Wheels

By the middle of next morning, it seemed they were.

As Smokey had anticipated, three of the promised cars failed to show, but the other ten were brought in as arranged, and were ample for his purpose. In the service department, washing, cleaning, and tire painting were going ahead briskly, taking priority over other work. Several of the cars had already been driven onto the storage lot, personally, by Vince Mixon.

Another item of good news was that the bank adjusters were conducting their audits in the order that the eight dealers' names appeared on Yolanda's list. Two of the three dealers whom Smokey tipped off yesterday had telephoned, with news from themselves and other dealerships which made this clear. It meant that Stephensen Motors could be sure of being checked tomorrow, though they would be ready by this afternoon.

Nor did Smokey have any real worries, provided he could get through today and tomorrow with his true stock position undetected. Business generally was excellent, the dealership sound, and he knew he could have his books back in order, and not be seriously out of trust, in a month or so. He admitted to himself: he had overextended a little, but then, he had gambled before and won, which was a reason he had lasted so long as a successful car dealer.

At 11:30 Smokey was relaxing in his mezzanine office, sipping coffee laced with brandy, when Adam Trenton walked in unannounced.

Smokey Stephensen had become slightly uneasy about Adam's visits, of which there had been several since their first meeting early in the year. He was even less pleased than usual to see Adam now.

'Hit' he acknowledged. 'Didn't know you were coming in.'

'I've been here an hour,' Adam told him. 'Most of the time in the service department.'

The tone of voice and a certain set to Adam's face made Smokey uneasy. He grumbled, 'Should think you might let me know when you get here. This is my shop.'

'I would have, except you told me at the beginning . . .' Adam opened a black loose-leaf folder which he had carried during his last few visits and turned a page. 'You told me the first time I came: 'Everything's wide open to you here, like a whorehouse with the roof off. You can see our books, files, inventories, just the way your sister would, as she's entitled to.' And later you said . . .'

Smokey growled. 'Never mind! Didn't know I was talking to a recording machine.' He stared suspiciously. 'Maybe you been using one.'

'If I had, you'd have known about it. I happen to have a clear memory, and when I'm involved in something I keep notes.'

Smokey wondered what else was in the pages of the black folder. He invited Adam, 'Sit down. Coffee?'

'No, thank you, and I'll stand. I came to tell you this is the last time I'll be in. I'm also informing you, because I think you're entitled to know, that I'm recommending my sister sell her stock in your business.

'Also' - Adam touched the black loose-leaf folder again - 'I intend to turn this over to our company marketing department.'

'You what?'

Adam said quietly, 'I think you heard.'

'Then what the hell is in there?'

'Among other things, the fact that your service department is, at this moment, systematically stripping several used cars of owner identification, faking them to look like new, and putting them with genuinely new cars on your storage lot. Your service manager, incidentally, has written bogus work orders on those cars for warranty which is not being performed but will be charged, no doubt, to our company. Right now I don't know the reason for what's happening, but think I can guess.

However, since Teresa is involved, I'm going to call your bank, report what I've seen, and ask if they can enlighten me.'

Smokey Stephensen said softly, 'Jesus Christ!'

He knew the roof had fallen in, in a way he had least expected. He realized, too, his own mistake from the beginning: It was in being open with Adam Trenton, in giving him the run of the place the way he had.

Smokey had sized up Adam as a bright, pleasant head office guy, undoubtedly good at his job or he wouldn't have it, but naive in other areas, including the running of an auto dealership. It was why Smokey had reasoned that openness would be a kind of deception because Adam might sense if information was being held back, and it would make him curious, whereas frankness wouldn't. Also, Smokey believed that when Adam realized his sister's interest in the dealership was being dealt with honestly, he would not concern himself with other things. Too late, the dealer was learning he had been wrong on every count.

'Do me one favor,' Smokey urged. 'Gimme a minute to think. Then at least, let's talk.'

Adam answered curtly, 'All you'll be thinking of is a way to stop me, and it won't work. And we've done all the talking needed.'

The dealer's voice rose. 'How the hell you know what I'll be thinking?'

'All right, I don't know. But I know this - that you're a crook.'

'That's a goddamn lie! I could take you to court for it.'

'I'm perfectly willing,' Adam said, 'to repeat the statement in front of witnesses, and you can summon me into any court you want. But you won't.'

'How a crook?' Smokey supposed he might as well find out what he could.

Adam dropped into a chair facing the desk and opened the black loose-leaf book.

'You want the whole list?'

'Damn right!'

'You cheat on warranty. You charge the manufacturer for work that isn't done. You replace parts that don't need replacing, then put the removed ones back in your own stock to use again.'

Smokey insisted, 'Give me one example.'

Adam turned pages. 'I've a lot more than one, but this is typical.' An almost-new car had come into Stephensen Motors' service department, Adam recited, its carburetor needing minor adjustment. But instead of being adjusted, the carburetor was removed, a new one installed, the manufacturer billed for warranty. Afterward, the removed carburetor had been given the minor repair it needed to begin with, then was placed in the service department's stock from where it was later sold as a new unit.

Adam had dates, work order and invoice numbers, the carburetor identification.

Smokey flushed. 'Who said you could go snooping around my service records?'

'You did.'

There were procedures to prevent that kind of fraud, as Adam knew. All Big Three manufacturers had them. But the vastness of organization, as well as the volume of work going through a big service depot, made it possible for dealers like Smokey to foil the system regularly.

He protested, 'I can't keep tab of everything goes on in Service.'

'You're responsible. Besides, Vince Mixon runs that shop the way you tell him, the way he's running it today.

Incidentally, another thing he does is pad customers' bills for labor. You want examples?'

Smokey shook his head. He had never suspected this son-of-a-bitch would be as thorough, or would even see and understand as much as he had. But even while Smokey listened, he was thinking hard, thinking the way he used to in a close race when he needed to pass or outmaneuver someone ahead of him on the track.

'Talking of customers,' Adam said, 'your salesmen still quote finance interest rates at so much a hundred dollars, even though the Truth in Lending Act makes that illegal.'

'People prefer it that way.'

'You mean you prefer it. Especially when an interest rate you quote as 'nine percent per hundred' means a true interest rate of over sixteen percent per year.'

Smokey persisted, 'That ain't so bad.'

'I'll concede that. So would other dealers who do the same thing. What they might not like, though, is the way you cheat regularly on dealer sales contests. You postdate sales orders, change dates on others . . .'

Audibly, Smokey groaned. He waved a hand, surrendering. 'Leave it, leave it!