But Erica had obviously not made plans of her own, and this morning when he got up and began packing a few things, she asked, “Do you really have to go?” When he assured her at this stage he did because he had promised, she inquired pointedly, “Does ‘stag’ mean no women or merely no wives?”
“No women,” he answered, not knowing if it were true or not, though suspecting not, because he had attended suppliers’ weekend parties before.
“I’ll bet!” They were in the kitchen by then, Erica brewing coffee and managing to bang the pot about. “And I suppose there’ll be nothing stronger to drink than milk or lemonade.”
He snapped back, “Whether there is or isn’t, it’ll be a damn sight more congenial than around here.”
“And who makes it uncongenial?”
Adam had lost his temper then. “I’ll be goddamned if I know. But if it’s me, I don’t seem to have that effect on others apart from you.”
“Then go to your blasted others!” At that, Erica had thrown a coffee cup at him—fortunately empty—and, also fortunately, he caught it neatly and set it down unbroken. Or perhaps it wasn’t fortunate because he had started to laugh, which made Erica madder than ever, and she stormed out, slamming the kitchen door behind her. Thoroughly angry himself by this time, Adam had flung his few things in the car and driven away.
Twenty miles up the road the whole thing seemed ludicrous, as married squabbles so often are in retrospect, and Adam knew if he had stayed home the whole thing would have blown over by mid-morning. Later, near Saginaw, and feeling cheerful because of the kind of day it was, he tried to telephone home, but there was no answer. Erica had obviously gone out. He decided he would call again later.
Hank Kreisel greeted Adam on arrival at the Higgins Lake cottage, Kreisel managing to look simultaneously trim and casual in immaculately pressed Bermuda shorts and an Hawaiian shirt, his lean, lanky figure as militarily erect as always. When they had introduced themselves, Adam parked his car among seven or eight others—all late models in the luxury ranges.
Kreisel nodded toward the cars. “Few people came last night. Some still sleeping. More arriving later.” He took Adam’s overnight bag, then escorted him onto a timbered, covered walkway which extended around the cottage from the roadway side. The cottage itself was solidly built, with exterior walls of log siding and a central gable, supported by massive hand-hewn beams. Down at lake level was a floating dock at which several boats were moored.
Adam said, “I like your place, Hank.”
“Thanks. Not bad, I guess. Didn’t build it, though. Bought it from the guy who did. He poured in too much dough, then needed cash.” Kreisel gave a twisted grin. “Don’t we all?”
They stopped at a door, one of several opening onto the walkway. The parts manufacturer strode in, preceding Adam. Directly inside was a bedroom in which polished woodwork gleamed. In a fireplace, facing a double bed, a log fire was laid.
“Be glad of that. Can get cold at night,” Kreisel said. He crossed to a window. “Gave you a room with a view.”
“You sure did.” Standing beside his host Adam could see the bright clear waters of the lake, superbly blue, shading to green near the sandy shoreline. The Higgins Lake location was in rolling hills—the last few miles of journey had been a steady climb—and around cottage and lake were magnificent stands of jack pines, spruce, balsam, tamarack, yellow pine, and birch. Judging by the panoramic view, Adam guessed he was being given the best bedroom. He wondered why. He was also curious about the other guests.
“When you’re ready,” Hank Kreisel announced, “bar’s open. So’s the kitchen. Don’t have meals here. Just drinks and food twenty-four hours. Anything else can be arranged.” He gave the twisted grin once more as he opened a door on the opposite side of the room from where they had entered. “There’s two doors in ’n out—this and the other. Both lock. Makes for private coming and going.”
“Thanks. If I need to, I’ll remember.”
When the other had gone, Adam unpacked the few things he had brought and, soon after, followed his host through the second door. It opened, he discovered, onto a narrow gallery above a central living area designed and furnished in hunting lodge style. The gallery extended around the living room and connected with a series of stone slab steps which, in turn, formed part of an immense rock fireplace. Adam descended the steps. The living area was unoccupied and he headed for a buzz of voices outside.
He emerged onto a spacious sun deck high above the lake. People, in a group, had been talking; now, one voice raised above others argued heatedly, “So help me, you people in this industry are acting more and more like nervous Nellies. You’ve gotten too damn sensitive to criticism and too defensive. You’re encouraging the exhibitionists, making like they’re big time sages instead of publicity hounds who want their names in papers and on television. Look at your annual meetings! Nowadays they’re circuses. Some nut buys one share of company stock, then tells off the chairman of the board who stands there and takes it. It’s like letting a single voter, any voter, go to Washington and sound off on the Senate floor.”
“No, it isn’t,” Adam said. Without raising his voice he let it penetrate the conversation. “A voter doesn’t have any right on the Senate floor, but a shareholder has rights at an annual meeting, even with one share. That’s what our system’s all about. And the critics aren’t all cranks. If we start thinking so, and stop listening, we’ll be back where we were five years ago.”
“Hey!” Brett DeLosanto shouted. “Listen to those entrance lines, and look who got here!” Brett was wearing an exotic outfit in magenta and yellow, clearly self-designed, and resembling a Roman toga. Curiously, it managed to be dashing and practical. Adam, in slacks and turtleneck, felt conservative by contrast.
Several others who knew Adam greeted him, including Pete O’Hagan, the man who had been speaking when he came in. O’Hagan represented one of the major national magazines in Detroit, his job to court auto industry brass socially—a subtle but effective way of soliciting advertising. Most big magazines had similar representation, their people sometimes becoming cronies of company presidents or others at high level. Such friendships became known to advertising agencies who rarely challenged them; thus, when advertising had to be cut, the publications with top bracket influence were last to be hurt. Typically, despite Adam’s blunt contradiction of what had been said, O’Hagan showed no resentment, only smiles.
“Come, meet everybody,” Hank Kreisel said. He steered Adam around the group. Among the guests were a congressman, a judge, a network TV personality, two other parts manufacturers and several senior people from Adam’s own company, including a trio of purchasing agents. There was also a young man who offered his hand and smiled engagingly as Adam approached. “Smokey told me about you, sir. I’m Pierre Flodenhale.”
“Of course.” Adam remembered the youthful race driver whom he had seen, doubling as a car salesman, at Smokey Stephensen’s dealership. “How are your sales?”
“When there’s time to work at it, pretty good, sir.”
Adam told him, “Cut the ‘sir’ stuff. Only first names here. You had bad luck in the Daytona 500.”
“Sure did.” Pierre Flodenhale pushed back his shock of blond hair and grimaced. Two months earlier he had completed a hundred and eighty grueling laps at Daytona, was leading with only twenty laps to go, when a blown engine head put him out of the race. “Felt like stomping on that old car after,” he confided.
“If it had been me, I’d have pushed it off a cliff.”
“Guess maybe I’ll do better soon.” The race driver gave a boyish smile; he had the same pleasant manner as when Adam had observed him previously. “Got a feeling this year I might pull off the Talladega 500.”
“I’ll be at Talladega,” Adam said. “We’re exhibiting a concept Orion there. So I’ll cheer for you.”
From somewhere behind, Hank Kreisel’s voice cut in. “Adam, this is Stella. She’ll do anything for you.”
>
“Like getting a drink,” a girl’s pleasing voice said. Adam found a pretty, petite redhead beside him. She was wearing the scantiest of bikinis. “Hullo, Mr. Trenton.”
“Hullo.” Adam saw two other girls nearby and remembered Erica’s question: Does “stag” mean no women or merely no wives?
“I’m glad you like my swimsuit,” Stella told Pierre, whose eyes had been exploring.
The race driver said, “Hadn’t noticed you were wearing one.”
The girl returned to Adam. “About that drink.”
He ordered a Bloody Mary. “Don’t go ’way,” she told him. “Be back soon.”
Pierre asked, “What’s a ‘concept’ Orion, Adam?”
“It’s a special kind of car made up for showing in advance of the real thing. In the trade we call it a ‘one off.’”
“But the one at Talladega—it won’t be a genuine Orion?”
“No,” Adam said. “The real Orion isn’t due until a month later. The ‘concept’ will resemble the Orion, though we’re not saying how closely. We’ll show it around a lot. The idea is to get people talking, speculating on—how will the final Orion look?” He added, “You could say it’s a sort of teaser.”
“I can play that,” Stella said. She had returned with Adam’s drink and one for Pierre.
The congressman moved over to join them. He had flowing white hair, a genial manner and a strong, though pontifical, voice. “I was interested in what you said about your industry listening, Mr. Trenton. I trust some of the listening is to what legislators are saying.”
Adam hesitated. His inclination was to answer bluntly, as usual, but this was a party; he was a guest. He caught the eye of Hank Kreisel who seemed to have a knack of being everywhere and overhearing anything that mattered. “Feel free,” Kreisel said. “A few fights won’t hurt. We got a doctor coming.”
Adam told the congressman, “What’s coming out of legislatures right now is mostly foolishness from people who want their names in the news and know that blasting the auto industry, whether it makes sense or not, will do the trick.”
The congressman flushed as Adam persisted, “A U.S. senator wants to ban automobiles in five years’ time if they have internal combustion engines, though he hasn’t any notion what will replace them. Well, if it happened, the only good thing is, he couldn’t get around to make silly speeches. Some states have brought lawsuits in efforts to make us recall all cars built since 1953 and rebuild them to emission standards that didn’t exist until 1966 in California, 1968 elsewhere.”
“Those are extremes,” the congressman protested. His speech slurred slightly, and the drink in his hand was clearly not his first of the day.
“I agree they’re extremes. But they’re representative of what we’re hearing from legislators, and that—if I remember—was your question.”
Hank Kreisel, reappearing, said cheerfully, “Was the question, all right.” He slapped the congressman across the shoulders. “Watch out, Woody! These young fellas in Detroit got sharp minds. Brighter ’n you’re used to in Washington.”
“You’d never think,” the congressman informed the group, “that when this character Kreisel and I were Marines together, he used to salute me.”
“If that’s what you’re missing, General …” Hank Kreisel, still in his smart Bermuda shorts, snapped to rigid attention and executed a parade ground-style salute. Afterward he commanded, “Stella, get the senator another drink.”
“I wasn’t a general,” the congressman complained. “I was a chicken colonel, and I’m not a senator.”
“You were never a chicken, Woody,” Kreisel assured him. “And you’ll make it to senator. Probably over this industry’s corpse.”
“Judging by you, and this place, it’s a damn healthy corpse.” The congressman returned his gaze to Adam. “Want to beat any more hell out of politicians?”
“Maybe a little.” Adam smiled. “Some of us think it’s time our lawmakers did a few positive things instead of just parroting the critics.”
“Positive like what?”
“Like enacting some public enforcement laws. Take one example: air pollution. Okay, anti-pollution standards for new-built cars are here. Most of us in the industry agree they’re good, are necessary, and were overdue.” Adam was aware of the size of the group around them increasing, other conversations breaking off. He went on, “But what people like you ask of people like us is to produce an anti-pollutant device which won’t go wrong, or need checking or adjustment, for the entire life of every car. Well, it can’t be done. It’s no more logical to expect it than to ask any piece of machinery to work perfectly forever. So what’s needed? A law with teeth, a law requiring regular inspection of car pollutant devices, then repair or replacement when necessary. But it would be an unpopular law because the public doesn’t really give two hoots about pollution and only cares about convenience. That’s why politicians are afraid of it.”
“The public does care,” the congressman said heatedly. “I’ve mail to prove it.”
“Some individuals care. The public doesn’t. For more than two years,” Adam insisted, “we’ve had pollution control kits available for older cars. The kits cost twenty dollars installed, and we know they work. They reduce pollution and make air purer—anywhere. The kits have been promoted, advertised on TV, radio, billboards, but almost nobody buys them. Extras on cars—even old cars—like whitewall tires or stereo tape decks are selling fine. But nobody wants anti-pollution kits; they’re the least selling item we ever made. And the legislators you asked me about, who lecture us about clean air at the drop of a vote, haven’t shown the slightest interest either.”
Stella’s voice and several others chorused, “Spare ribs! Spare ribs!”
The group around Adam and the congressman thinned. “About time,” somebody said. “We haven’t eaten for an hour.”
The sight of piled food, now on a buffet at the rear of the sun deck presided over by a white-capped chef, reminded Adam that he had not had breakfast, due to his fight with Erica, and was hungry. He also remembered he must call home soon.
One of the purchasing agent guests, holding a plate heaped high with food, called out, “Great eating, Hank!”
“Glad you like it,” his host acknowledged. “And with you guys here it’s all deductible.”
Adam smiled with the others, knowing that what Kreisel had said was true—that the purchasing agents’ presence made this a business occasion, to be deducted eventually on Hank Kreisel’s income tax return. The reasoning: auto company purchasing agents, who allocated millions of dollars’ worth of orders annually, held a life or death authority over parts manufacturers like Kreisel. In older days, because of this, purchasing agents were accustomed to receive munificent gifts—even a lake cruiser or a houseful of furniture—from suppliers whom they favored. Now, auto companies forbade that kind of graft and an offender, if caught, was fired summarily. Just the same, perks for purchasing agents still existed, and being entertained socially, on occasions like this or privately, was one. Another was having personal hotel bills picked up by suppliers or their salesmen; this was considered safe since neither goods nor money changed hands directly, and later, if necessary, a purchasing agent could deny knowledge, saying he had expected the hotel to bill him. And gifts at Christmastime remained one more.
The Christmas handouts were forbidden annually by auto company managements in memos circulated during November and December. But just as inevitably, purchasing department secretaries prepared lists of purchasing staff home addresses which were handed out to suppliers’ salesmen on request, a request considered as routine as saying, “Merry Christmas!” The secretaries’ home addresses were always on the lists and, though purchasing agents allegedly knew nothing of what was going on, somehow their addresses got there, too. The gifts which resulted—none delivered to the office—were not as lavish as in older days, but few suppliers risked failing to bestow them.
Adam was still watching the pu
rchasing agent with the piled plate when a soft, feminine voice murmured, “Adam Trenton, do you always say just what you’re thinking?”
He turned. In front of him, regarding him amusedly, was a girl of twenty-eight or thirty, Adam guessed. Her high-cheekboned face was uptilted, her moist full lips lightly parted in a smile. Intelligent bright eyes met his own directly. He sensed a musky perfume, was aware of a lithe, slender figure with small, firm breasts beneath a tailored powder-blue linen dress. She was, Adam thought, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he had ever seen. And she was black. Not brown, but black; a deep, rich black, her smooth unblemished skin like silken ebony. He curbed an impulse to reach out, touching her.
“My name is Rowena,” the girl said. “I was told yours. And I’ve been asked to see that you get something to eat.”
“Rowena what?”
He sensed her hesitate. “Does it matter?” She smiled, so that he was aware of the full redness and moisture of her lips again.
“Besides,” Rowena said, “I asked you a question first. You haven’t answered it.”
Adam remembered she had asked something about—did he always say what he was thinking?
“Not always. I don’t believe any of us do really.” He thought: I’m sure as hell not doing it now, then added aloud, “When I do say anything, though, I try to make it honest and what I mean.”
“I know. I was listening to you talking. Not enough of us do that.”
The girl’s eyes met his own and held them steadily. He wondered if she sensed her impact on him, and suspected that she did.
The chef at the buffet, with Rowena’s aid, filled two plates which they carried to one of the sun deck tables nearby. Already seated were the judge—a youngish Negro who was on the federal bench in Michigan—and another guest from Adam’s company, a middle-aged development engineer named Frazon. Moments later they were joined by Brett DeLosanto, accompanied by an attractive, quiet brunette whom he introduced as Elsie.
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