Arthur Hailey - Wheels

In the end, tonight, Adam had been impressed by his host's demonstration and ideas. But would Adam gain by involvement? Would it be wise or foolish to become Hank Kreisel's sponsor?

Erica's voice cut through his thoughts. "Even if there were some work, I should think it might be a lot more useful than those other things you do."

He answered sarcastically, "I suppose you'd like me to drop the Orion, Farstar . . ."

"Why not? Those won't feed anybody. Hank's machine will."

"The Orion will feed you and me."

Even as he said it, Adam knew his last remark was smug and foolish, that they were drifting into a needless argument, but Erica flashed back, "I suppose that's all you care about."

"No, it isn't. But there's a whole lot more to think of."

"For instance, what?"

"For instance, Hank Kreisel's an opportunist."

"I liked him."

"So I noticed."

Erica's voice was ice. "Just what do you mean by that?"

"Oh, hell! Nothing."

"I said: What do you mean?"

"All right," Adam answered, "while we were by the pool, he was mentally undressing you. You knew it, too. You didn't seem to mind."

Erica's cheeks were flushed. "Yes, I did know! And no, I didn't mind! If you want the truth, I liked it."

He said sourly, "Well, I didn't."

"I can't think why."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means Hank Kreisel's a man, and acts like one. That way, he makes a woman feel a woman."

"I suppose I don't."

"No, you bloody well don't!" Her anger filled the car. It shook him. He had the sense to know this had gone far enough.

Adam made his tone conciliatory. "Look, maybe lately if I haven't been . . ."

"You objected because Hank made me feel good. A woman. Wanted."

"Then I'm sorry. I suppose I said the wrong thing, didn't think enough about it." He added, "Besides, I want you."

"Do you? Do you?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why don't you take me any more?"

Don't you know it's two months since you did? Before that, weeks and weeks. And you make me feel so cheap telling you."

They had left the freeway. Conscience stricken, Adam stopped the car.

Erica was sobbing, her face against the window on the other side. He reached gently for her hand.

She snatched it back. "Don't touch me!"

"Look," Adam said, "I guess I'm a first-class dope . . ."

"No! Don't say it! Don't say anything!" Erica choked back tears. "Do you think I want you to take me now? After asking? How do you think a woman feels who has to ask?"

He waited a while, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do or say. Then he started the car and they drove the rest of the way to Quarton Lake in silence.

As usual, Adam let Erica out before heading into the garage. Leaving, she told him quietly, "I've thought a lot, and it isn't just tonight. I want a divorce."

He said, "We'll talk about it."

Erica shook her head.

When he came in, she was already in the guest room with the door locked.

That night for the first time since their marriage, they were in the same house and slept apart.

"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.