Rollie still didn't answer.
'Somebody tol' him today at work,' May Lou said. 'They said he don't get his paycheck no more? That right?'
'He doesn't get part of it. But if he loses his job there'll be no more checks anyway - for anybody.' Wingate went on to explain about garnishees - the attachment of a worker's pay at source by court order, which creditors obtained. He added that, while auto companies and other employers detested the garnishee system, they had no choice but to comply with the law.
As Wingate suspected, neither Rollie nor May Lou had understood the earlier garnishee, nor was Rollie aware that a second one - under company-union rules - could get him fired.
'There's a reason for that,' Wingate said. 'Garnishees make a lot of work for the payroll department, which costs the company money.'
Rollie blurted, 'Bullshit!' He got up and walked around.
Leonard Wingate sighed. 'If you want my honest opinion, I think you're right. It's why I'll try to help you if I can. If you want me to.'
May Lou glanced at Rollie. She moistened her lips. 'He wants you to, mister. He ain't been himself lately. He's been . . . well, real upset.'
Wingate wondered why. If Rollie had learned about the garnishee only today, as May Lou said, obviously he had not been worrying because of that. He decided not to press the point.
'What I can do,' the executive told them, and you must understand this is only if you want it, is have someone look over your finances for you, straighten them out if we can, and try to get you started fresh.'
He went on, explaining how the system devised by Jim Robson, a plant personnel manager for Chrysler, and copied nowadays by other companies - worked.
What they must do, he informed Rollie and May Lou, was give him, here and now, a list of all their debts. He would hand these to a senior Personnel man in Rollie's plant. The Personnel man, who did this extra curricular job on his own time, would go over everything to see how much was owing. Then he would phone the creditors, one by one, urging them to accept modest payments over a long period and, in return, withdraw their garnishees.
Usually they agreed because the alternative was pointed out: that the man concerned would lose his job, in which event they would receive nothing, garnishee or not.
The employee - in this case Rollie Knight - would then be asked: What is the minimum amount of money you can live on weekly?
Once this was decided, Rollie's paycheck would be intercepted each week and routed to the Personnel Department. There, every Friday, he would report and endorse the check over to the Personnel man making the arrangements. The Personnel man's office - Wingate told them - was usually crowded with fifty or so workers who had been in financial trouble and were being helped to straighten out. Most were grateful.
Afterward, the Personnel man would deposit Rollie's paycheck in a special account - in the Personnel man's name since the company took no official part in the arrangement. From this account he would issue checks to creditors for the sums arranged, giving Rollie another check - for the balance of his wages, on which he must live. Eventually, when all debts were cleared, the Personnel man would bow out and Rollie would receive his paycheck normally.
Records were open to inspection and the service operated solely to help workers in financial trouble, without charge of any kind.
'It won't be easy for you,' Wingate warned. 'To make it work, you'll have to live on very little money.'
Rollie seemed about to protest, but May Lou interjected quickly, 'We kin do it, mister.' She looked at Rollie, and Wingate was aware of a mixture of authority and childlike affection in her eyes. 'You'll do it,' she insisted. 'Yes, yo' will.'
Half-smiling, Rollie shrugged.
But it was clear that Rollie Knight was still worried - really worried, Leonard Wingate suspected - about something else. Once more he wondered what it was.
'We've been sitting here,' Barbara Zaleski said as Leonard Wingate joined them, 'speculating on whether those two are going to make it.'
Barbara, the only one in the group who was a Press Club member, was host to the other three.
She, Brett DeLosanto, and Wes Gropetti had waited at the bar. Now, the four of them moved to a table in the dining room.
As press clubs went, Detroies was among the best in the country. It was small, well-run, with an excellent cuisine, and membership was sought after. Surprisingly, despite an exciting day-to-day affinity with the auto industry, the club's walls were almost bare - self-consciously, some thought - of mementos of the tie. The only one, which greeted visitors on entering, was a downbeat front page from 1947, its headline reading:
War and space travel, in contrast, were represented prominently, perhaps proof that newsmen sometimes suffer from hyperopia.
When they had ordered drinks, Wingate answered Barbara's question.
'I wish I could say yes. But I'm not sure, and the reason is the system.
We talked about it earlier. People like us can cope with the system, more or less. Mostly, people like them can't.'
'Leonard,' Brett said, 'tonight you've been sounding like a revolutionary.'
'Sounding isn't being one.' Wingate smiled dourly. 'I don't think I have the guts; besides, I'm disqualified. I've a good job, money in the bank.
As soon as anyone has those, they want to protect them, not blow it all up. But I'll tell you this: I know what makes people of my race revolutionaries.'
He touched a bulge in the jacket of his suit. It was a collection of papers May Lou had given him before he left. They were invoices, time payment contracts, demands from finance companies. Out of curiosity, Wingate had gone over them briefly in his car, and what he had seen amazed and angered him.
He repeated to the other three the substance of his talk with Rollie and May Lou, omitting figures, which were private, but apart from that the others knew the story anyway, and he was aware they cared.
He said, 'You saw the furniture they had in that room.'
The others nodded. Barbara said, 'It wasn't good, but . . .'
'Be honest,' Wingate told her. 'You know as well as I do, it was a bunch of shoddy junk.'
Brett protested, 'So what! If they can't afford much . . .'
'But you'd never know they couldn't, not from the price they paid.' Once more, Wingate touched the papers in his pocket. 'I just saw the invoice, and I'd say the invoice price is at least six times what the furniture was worth. For what they paid, or rather signed a finance contract for, those two could have had quality stuff from a reputable outfit like J. L. Hudson's or Sears.'
Barbara asked, 'Then why didn't they?'
Leonard Wingate put both hands on the table, leaning forward, 'Because, my dear innocent, well-to-do friends, they didn't know any better. Because nobody ever taught them how to shop around or buy carefully. Because there isn't much point learning any of that if you've never had any real money.
Because they went to a white-run store in a black neighborhood, which cheated them - but good! Because there are plenty of those stores, not just in Detroit, but other places too. I know. We've seen other people travel this route.'
There was silence at the table. Their drinks had come, and Wingate sipped a neat Scotch on the rocks.
