Arthur Hailey - Wheels

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.