Wheels

'Gimme the bad news,' Smokey Stephensen told Lottie Potts, his bookkeeper.

'How much am I out of trust?'

Lottie, who looked and frequently behaved like a female Uriah Heep, but had a mind as sharp as razor blades, did quick arithmetic with a slim gold pencil.

'Counting those cars we just delivered, Mr. Stephensen, sir, forty-three thousand dollars.'

'How much cash is in the bank, Lottie?'

'We can meet the payroll this week and next, Mr. Stephensen, sir. Not much more.'

'Um.' Smokey Stephensen rubbed a hand over his heavy beard, then leaned back, lacing his fingers over his belly which had grown larger lately; he reminded himself, absently, that he must do something about his weight soon, like going on a diet, though the thought depressed him.

Characteristically, Smokey was not alarmed about the financial crisis in which, this morning, he suddenly found himself. He had weathered others and would manage this one somehow. He pondered over Lottie's figures, doing further mental calculations of his own.

The day was Tuesday, in the first week of August, and the two of them were in Smokey's mezzanine office at the big suburban car dealership, Smokey behind his desk, wearing the blue silk jacket and brightly patterned tie which were like a uniform. Lottie, across from him, waited deferentially, several accounting ledgers spread open around her.

Smokey thought: There weren't many women around nowadays with Lottie's attitude. But then, if nature snarled at you at birth, making you as ugly as Lottie, you had to compensate in other ways. By God! She was a dog. At thirty-five, or thereabouts, she looked fifty, with her lumpish lopsided features, buck teeth, the suggestion of a squint, nondescript all-direction hair, appearing as if first grown on a coconut, a voice that grated like metal rims on cobblestones . . . Smokey switched his thoughts away, reminding himself that Lottie was utterly devoted, unquestionably loyal, unfailingly reliable, and that together they had clambered out of scrapes he might never have survived without her staff work.

Smokey had followed a dictum all his life: If you want a woman to stick beside you, pick an ugly one. Pretty girls were a luxury, but fickle. Ugly ones stayed to slice the meat and stir the gravy.

It was another ugly girl who had precipitated this morning's crisis.

Smokey was grateful that she had.

Her name was Yolanda and she had telephoned him at home late last night.

Yolanda worked for the downtown bank which Smokey dealt with, and which financed his dealer's inventory of cars. She was a vice-president's secretary, with access to confidential information.

Another thing about Yolanda was that stripped to bra and panties she weighed two hundred pounds.

The moment Smokey had seen her, during a visit to the bank a year ago, he sensed a potential ally. Subsequently he telephoned, invited Yolanda to lunch and from that point let their friendship grow. Now, they met every two months or so; in between he sent her flowers, or candy which she devoured by the pound, and twice Smokey had taken her overnight to a motel. The latter occasions he preferred not to think about too much, but Yolanda - who had few such experiences come her way-remained pathetically grateful, a gratitude she repaid with periodic and useful intelligence from the bank.

'Our adjusters are planning some surprise dealer stock audits,' she advised him on the phone last night. 'I thought you'd want to know - your name is on the list.'

He had asked, instantly alert, 'When do the audits start?'

'First thing tomorrow, though no one's supposed to know.' Yolanda added,

'I couldn't call sooner because I've been working late and didn't think I should use an office phone.'

'You're a bright kid. How long's the list?'

'Eight dealers are on it. I copied the names. Shall I read them?'

He blessed her thoroughness. 'Please, baby.'

Smokey was relieved to find his own name last but one. If the adjusters took the names in order, which was normal, it meant they wouldn't get to him until three days from now. So he had two days to work with, which wasn't much, but better than having a snap audit pulled tomorrow. He noted the other dealers' names. Three were acquaintances whom he would tip off; some other time they might repay the favor.

He told Yolanda, 'You're a sweet kid to call me. We haven't seen enough of each other lately.'

They ended with exchanges of affection, and Smokey sensed this was going to cost him another night at the motel, but it was worth it.

Next morning, early, he summoned Lottie, whom he also obliged in basic ways occasionally, but who never, at any time, failed to call him 'Mr. Stephensen, sir.' Her report - that the Stephensen dealership was seriously out of trust - resulted.

'Out of trust - meant that Smokey had sold cars, but had not turned the proceeds over to the bank which loaned him the money to buy them to begin with. The cars were the bank's security against its loan; therefore, since it had not been informed otherwise, the bank believed the cars were still safely in Smokey's inventory. In fact, forty-three thousand dollars worth of cars was gone.

Some sales had been reported to the bank over the past few weeks, but by no means all, and an audit of the dealership's stock - which banks and finance companies insisted on periodically - would reveal the deficiency.

The ex-race driver ruminated as he rubbed his beard again.

Smokey knew, as did all auto dealers, that it was normal for a dealership to be out of trust occasionally, and sometimes necessary. The trick was not to go too far, and not to get caught.

A reason for the problem was that car dealers had to find cash for each new car they took into stock, usually borrowing from banks or finance companies. But sometimes borrowing was not enough. A dealer's cash might be short, yet cash was needed - to pay for still more cars if the immediate sales outlook was good, or to meet expenses.

What dealers did, of course, was go slow in processing their paper work after any sale was consummated. Thus, a dealer might receive payment from a customer who bought a car, then subsequently the dealer would take a leisurely week or so to report the sale to his own creditors, the bank or finance company. During that time the dealer had the use of the money involved. Furthermore, at the end of it there would be more sales overlapping, which in turn could be processed slowly, so the dealer could use - again temporarily - the many from those. In a way, it was like a juggling act.

Banks and finance companies knew the juggling went on and - within reason - condoned it by allowing dealers to be briefly, if unofficially, out of trust.' They were unlikely, however, to tolerate an out-of-trust figure as large as Smokey's was at this moment.

Smokey Stephensen said softly, 'Lottie, we gotta get some cars back in stock before those audit guys get here.'

'I thought you'd say that, Mr. Stephensen, sir, so I made a list.' The bookkeeper passed two clipped sheets across the desk. 'These are all our customer deliveries for the past two weeks.'

'Good girl!' Smokey scanned the list, noting approvingly that Lottie had included an address and telephone number against each name, as well as noting the model of car purchased and its price. He began ticking addresses which were reasonably near.

'We'll both get on the phone,' Smokey said. 'I've marked fourteen names to start. I'll take the top seven; you call the others. We need cars tomorrow morning, early. You know what to say.'

'Yes, Mr. Stephensen, sir.' Lottie, who had been through this before, was copying Smokey's notations on a duplicate list of her own. She would do her telephoning from the downstairs cubicle where she worked.

When Lottie had gone, Smokey Stephensen dialed the first number on his list. A pleasant female voice answered, and he identified himself.

'Just called,' Smokey announced in his most mellifluous salesman's style,

'to see how you good folks are enjoying that new car we had the privilege of selling you.'

'We like it.' The woman sounded surprised. 'Why? Is anything wrong?'

'Nothing in the least wrong, ma'am. I'm simply making a personal check, the way I do with all my customers, to make sure everybody's happy.