The reasoning: auto company purchasing agents, who allocated millions of dollars' worth of orders annually, held a life or death authority over parts manufacturers like Kreisel. In older days, because of this, purchasing agents were accustomed to receive munificent gifts even a lake cruiser or a houseful of furniture from suppliers whom they favored. Now, auto companies forbade that kind of graft and an offender, if caught, was fired summarily. Just the same, perks for purchasing agents still existed, and being entertained socially, on occasions like this or privately, was one. Another was having personal hotel bills picked up by suppliers or their salesmen; this was considered safe since neither goods nor money changed hands directly, and later, if necessary, a purchasing agent could deny knowledge, saying he had expected the hotel to bill him. And gifts at Christmas time remained one more.
The Christmas handouts were forbidden annually by auto company managements in memos circulated during November and December. But just as inevitably, purchasing department secretaries prepared lists of purchasing staff home addresses which were handed out to suppliers' salesmen on request, a request considered as routine as saying, 'Merry Christmas!' The secretaries' home addresses were always on the lists and, though purchasing agents allegedly knew nothing of what was going on, somehow their addresses got there, too. The gifts which resulted - none delivered to the office - were not as lavish as in older days, but few suppliers risked failing to bestow them.
Adam was still watching the purchasing agent with the piled plate when a soft, feminine voice murmured, 'Adam Trenton, do you always say just what you're thinking?'
He turned. In front of him, regarding him amusedly, was a girl of twenty-eight or thirty, Adam guessed. Her high-cheekboned face was up-tilted, her moist full lips lightly parted in a smile. Intelligent bright eyes met his own directly. He sensed a musky perfume, was aware of a lithe, slender figure with small, firm breasts beneath a tailored powder-blue linen dress. She was, Adam thought, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he had ever seen. And she was black. Not brown, but black; a deep, rich black, her smooth unblemished skin like silken ebony. He curbed an impulse to reach out, touching her.
'My name is Rowena,' the girl said. 'I was told yours. And I've been asked to see that you get something to eat.'
'Rowena what?'
He sensed her hesitate. 'Does it matter?' She smiled, so that he was aware of the full redness and moisture of her lips again.
'Besides,' Rowena said, 'I asked you a question first. You haven't answered it.'
Adam remembered she had asked something about - did he always say what he was thinking?
'Not always. I don't believe any of us do really.' He thought: am sure as hell not doing it now, then added aloud, 'When I do say anything, though, I try to make it honest and what I mean.'
'I know. I was listening to you talking. Not enough of us do that.'
The girl's eyes met his own and held them steadily. He wondered if she sensed her impact on him, and suspected that she did.
The chef at the buffet, with Rowena's aid, filled two plates which they carried to one of the sun deck tables nearby. Already seated were the judge - a youngish Negro who was on the federal bench in Michigan - and another guest from Adam's company, a middle-aged development engineer named Frazon. Moments later they were joined by Brett DeLosanto, accompanied by an attractive, quiet brunette whom he introduced as Elsie.
'We figured this is where the action is,' Brett said. 'Don't disappoint us.'
Rowena asked, 'What kind do you have in mind?'
'You know us auto people. We've only two interests - business and sex.'
The judge smiled. 'It's early. Perhaps we should take business first.' He addressed Adam. 'A while ago you were talking about company annual meetings. I liked what you said - that people, even with a single share, should be listened to.'
Frazon, the engineer, as if rising to a bait, put down his knife and fork. 'Well, I didn't. I don't agree with Adam, and there are plenty more who feel the way I do.'
'I know,' the judge said. 'I saw you react. Won't you tell us why?'
Frazon considered, frowning. 'All right. What the loudmouth one-share people want, including consumer groups and the so-called corporate responsibility committee, is to create disruption, and they do it by distortion, lies, and insult. Remember the General Motors annual meeting, when the Nader gang called everybody in the industry 'corporate criminals,' then talked about our 'disregard for law and justice,' and said we were part of 'a corporate crime wave dwarfing street crime by comparison'? How are we supposed to feel when we hear that? Grateful?
How are we supposed to take clowns who mouth that kind of claptrap?
Seriously?'
'Say!' Brett DeLosanto interjected. 'You engineering guys were listening. We thought the only thing you ever heard was motor noises.'
'They heard, all right,' Adam said. 'We all heard - those in General Motors, the other companies too. But what a lot of industry people missed was that the very words just quoted' - he motioned toward Frazon - 'were intended to anger and inflame and prevent a reasonable response. The protesting crowd didn't want the auto industry to be reasonable; if it had, we'd have cut the ground from under them. And what they planned, worked. Our people fell for it.'
The judge prompted, 'Then you see invective as a tactic.'
'Of course. It's the language of our times, and the kids who use it - bright young lawyers mostly - know exactly what it does to old men in board rooms. It curls their hair, raises their blood pressure, makes them rigid and unyielding. The chairmen and directors in our industry were reared on politeness; in their heyday, even when you knifed a competitor, you said 'excuse me.' But not any more. Now the dialogue is harsh and snarly, and points are scored by overstatement, so if you're listening - and smart - you underreact and keep cool. Most of our top people haven't learned that yet.'
'I haven't learned it, and don't intend to,' Frazon said. 'I'll stick with decent manners.'
Brett quipped, 'There speaks an engineer, the ultimate conservative!'
'Adam's an engineer,' Frazon pointed out. 'Trouble is, he's spent too much time around designers.'
The group at the table laughed.
Looking at Adam, Frazon said, 'Surely you're not suggesting we should go along with what the militants at annual meetings want - consumer reps on boards of directors, all the rest?'
Adam answered quietly, 'Why not? It could show we're willing to be flexible, and might be worth a try. Put somebody on a board - or on a jury - they're apt to take it seriously, not be just a maverick. We might even end up learning something. Besides, it will happen eventually and we'd be better off if we made it happen now instead of being forced into it later.'
Brett asked, 'Judge, what's your verdict now you've heard both sides?'
'Excuse me.' The judge put a hand to his mouth, stiffing a yawn. 'For a moment I thought I was in court.' He shook his head in mock solemnity. 'Sorry. I never hand down opinions on weekends.'
'Nor should anyone,' Rowena declared. She touched Adam's hand, letting her fingers travel lightly over his. When he turned toward her, she said softly, 'Will you take me swimming?'
The two of them took a boat from the floating dock - one of Hank Kreisel's with an outboard which Adam used to propel them, unhurriedly, four miles or so toward the lake's eastern shore. Then, within sight of a beach with towering leafy trees behind, he cut the motor and they drifted on the blue translucent water. A few other boats, not many, came into sight and went away. It was midafternoon. The sun was high, the air drowsy.
Before they left, Rowena had changed into a swimsuit; it was leopard patterned and what it revealed of her figure, as well as the soft, silken blackness of her skin, more than fulfilled the promise of the linen dress she had had on earlier. Adam was in trunks. When they stopped, he lighted cigarettes for them both. They sat beside each other on the cushions of the boat.
'Um,' Rowena said. 'This is nice.' Her head was back, eyes closed against the brightness of the sun and lake. Her lips were parted.
He blew a smoke ring lazily. 'It's called getting away from it all.' His voice, for some reason, was unsteady.
She said softly, with sudden seriousness, 'I know. It doesn't happen often. And it never lasts.'
