That's the way I run my business.'
'Well,' the woman said, 'I guess it's a good way. Not many people seem to care that much nowadays.'
'We care.' Smokey had a cigar going by now; his feet were on the desk, chair tilted back. 'All of us here care very much indeed. And about that, I have a suggestion for you.'
'Yes?'
'Now that you've given your car some initial use, why not run it in to us tomorrow, let our service department give it a thorough check. That way we can see if anything wrong has shown up, as well as adjust anything else that's needed.'
'But we've had the car less than a week .
'All the more reason,' Smokey said expansively, 'for making sure everything's in tiptop shape. We'd like to do it for you; we really would. And there'll be no charge.'
'You're certainly a different kind of car dealer,' the woman on the phone said.
'I'd like to think that, ma'am. In any case, it's kind of you to say so.'
They arranged that the car would be brought to the service department by eight o'clock the following morning. Smokey explained he wanted to allot one of his best mechanics to the job, and this would be easier if the car came early. The woman's husband, who usually drove to his office downtown, would either ride with someone else or take a bus.
Smokey made another call with similar results. With the two after that, he met resistance tomorrow would not be convenient to release the cars; sensing firmness, he didn't press the point.
Making the fifth call he revised his tactics, though for no particular reason except as a change.
'We're not absolutely certain,' Smokey informed the car's owner - a man who answered the telephone himself - 'but we think your new car may have a defect. Frankly, I'm embarrassed to have to call you, but the way we feel about our customers, we don't like to take the slightest chance.'
'No need to be embarrassed,' the man said. 'I'm glad you did call. What's the trouble?'
'We believe there may be a small exhaust leak, with carbon monoxide seeping into the passenger compartment. You or your passengers wouldn't smell it, but it might be dangerous. To be honest, it's something we've discovered on a couple of cars we received from the factory this week, and we're checking all others we've had recently to be on the safe side. I hate to admit it, but it looks as if there may have been a minor factory error.'
'You don't have to tell me; I know how it is,' the man said. 'I'm in business myself, get labor problems all the time. The kind of help you get nowadays, they just don't care. But I sure appreciate your attitude.'
'It's the way I run my shop,' Smokey declared, 'as I'm sure you do yours. So we can count on having your car here tomorrow morning?'
'Sure can. I'll run it in early.'
'That's a big load off my mind. Naturally, there'll be no charge and, by the way, when you use the car between now and tomorrow, do me a favor and drive with a window open.' The artist in Smokey could seldom resist the extra embellishment.
'Thanks for the tip! And I'll tell you something, mister - I'm impressed. Shouldn't be surprised if we do business again.'
Smokey hung up, beaming.
At midmorning, Lottie Potts and her employer compared results. The bookkeeper had managed to get four cars promised for next day, Smokey five. The total of nine would have been enough if all the cars arrived, but between now and tomorrow morning some owners might change their minds or have problems arise to prevent them coming. Smokey decided to be safe.
He selected another eight names from Lottie's list, and the two of them went back to telephoning. By noon, the owners of thirteen cars, in all, had agreed to return them to the Stephensen dealership early the following day for a variety of reasons.
Next was a conference between Smokey and his service manager, Vince Mixon.
Mixon was a cheerful whippet of a man, bald and in his late sixties, who ran the service department like a skillful maitre d'. He could diagnose instantly the ailments of any car, his organizational work was good, and customers liked him. But Vince Mixon had a weakness: he was an alcoholic.
For ten months of each year he stayed on the wagon; twice a year, regularly, he fell off, sometimes with doleful consequences on the job.
No other employer would have tolerated the situation, and Mixon knew it; he also knew that if he lost his job, at his age he would never find another. Smokey, on the other hand, had shrewdly assessed the situation and figured advantages to himself. Vince Mixon was great when he functioned, and when he didn't Smokey managed. Smokey could also rely on his service manager not to be bothersome if ethics were bent occasionally; also, Mixon would do anything asked of him in tricky situations, such as now.
Together, they laid plans for tomorrow.
As each of the recalled cars arrived, it would be whisked to the service department and washed, its interior vacuumed, the engine wiped over carefully to ensure a new appearance if the hood was raised. Glove compartments would be emptied of owners' possessions; these were to be stored in plastic bags, the bags tagged so that contents could be replaced later. License plates would be removed, their numbers carefully noted to ensure that eventually the right plates went back on the right cars. Tires must have a coat of black paint to simulate newness, especially where any tread wear showed.
The cars - a dozen, or thereabouts - would then be driven onto the fenced lot behind the dealership where new cars, not yet sold, were stored.
And that was all. No other work, of any kind, would be performed, and two days from now - apart from the cleaning job - the cars would be returned to their owners exactly as brought in.
In the meantime, however, they would be on the premises for counting and inspection by the bank's adjusters who would be satisfied, Smokey hoped, that his inventory of unsold cars was the size it should be.
Smokey said thoughtfully, 'Those bank guys may not get here till the day after tomorrow. But the people'll be expecting their cars back tomorrow night. You'll have to phone everybody in the afternoon, invent a lot of excuses for holding 'em an extra day.'
'Don't worry,' Vince Mixon assured him, 'I'll dream up good reasons.'
His employer eyed him sternly. 'I won't worry, long as you lay off the juice.'
The whippet-like service manager held up a hand. 'Not a teaspoonful till this is over. I promise.'
Smokey knew from experience that the promise would be kept, but in exacting it he had ensured that a bender would soon follow. It was a strategy which the dealer seldom used, but he had to be sure of Vince Mixon for the next forty-eight hours.
'How about odometers?' the service man asked. 'Some of those cars'll have a few hundred miles on by now.'
Smokey pondered. There was a danger there; some bank adjusters were wise to dealer tricks and checked everything during a new car audit, odometers included. Yet messing with odometers nowadays was becoming tricky because of state laws; also, those in this year's models were the tamper-proof kind.
'Nothing's tamper-proof,' Mixon asserted when Smokey reminded him of this.
From a pocket the service manager produced a set of small, shaped metal keys. 'See these? Made by a tool-and-die outfit called Expert Specialty in Greenville, South Carolina. Anybody can buy 'em and they'll reset odometers any which way; you name it.'
'What about the new odometers - with white lines which drop if you change the numbers?'
'The lines are from plastic cases, set to break when you mess with them.
But the same people who made those keys sell new plastic cases, which won't break, for a dollar each. I got two dozen outside, more on order.'
Mixon grinned. 'Leave it to me, chief. Any odometer in that bunch showing over fifty miles, I'll turn back. Then before the owner gets the car again, I'll fix it the way it was.'
Happily, Smokey clapped his employee on the shoulder. 'Vince, we're in great shape!'
