Arthur Hailey - Wheels

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.

A svelte United Air Lines ground hostess brought coffee to Brett DeLosanto who was telephoning from United's 100,000-Mile Club at Detroit Metropolitan Airport. It was close to 9 A.M., and the pleasantly appointed club lounge was quiet in contrast to the noisy, bustling terminal outside. No strident flight announcements were ever made here. The service - as became the VIP crowd - was more personal, and muted.

"There's no enormous hurry, Mr. DeLosanto," the girl said as she put the coffee on a table beside the tilt-back chair in which Brett was reclining while he phoned, "but Flight 81 to Los Angeles will begin boarding in a few minutes."

"Thanks!" Brett told Adam Trenton with whom he had been conversing for the past few minutes, "I have to go soon. The bird to Paradise awaits."

"Never thought of L.A. as being that," Adam said.

Brett sipped his coffee. "It's part of California, which viewed from Detroit is Paradise whichever way you slice the oranges."

Adam was speaking from his office at the company staff building, where Brett had called him. They had been discussing the Orion. A few days ago, with Job One - the first production Orion - only two weeks away, several color matching problems had arisen affecting soft trim inside the car. A design "surveillance group," which stayed with any new car through all its stages of production, had reported that some interior plastic delivered for manufacture looked "icy" - a serious fault - and upholstery, carpeting, and head lining were not the exact match they ought to be.

Colors were always a problem. Any car had as many as a hundred separate pieces which must match a color key, yet the materials had differing chemical compositions and pigment bases, making it difficult to achieve identical color shades. Working against a deadline, a design team and representatives from Purchasing and Manufacturing had finally rectified all differences, news just received by Adam with relief.

Brett had been tempted to mention the newer project, Farstar, on which work was proceeding excitingly on several fronts. But he caught himself in time, remembering he was on an outside telephone, also that this airline club room, where several other passengers relaxed while awaiting flights, was used by executives from competing companies.

"Something you'll be pleased to know," Adam told Brett. "I decided to try to help Hank Kreisel with his thresher. I sent young Castaldy over to Grosse Pointe to look at it; he came back full of enthusiasm, so then I talked with Elroy Braithwaite who seemed favorable. Now, we're preparing a report for Hub."

"Great!" The young designer's pleasure was genuine. He realized he had let emotion sway judgment in putting pressure on Adam to support Hank Kreisel's scheme, but so what? More and more, nowadays, Brett believed the auto industry had public obligations it was not fulfilling, and something like the thresher gave the industry a chance to utilize its resources in filling an admitted need.

"Of course," Adam pointed out, "the whole thing may never get past Hub."

"Let's hope you pick a 'cloud-of-dust' day to tell him."

Adam understood the reference. Hub Hewitson, the company's executive vice-president, when liking an idea, whirled himself and others into instant, feverish action, raising - as associates put it - clouds of dust. The Orion had been a Hub Hewitson dust cloud, and still was; so had other successes, failures too, though the latter were usually forgotten as fresh Hewitson dust erupted elsewhere.

"I'll look out for one of those days," Adam promised. "Have a good trip."

"So long, friend." Brett swallowed the remainder of his coffee, patted the airline hostess amiably on the rump as he passed her, then headed for the flight departure gate.

United's Flight 81 - Detroit nonstop to Los Angeles - took off on schedule.

Like many who live frenetic lives on the ground, Brett enjoyed transcontinental air travel in the luxury of first class. Any such journey assured four or five hours of relaxation, interspersed pleasantly with drinks, good food and service, plus the complacent knowledge of not being reachable by telephone or otherwise, no matter how many urgencies boiled over down below.

Today, Brett used much of the journey merely to think, reviewing aspects of his life - past, present, future - as he saw them. Thus occupied, the time passed quickly and he was surprised to realize, during an announcement from the flight deck, that nearly four hours had elapsed since takeoff.

"We're crossing the Colorado River, folks," the captain's voice rattled on the PA. "This is a point where three states meet - California, Nevada, Arizona - and it's a beautiful day in all of them, with visibility about a hundred miles. Those of you sitting on the right side can see Las Vegas and the Lake Mead area. If you're on the left, that water down there is Lake Havasu where London Bridge is being rebuilt."