The Betsy (1971) (5 page)

 Chapter Seven

“It will be expensive,” Loren Hardeman III said heavily.

I sat across the desk and looked at him. He was two years older than I, but he seemed much older. Maybe it was the office.

It was old-fashioned in heavy dark wood paneling, the chairs and couches were in black leather, the racing and automobile prints on the wall were ancient and faded. But it was
The Office
. It had been his grandfather’s, then his father’s, and now it was his. It was the office of the man who ran Bethlehem Motors.

He had the look of a man who was running toward weight but was fighting it. He had the ponderousness of a young man on whose shoulders responsibility had climbed at a very early age. Neither his eyes nor his smile had any real fun in them. Maybe he never had a chance.

He had been twenty-one, elected executive vice-president of Bethlehem Motors the year he had married the right girl, Alicia Grinwold, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Randall Grinwold of Grosse Pointe, Southampton, and Palm Beach. Mr. Grinwold was then vice-president of the procurement division of General Motors.

Everything followed in order. Alicia was delivered of their daughter; Number Two died; he was elected president in his father’s place; Bethlehem Motors was awarded the largest parts contract ever given by GM to a competitive contractor; and he celebrated his twenty-third birthday.

That was seventeen years ago and the Detroit papers were proud of their third generation. Many articles were written about their two bright young men, Henry Ford II and Loren Hardeman III. They had come forth like knights in their shining automobile chromed steel to do battle for their four-wheeled liege.

“Very expensive,” Loren added into the heavy silence of the office.

I didn’t answer. I took a cigarette and lit it. The smoke curled upward in the still air.

He pressed a switch on his desk intercom. “Ask Bancroft and Weyman to come down if they’re free,” he said.

He wasn’t about to make it easy for me. John Bancroft wouldn’t be any problem. He was Sales and my plan could do him nothing but good. But Dan Weyman was another matter. He was Finances and anything that might cost money was anathema to him. It didn’t matter whether there was any value in it or not. He would only part with the money under duress.

They came into the office and went through the usual good-to-see-you-again bullshit. Then they arranged themselves on chairs and looked expectantly at their master.

Loren didn’t waste words. “Grandfather wants to put us into racing. He’s suggested that Angelo spearhead the project.”

They waited for a reading. Loren didn’t disappoint them.

“I don’t know whether the time for that hasn’t really passed. With safety and ecology becoming an increasing pressure factor, I think the emphasis on power will diminish. And then there’s the cost factor. It’s way up there now. Ford has already announced their pullout. Chevy cut back. Dodge is still in but only until their contracted commitments are used up. I thought I’d get you fellows down and skull it around.”

Bancroft was the first to speak. His booming salesman’s voice echoed in the room. “Can’t see where it would hurt. We could use some excitement. The dealers are all bitching that we haven’t any glamour.” His voice suddenly faded as he realized that he might be on the wrong track.

Dan Weyman took it up smoothly. “There are two sides to the problem. No doubt about it that a good effort on the raceway could help us. But we have to weigh its cost against its benefits.” He looked at me. “What do you estimate?”

“The least we should field is three cars,” I said. “Formula Three. We couldn’t make it in One or Two. We haven’t a standard car that could meet the competition, so we would have to go to prototype. I figure with personnel and design and engineering, about a hundred thousand a car. That would be for the first three, after that they would cost progressively less.”

Weyman nodded. “Right now we’re selling a little over two hundred thousand cars annually and we’re losing about a hundred and forty dollars per unit. You would be adding about a dollar and a half per unit to that loss.” He looked at Bancroft. “That means you would have to sell at least thirty thousand more cars just to keep the unit loss at present levels. Do you think you could do it?”

Bancroft was so hungry for the sales you could almost feel him taste it. “I think we have a chance.” Then he added the qualifying Detroit constant, “Providing the economy doesn’t go to hell.”

I looked at Weyman. “How many units do you have to sell to break even?”

“Three hundred thousand,” he said quickly. “That’s a fifty percent increase over our present rate. Once past that, we break into the profit column.”

“That should be easy,” I said, slipping him the needle. “Volkswagen sells more than that.”

“Volks doesn’t field a full line,” he said. “We have to cover the whole American market to meet the competition.”

I didn’t answer. We all knew that was a crock of shit. The only reason for a full line was to protect their own parts division.

Loren had been silent while we were talking. Now he spoke. From his tone I knew his mind had been made up. “I think we’ll take a shot at it. I have a lot of respect for my grandfather. Besides it won’t make a big difference whether we lose a dollar more per unit or not at this stage of the game. And, who knows, with Ford and GM out of it, we might even pick up a few trophies.”

He got to his feet. “Dan, you take care of the details. Get Angelo set up in an office and see to it that he gets whatever assistance he needs.” He looked at me. “Angelo, you report to Dan on costs, and to me on everything else.”

“Thank you, Loren,” I said, and the meeting was over.

We walked down the corridor. “How’s Number One?” Bancroft asked.

“Just fine,” I answered.

“There’s been a lot of talk around that he’s slipping. Old-age things, you know.”

“If he is, then we’re all in trouble,” I said. “He’s as sharp as he ever was.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bancroft said. I could tell that he meant it. “He was a real automobile man.”

“He still is.”

“My office is right here,” Dan said. “Come on in and we’ll get the details over with.”

I arranged to have lunch with Bancroft early in the following week and went into Dan’s office. It was simple, efficient and modern, as befit the financial vice-president.

Dan walked around his desk and sat down. I seated myself opposite. “If my memory serves me right, you worked for us before,” he said.

I nodded. He knew damn well that I did.

He picked up his phone and asked for my personnel file. He ran a tight ship. The file was on his desk within two minutes, even though the date of my last employment there was over eleven years ago. He opened it and looked at it. There was surprise in his voice. “Do you know that you still have a balance in our paid-up pension fund?”

I didn’t know it but I nodded anyway. “I didn’t exactly need the money,” I said. “And it was as safe a place as any to leave it.”

“Have you discussed your compensation?” he asked.

“We never got around to it.”

“I’ll take it up with Loren,” he said. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“None at all. Whatever he says is okay with me.”

“Have you discussed a title?”

“Number One suggested, ‘vice-president, special projects.’”

“I’ll have to clear that with Loren,” he said.

I nodded my understanding.

He stared down at my file for a few moments, then closed it and looked up at me. “I guess that’s all I need.” He got to his feet. “Let’s go over to Design and Engineering and see if we can find a nice office for you.”

“Don’t worry too much about it,” I said. “I don’t plan to be spending much time in it.”

 Chapter Eight

The frustrations began to pile up. I didn’t need a Seeing Eye dog to sense that the word was out on me. I got all the cooperation I asked for, but everything took twice as long. Six weeks later I was still in my office trying to get Engineering to spring three Sundancer engines for me. The Sundancer was the top of their line.

Finally I picked up the phone and called Number One. “I’m boxed in,” I said.

He chuckled. “You’re in there with real pros, son. They make those kiddie-car drivers you’ve played around with look like rank amateurs.”

I had to laugh. He was so right.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“I just wanted your permission to play it my way.”

“Go right ahead. That’s what I got you for.”

My next call was to Weyman. “I’m leaving for the Coast tomorrow.”

He sounded puzzled. “But the engines haven’t come through yet.”

“I can’t wait for them. If I don’t begin to set my pit crew and drivers now for next year, we may have cars but that’s all.”

“What about the modifications?” he asked.

“Carradine in Engineering has them all worked out. He’ll begin the moment he gets the engines.”

“And the shell?”

“Design is already working on it. I’ve approved the plans and they tell me that they’re waiting approval from Cost.” That was a shot at him.

“They haven’t crossed my desk yet,” he said defensively.

“They’ll get there,” I said.

“How long will you be gone?”

“Two, maybe three weeks,” I said. “I’ll check in with you the minute I get back.”

I put down the telephone and waited. In exactly two minutes it rang. It was Loren III. It was also the first time I had spoken with him since the day I came in. He was always in meetings and too busy to call back.

“I’ve been meaning to call you,” he said. “But I’ve been locked up. How’s it going?”

“Can’t complain. With a little luck we should field our first racer in the spring.”

“That’s good.” There was a pause. “By the way, I’m having some people over for dinner tonight and Alicia thought it might be nice if you could join us.”

“That would be lovely,” I said. “What time?”

“Cocktails at seven, dinner at eight thirty. Black tie.”

“Haven’t got one.”

“Dark suit then. Alicia likes to dress up the table.”

Carradine at Engineering was the next call. His voice was excited. “What did you do to them? I just got word that we’ll have the engines tomorrow. They’re pulling them off the line for us.”

“When you get them, go to work,” I said. “I’m leaving for California and I’ll check in with you from there at the end of the week.”

The next call was from Design. “We just got the approval back from Cost, but they cut us by twenty percent.”

“Build them anyway.”

Joe Huff’s voice was puzzled. “You know better than that, Angelo. We can’t build that design for twenty percent less.”

“Did you ever hear of going over budget? You build it. I’ll take the responsibility.”

I left the office early, feeling better than I had in weeks. The smokescreen was up and working. Now I could get on with the real thing.

I was the first to arrive. The Hardeman house was only four blocks away. The butler ushered me into the living room and put a drink in my hand. I had just begun to sit down when a tall girl appeared in the doorway.

“Hullo,” she said. “Am I early?”

I got back to my feet. “Not for me.”

She laughed and came into the room. Her laugh had a warm, throaty undersound. She held out her hand. “I’m Roberta Ayres, Alicia’s houseguest.”

“Angelo Perino.”

She let her hand rest in mine for a moment. “The racer?” Her voice was puzzled.

“Not any more,” I said.

“But—” Then she remembered her hand and took it away.

I smiled. I was getting used to it. “I had my face put back together.”

“Forgive me,” she said quickly. “I hadn’t meant to be rude. But I have seen you drive. Many times.”

“That’s all right,” I said.

The butler came into the room. “And what will be your pleasure, Lady Ayres?”

The name rang bells. Her husband was a very good amateur driver who bought the farm coming out of an apex at Nurburgring a few years back.

“Very dry martini, straight up,” she said.

“Forgive me,” I said. “I should have recognized the name. Your husband was a very fine driver, Lady Ayres.”

“It’s kind of you to say so. But John’s big trouble was that he was never as good a driver as he thought he was.”

“Who is?” I asked.

She laughed and the butler placed the drink in her hand. She held it up. “To fast cars.”

“Good enough,” I said. We drank.

“What are you doing now?

“Putting Bethlehem into racing.”

“That should be interesting,” she said politely.

“It is.”

She looked at me curiously. “You don’t talk very much, do you?”

I smiled. “It depends.”

“See what I mean,” she laughed. “You answer most of my questions with two words.”

“I haven’t noticed.” Then I began to laugh. “That was three words.”

Loren came in while we were still laughing. “I see you two have already met.”

“We’re old friends by now,” she said.

A strange expression fleeted through his eyes. It was gone before I could record it. He bent over and kissed her cheek. “You look lovely tonight, Bobbie.”

“Thank you, Loren.” Her hand brushed his lightly. “I must say you look very mod.”

“Like it?” He smiled with pleasure. “I had it made at that London tailor you told me about.”

“Absolutely smashing,” she said.

Then it all came together. Maybe there was hope for Loren yet. At least it proved there were other things on his mind beside business.

Alicia came down and I went over and kissed her cheek. “Hey, there,” I said.

“Hey, there,” she said and we both laughed.

Loren and Lady Ayres were looking at us.

“Private joke,” I said.

“Angelo and I went to high school together,” Alicia explained. “And that’s how he used to call everybody. I told him that I wouldn’t answer unless he called me by name.”

“And then how did he call you?” Lady Ayres asked.

“Hey, Alicia,” she replied. We all laughed. “It seems like such a long time ago now.”

“You haven’t changed that much, Alicia,” I said.

She smiled. “You don’t have to flatter me, Angelo. My daughter is seventeen.”

The other guests began to arrive, and it turned into a typically intimate Grosse Pointe dinner for ten. Young-leaders-of-Detroit-society type.

The conversation was typical also. Taxes. Government interference in production. The new pressure of safety and ecology, and its apostle, Ralph Nader, came in for his share of damnation.

“We don’t decry the need,” Loren said. “But we do object to the way in which we are cast as villains. The public forgets very conveniently that they wanted greater horsepower and speed. We only responded to that demand. Even now, with all the hue and cry, give them the choice of a hot car and a slower, more ecologically considerate one in the same price range, they’ll choose the hot one every time.”

“What’s going to happen?” someone asked.

“More government regulations,” Loren answered. “More problems for us. The costs will be tremendous and if we can’t pass them on to the consumer, we could be pushed out of the automobile business.”

But he didn’t seem very concerned about that, and the conversation turned to the generation gap and drug abuse in the schools. Then everyone had a chance to tell their favorite stories about their children.

I couldn’t contribute much to that, so I spent most of my time nodding and listening. Once when I glanced down the table at Lady Ayres, I caught her watching, a glint of secret amusement in her eyes. She was a very aware lady.

I didn’t realize just how aware she was until she stopped next to my seat on the plane the next day. I had requested the lounge so I could spread my papers out on the table and work on the way. I got to my feet. “Why, Lady Ayres, what a pleasant surprise!”

That same glint of amusement that I had seen in her eyes the night before reappeared. “Is it really, Mr. Perino?” she asked, putting herself in the seat next to me. “Then why did you make such a point of telling me exactly what flight you would be on?”

I laughed. “Lady or no, I figured there’s only so much of that anyone could take. You had to be human.” I reached behind her seat and took the reserve card off and gave it to her.

She read her name on it and looked up at me. “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Perino?”

“It’s time you called me Angelo.”

“Angelo,” she said softly, trying it on her tongue. “Angelo. It’s a lovely name.”

I reached for her hand. “Downhill all the way,” I said.

The doors clanged shut and the plane began to roll away from the gate. A few minutes later we taxied down the runway and took off.

She looked out the window at Detroit for a moment, then back at me. “It’s like getting out of jail,” she said. “How can anyone live in that fucking, boring city?”