Stephensen was totally amoral and saw nothing wrong in what had been suggested. Perhaps a car dealer had to be that way. Adam wasn't sure; nor was he sure, yet, what he would recommend to Teresa.
But he had gained the first impressions which he came for. They were mixed; he wanted to digest and think about them.
Chapter 13
Hank Kreisel, lunching in Dearborn with Brett DeLosanto, represented the out-of-sight portion of an iceberg.
Kreisel, fifty-five-ish, lean, muscular, and towering over most other people like a collie in a pack of terriers, was the owner of his own company which manufactured auto parts.
The world, when it thinks of Detroit, does so in terms of name-famed auto manufacturers, dominated by the Big Three. The impression is correct, except that major car makers represent the portion of the iceberg in view. Out of sight are thousands of supplemental firms, some substantial, but most small, and with a surprising segment operating out of holes-in-the-wall on petty cash financing. In the Detroit area they are anywhere and everywhere - downtown, out in suburbs, on side roads, or as satellites to bigger plants. Their work quarters range from snazzy compages to ramshackle warehouses, converted churches or one-room lofts.
Some are unionized, many are not, although their total payrolls run to billions yearly. But the thing they have in common is that a Niagara of bits and pieces - some large, but mostly small, many unrecognizable as to purpose except by experts - flow outward to create other parts and, in the end, the finished automobiles. Without parts manufacturers, the Big Three would be like honey processors bereft of bees.
In this sense, Hank Kreisel was a bee. In another sense he was a master sergeant of Marines. He had been a Marine top kick in the Korean War, and still looked the part, with short hair only slightly graying, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a ramrod stance when he stood still, though this was seldom. Mostly he moved in urgent, precise, clipped movements - go, go, go and talked the same way, from the time of rising early in his Grosse Pointe home until ending each active day, invariably well into the next. This and other habits had brought him two heart attacks, with a warning from his physician that one more might be fatal. But Hank Kreisel regarded the warning as he would once have reacted to news of a potential enemy ambush in the jungle ahead. He pressed on, hard as ever, trusting in a personal conviction of indestructibility, and luck which had seldom failed him.
It was luck which had given him a lifetime, so far, filled with the two things Hank Kreisel relished most - work and women. Occasionally the luck had failed. Once had been during a fervid affair in rest camp with a colonel's wife, after which her husband personally busted Master Sergeant Kreisel down to private. And later, in his Detroit manufacturing career, disasters had occurred, though successes well outnumbered them.
Brett DeLosanto had met Kreisel when the latter was in the Design-Styling Center one day, demonstrating a new accessory. They had liked each other and, partly through the young designer's genuine curiosity about how the rest of the auto industry worked and lived, had become friends. It was Hank Kreisel whom Brett had planned to meet on the frustrating day downtown when he had had the parking lot encounter with Leonard Wingate.
But Kreisel had failed to make it that day and now, two months later, the pair were keeping their postponed luncheon date.
'I've wondered, Hank,' Brett DeLosanto said. 'How'd you get started with the auto parts bit?'
'Long story.' Kreisel reached for the neat sourmash Bourbon which was his habitual drink and took an ample sip. He was relaxing and, while dressed in a well-cut business suit, had the buttons of his vest undone, revealing that he wore both suspenders and a belt. He added, 'Tell you, if you like.'
'Go ahead.' Brett had worked through the past several nights at the Design-Styling Center, had caught up with sleep this morning, and now was relishing the daytime freedom before returning to his design board later this afternoon.
They were in a small private apartment a mile or so from the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. Because of its proximity, also, to Ford Motor Company headquarters, the apartment appeared on the books of Kreisel's company as his 'Ford liaison office.' In fact, the liaison was not with Ford but with a lissome, leggy brunette named Elsie, who lived in the apartment rent-free, was on the payroll of Kreisel's company though she never went there, and in return made herself available to Hank Kreisel once or twice a week, or more often if he felt like it. The arrangement was easygoing on both sides. Kreisel, a considerate, reasonable man, always telephoned before putting in an appearance, and Elsie saw to it that he had priority.
Unknown to Elsie, Hank Kreisel also had a General Motors and Chrysler liaison office, operating under the same arrangement.
Elsie, who had prepared lunch, was in the kitchen now.
'Hold it!' Kreisel told Brett. 'Just remembered something. You know Adam Trenton?'
'Very well.'
'Like to meet him. Word's out he's a big comer. Never hurts to make high-grade friends in this business.' The statement was characteristic of Kreisel, a mixture of directness and amiable cynicism which men, as well as women, found appealing.
Elsie rejoined them, her every movement an overt sexuality which a simple, tight black dress accentuated. The ex-Marine patted her rump affectionately.
'Sure, I'll fix a meeting.' Brett grinned. 'Here?'
Hank Kreisel shook his head. 'The Higgins Lake cottage. A weekend party.
Let's aim at May. You choose a date. I'll do the rest.'
'Okay, I'll talk with Adam. Let you know.' When he was with Kreisel, Brett found himself using the same kind of staccato sentences as his host. As to a party, Brett had already attended several at Hank Kreisel's cottage hideaway. They were swinging affairs which he enjoyed.
Elsie seated herself at the table with them and resumed her lunch, her eyes moving between the two men as they talked. Brett knew, because he had been here before, that she liked to listen but seldom joined in.
Brett inquired, 'What made you think of Adam?'
'The Orion. He okayed add-ons, I'm told. Last minute hot stuff. I'm making one of 'em.'
'You are! Which one? The brace or floor reinforcement?'
'Brace.'
'Hey, I was in on that! That's a big order.'
Kreisel gave a twisted grin. 'It'll make me or break me. They need five thousand braces fast, like yesterday. After that, ten thousand a month.
Wasn't sure I wanted the job. Schedule's tough. Still plenty of headaches.
But they figure I'll deliver.'
Brett already knew of Hank Kreisel's reputation for reliability about deliveries, a quality which auto company purchasing departments cherished.
One reason for it was a talent for tooling improvisations which slashed time and cost, and while not a qualified engineer himself, Kreisel could leapfrog mentally over many who were.
'I'll be damned!' Brett said. 'You and the Orion.'
'Shouldn't surprise you. Industry's full of people crossing each other's bridges. Sometimes pass each other, don't even know it. Everybody sells to everybody else. GM sells steering gears to Chrysler. Chrysler sells adhesives to GM and Ford. Ford helps out with Plymouth windshields. I know a guy, a sales engineer. Lives in Flint, works for General Motors.
Flint's a GM company town. His main customer's Ford in Dearborn - for engineering design of engine accessories. He takes confidential Ford stuff to Flint. GM guards it from their own people who'd give their ears to see it. The guy drives a Ford car - to Ford, his customer. His GM bosses buy it for him.'
Elsie replenished Hank Kreisels Bourbon; Brett had declined a drink earlier.
Brett told the girl, 'He's always telling me things I didn't know.'
'He knows a lot.' Her eyes, smiling, switched from the young designer's to Kreisel's. Brett sensed a private message pass.
