while regular work went on. Only Wes Gropetti, Barbara, and the camera- and soundmen realized that a good deal of the time they appeared to be shooting, they were not, and that most of the footage taken featured Rollie Knight.

The only sound recording at this point was of assembly plant noises while they happened, and afterward Barbara had listened to the sound tape played back. It was a nightmare cacophony, incredibly effective as a background to the visual sequence.

Rollie Knight's voice, which would be dubbed in later, was to be recorded during a visit by Gropetti and the film crew to the inner city apartment house where Rollie and May Lou, his girlfriend, lived. Leonard Wingate would be there. So - though Barbara did not report the fact to Keith Yates-Brown - would Brett DeLosanto.

On the telephone, Keith Yates-Brown had cautioned, "Just remember we're spending a lot of the client's money which we'll have to account for."

"We've stayed within budget," Barbara reported. "And the client seems to like what we've done so far. At least, the chairman of the board does."

She heard a sound on the telephone which could have been Keith Yates-Brown leaping from his chair.

"You've been in touch with the client's chairman of the board!" The reaction could not have been greater if she had said the Pope or the President of the United States.

"He came to visit our shooting on location. The day after, Wes Gropetti took some of the film and screened it in the chairman's office."

"You let that foul-mouthed hippie Gropetti loose on the fifteenth floor!"

"Wes seemed to think that he and the chairman got along well."

"He thought so! You didn't even go yourself?"

"I couldn't that day."

"Oh, my God!" Barbara could visualize the agency supervisor, his face paling, a hand clapped to his head.

She reminded him, "You told me yourself that the chairman was interested, and I might report to him occasionally."

"But not casually! Not without letting us know here, in advance, so we could plan what you should say. And as for sending Gropetti on his own . . ."

I was going to tell you," Barbara said, "the client's chairman phoned me next day. He said he thought our agency had shown commendable imagination - those were his words - in getting Wes Gropetti to begin with, and urged us to go on giving Wes his head because this was the kind of thing which ought to be a director's film. The chairman said he was putting all that in a letter to the agency."

She heard heavy breathing on the line. "We haven't got the letter yet.

When it comes . . ." A pause. "Barbara, I guess you're doing fine."

Yates-Brown's voice became pleading. "But don't, please don't, take chances, and let me know anything instantly about the client's chairman of the board."

She had promised that she would, after which Keith Yates-Brown - still nervously - repeated that he wished they had a script.

Now, several days later and scriptless as ever, Wes Gropetti was ready to film the final sequence involving hard core hiring and Rollie Knight.

Early evening.

Eight of them, altogether, were packed into the stiflingly hot, sketchily furnished room.

For Detroit generally, and especially the inner city, it had been a baking, windless summer day. Even now, with the sun gone, most of the heat - inside and out - remained.

Rollie Knight and May Lou were two of the eight because this was where - for the time being - they lived. Though the room was tiny by any standard, it served the dual purpose of living and sleeping, while a closet-sized "kitchen" adjoining housed a sink with cold water only, a decrepit gas cooker, and a few plain board shelves. There was no toilet or bath. These facilities, such as they were, were one floor down and shared with a half dozen other apartments.

Rollie looked morose, as if wishing he had not agreed to be involved with this. May Lou, childlike and seeming to have sprouted like a weed with skinny legs and bony arms, appeared scared, though she was becoming less so as Wes Gropetti, his black beret in place despite the heat, talked quietly to her.

Behind the director were the camera operator and soundman, their equipment deployed awkwardly in the confined space. Barbara Zaleski stood with them, her notebook opened.

Brett DeLosanto, watching, was amused to see that Barbara, as usual, had dark glasses pushed up into her hair.

The camera lights were off. Everyone knew that when they went on, the room would become hotter still.

Leonard Wingate, from the auto maker's Personnel department and also the company's ranking Negro executive, mopped his perspiring face with a fresh linen handkerchief. Both he and Brett were backed against a wall, trying to take as little space as possible.

Suddenly, though only the two technicians had seen Gropetti's signal, the lights were on, the sound tape running.

May Lou blinked. But as the director continued to talk softly, she nodded and her face adjusted. Then swiftly, smoothly, Gropetti eased rearward, out of camera range.

May Lou said naturally, as if unaware of anything but her own thoughts,

"Ain't no good worryin', not about no future like they say we should, 'cos it ain't ever looked as if there'd be one for some like us." She shrugged. "Don't look no different now."

Gropetti's voice. "Cut!"

Camera lights went out. The director moved in, whispering in May Lou's ear once more. After several minutes, while the others waited silently, the camera lights went on. Gropetti slid back.

May Lou's face was animated. "Sure they took our color TV." She glanced across the room toward an empty corner. "Two guys come for it, said we hadn't made no payments after the first. One of the guys wanted to know, why'd we buy it? I told him, 'Mister, if I got a down payment today, I can watch TV tonight. Some days that's all that matters.'" Her voice slipped lower. "I shoulda told him, 'Who knows about tomorrow?'"