'I should be selling color televisions,' Smokey growled. 'That's what dopes put money in around Christmas and New Year's.'
'But you did well at model changeover.'
'Sure did.' The dealer brightened. 'You seen the figures, Adam?'
'My sister sent them to me.'
'Never fails. You'd think people'd learn. Fortunately for us, they don't.' Smokey glanced at Adam as they walked across the showroom. 'You understand, I'm speaking freely?'
Adam nodded. 'I think we should both do that.'
He knew, of course, what Smokey Stephensen meant. At model introduction time - from September through November - dealers could sell every new car which factories would let them have. Then, instead of protesting the number of cars consigned - as they did at other times of year - dealers pleaded for more. And despite all adverse publicity about automobiles, the public still flocked to buy when models were new, or after major changes. What such buyers didn't know, or didn't care about, was that this was open season on customers, when dealers could be toughest in bargaining; also, the early cars after any production change were invariably less well made than others which would follow a few months later. With any new model, manufacturing snags inevitably arose while engineers, foremen, and hourly workers learned to make the car. Equally predictable were shortages of components or parts, resulting in manufacturing improvisations which ignored quality standards. As a result, an early car was often a poor buy from a quality point of view.
Knowledgeable buyers wanting a new model waited until four to six months after production began. By that time, chances were, they would get a better car because bugs would have been eliminated and production - except for Monday and Friday labor problems which persisted through all seasons - would be smoothly settled down.
Smokey Stephensen declared, 'Everything's wide open to you here, Adam - like a whorehouse with the roof off. You can see our books, files, inventories, you name it; just the way your sister would, as she's entitled to. And ask questions, you'll get straight answers.'
'You can count on questions,' Adam said, 'and later I'll need to see those things you mentioned.
What I also want - which may take longer - is to get a feeling about the way you operate.'
'Sure, sure; any way you want is fine with me.' The auto dealer led the way up a flight of stairs to a mezzanine which ran the length of the showroom below. Most of the mezzanine was occupied by offices. At the top of the stairs the two men paused to look down, viewing the cars of various model lines, polished, immaculate, colorful, which dominated the showroom floor. Along one side of the showroom were several cubicle-type offices, glass-paneled, for use by salesmen. An open doorway gave access to a corridor, leading to Parts and Service, out of sight.
Already at midmorning, despite the quiet season, several people were viewing the cars, with salesmen hovering nearby.
'Your sister's got a good thing going here, poor old Clyde's dough working for her and all them kids.' Smokey glanced at Adam shrewdly.
What's Teresa stewing over? She's been getting checks. We'll have a year-end audited statement soon.'
Adam pointed out, 'Mostly it's the long term Teresa's thinking of. You know I'm here to advise her: Should she sell her stock or not?'
'Yeah, I know.' Smokey ruminated. 'I don't mind telling you, Adam, if you advise 'sell,' it'll make things rugged for me.'
'Why?'
'Because I couldn't raise the dough to buy Teresa's stock. Not now, with money tight.'
'As I understand it,' Adam said, 'if Teresa decides to sell her share of the business, you have a sixty-day option to buy her out. If you don't, then she's free to sell elsewhere.'
Smokey acknowledged, 'That's the way of it.' But his tone was glum.
What Smokey didn't relish, obviously, was the possibility of a new partner, perhaps fearing that someone else would want to be active in the business or could prove more troublesome than a widow two thousand miles away. Adam wondered what, precisely, lay behind Smokey's unease. Was it a natural wish to run his own show without interference, or were things happening in the dealership which he preferred others not to know? Whatever the reason, Adam intended to find out if he could.
'Let's go in my office, Adam.' They moved from the open mezzanine into a small but comfortable room, furnished with green leather armchairs and a sofa. A desk top and a swivel chair had the same material. Smokey saw Adam look around.
'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.'
