And while the Orion program progressed, many in the company gave thought to Farstar, which would follow Orion, though its timing, shape, and substance were not yet known. Among these were Adam Trenton and Brett DeLosanto.
Something else which Adam was concerned with in January was the review of his sister Teresa's investment, bequeathed by her dead husband, in the auto dealership of Smokey Stephensen.
Approval from the company for Adam to involve himself with one of its dealers, however tenuously, had taken longer than expected, and had been given grudgingly after discussion by the Conflict of Interest committee. In the end, Hub Hewitson, executive vice-president, made a favorable ruling after Adam approached him personally. However, now that the time had come to fulfill his promise to Teresa, Adam realized how little he really needed, or wanted, an extra responsibility. His work load had grown, and an awareness of physical tension still bothered him. At home, relations with Erica seemed neither better nor worse, though he accepted the justice of his wife's complaint - repeated recently - that nowadays they had scarcely any time together. Soon, he resolved, he would find a way to put that right, but first, having accepted this new commitment, he would see it through.
Thus, on a Saturday morning, after arrangements made by telephone, Adam paid his first call on Smokey Stephensen.
The Stephensen dealership was in the northern suburbs, close to the boundary lines of Troy and Birmingham. Its location was good - on an important crosstown route, with Woodward Avenue, a main northwest artery, only a few blocks away.
Smokey, who had clearly been watching the street outside, strode through the showroom doorway onto the sidewalk, as Adam stepped from his car.
The ex-race driver, heavily bearded and now corpulent in middle-age, boomed, "Welcome! Welcome!" He wore a dark blue silk jacket with carefully creased black slacks and a wide, brightly patterned tie.
"Good morning," Adam said, "I'm . . ."
"No need to tell me! Seen your picture in Automotive News. Step in!"
The dealer held the showroom doorway wide.
"We always say there's only two reasons for a man to pass through here - to get out of the rain or buy himself wheels. I guess you're the exception."
Inside he declared, "Within half an hour we'll be using first names. I always say, why wait that long?" He held out a bear paw of a hand. "I'm Smokey."
"I'm Adam," Adam said. He managed not to wince as his hand was squeezed.
"Let me have your car keys." Smokey beckoned a young salesman who hurried across the showroom floor. "Park Mr. Trenton's car carefully, and don't sell it. Also, be sure you treat him with respect. His sister owns forty-nine percent of this joint, and if business don't pick up by noon, I may mail her the other fifty-one." He winked broadly at Adam.
"It's an anxious time for all of us," Adam said. He knew, from sales reports, that a post-holiday lull was being felt this year by all auto makers and dealers. Yet, if only car buyers knew, this was the best time in any year to make a favorable financial deal. With dealers heavily stocked with cars forced on them by factories, and sometimes desperate to reduce inventory, a shrewd car buyer might save several hundred dollars on a mediumpriced car, compared with buying a month or so later.
"I should be selling color televisions," Smokey growled. "That's what dopes put money in around Christmas and New Year's."
"But you did well at model changeover."
"Sure did." The dealer brightened. "You seen the figures, Adam?"
"My sister sent them to me."
"Never fails. You'd think people'd learn. Fortunately for us, they don't." Smokey glanced at Adam as they walked across the showroom. "You understand, I'm speaking freely?"
Adam nodded. "I think we should both do that."
He knew, of course, what Smokey Stephensen meant. At model introduction time - from September through November - dealers could sell every new car which factories would let them have. Then, instead of protesting the number of cars consigned - as they did at other times of year - dealers pleaded for more. And despite all adverse publicity about automobiles, the public still flocked to buy when models were new, or after major changes. What such buyers didn't know, or didn't care about, was that this was open season on customers, when dealers could be toughest in bargaining; also, the early cars after any production change were invariably less well made than others which would follow a few months later. With any new model, manufacturing snags inevitably arose while engineers, foremen, and hourly workers learned to make the car. Equally predictable were shortages of components or parts, resulting in manufacturing improvisations which ignored quality standards. As a result, an early car was often a poor buy from a quality point of view.
Knowledgeable buyers wanting a new model waited until four to six months after production began. By that time, chances were, they would get a better car because bugs would have been eliminated and production - except for Monday and Friday labor problems which persisted through all seasons - would be smoothly settled down.
Smokey Stephensen declared, "Everything's wide open to you here, Adam - like a whorehouse with the roof off. You can see our books, files, inventories, you name it; just the way your sister would, as she's entitled to. And ask questions, you'll get straight answers."
"You can count on questions," Adam said, "and later I'll need to see those things you mentioned.
What I also want - which may take longer - is to get a feeling about the way you operate."
"Sure, sure; any way you want is fine with me." The auto dealer led the way up a flight of stairs to a mezzanine which ran the length of the showroom below. Most of the mezzanine was occupied by offices. At the top of the stairs the two men paused to look down, viewing the cars of various model lines, polished, immaculate, colorful, which dominated the showroom floor. Along one side of the showroom were several cubicle-type offices, glass-paneled, for use by salesmen. An open doorway gave access to a corridor, leading to Parts and Service, out of sight.
Already at midmorning, despite the quiet season, several people were viewing the cars, with salesmen hovering nearby.
"Your sister's got a good thing going here, poor old Clyde's dough working for her and all them kids." Smokey glanced at Adam shrewdly.
What's Teresa stewing over? She's been getting checks. We'll have a year-end audited statement soon."
Adam pointed out, "Mostly it's the long term Teresa's thinking of. You know I'm here to advise her: Should she sell her stock or not?"
"Yeah, I know." Smokey ruminated. "I don't mind telling you, Adam, if you advise 'sell,' it'll make things rugged for me."
"Why?"
"Because I couldn't raise the dough to buy Teresa's stock. Not now, with money tight."
"As I understand it," Adam said, "if Teresa decides to sell her share of the business, you have a sixty-day option to buy her out. If you don't, then she's free to sell elsewhere."
Smokey acknowledged, "That's the way of it." But his tone was glum.
What Smokey didn't relish, obviously, was the possibility of a new partner, perhaps fearing that someone else would want to be active in the business or could prove more troublesome than a widow two thousand miles away. Adam wondered what, precisely, lay behind Smokey's unease. Was it a natural wish to run his own show without interference, or were things happening in the dealership which he preferred others not to know? Whatever the reason, Adam intended to find out if he could.
"Let's go in my office, Adam." They moved from the open mezzanine into a small but comfortable room, furnished with green leather armchairs and a sofa. A desk top and a swivel chair had the same material. Smokey saw Adam look around.
"The guy I got to furnish this wanted it all red. I told him, "Nuts to that! The only red'll ever get in this business'll be by accident."'
One side of the office, almost entirely window, fronted the mezzanine.
The dealer and Adam stood looking down at the showroom as if from a ship's bridge.
Adam motioned toward the row of sales offices below, "You have a monitoring system?"
For the first time, Smokey hesitated. "Yeah."
"I'd like to listen. The sales booth right there." In one of the glassed enclosures a young salesman, with a boyish face and a shock of blond hair, faced two prospective customers, a man and a woman. Papers were spread over a desk between them."
"I guess you can." Smokey was less than enthusiastic. But he opened a sliding panel near his desk to reveal several switches, one of which he clicked. Immediately, voices became audible through a speaker recessed into the wall.
". . . course, we can order the model you want in Meadow Green." The voice was obviously the young salesman's. "Too bad we don't have one in stock."
Another male voice responded; it had an aggressive nasal quality. "We can wait. That's if we make a deal here. Or we might go someplace else."
"I understand that, sir. Tell me something, merely out of interest. The Galahad model, in Meadow Green; the one you were both looking at. How much more do you think that would cost?"
"I already told you," the nasal voice said. "A Galahad's out of our price range."
"But just out of interest - name any figure. How much more?"