So what? Fact is: situation's there. Won't change for a long time, if ever. Another thing: out there, not many places to repair fancy machinery. So machines need to be simple." He took his hand away from the thresher whose handle he had continued turning. "This is."

Adam thought: Strangely, while Hank Kreisel had been speaking - eloquently for him - and demonstrating what he had built and believed in, he had a Lincolnesque quality which his tall, lean figure emphasized.

Would the idea work, Adam wondered? Was there a need, the way Hank Kreisel claimed? Was it a worthwhile project to which one of the Big Three auto companies might lend its world prestige?

Adam began firing questions based on his product planner's training in critical analysis. The questions embraced marketing, expected sales, distribution, local assembly, costs, parts, techniques for shipping, servicing, repair. Each point Adam raised, Kreisel seemed to have thought of and been prepared for, with the needed figures in his brain, and the responses showed why the parts manufacturer's own business had become the success it was.

Later, Hank Kreisel personally drove Adam and Erica to their car downtown.

***

Heading home, northward, on the John Lodge Freeway, Erica asked Adam,

"Will you do what Hank wants? Will you get him in to see the chairman and the others?"

"I don't know." His voice betrayed doubts. "I'm just not sure."

"I think you should."

He glanced sideways, half-amused. "Just like that?"

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Erica said firmly, "Yes, just like that."

"Aren't you the one who's always telling me I'm involved with too much already?" Adam was remembering the Orion, its introduction nearing week by week, with demands on his own time increasing, as they would for months ahead. Yet Farstar, now in early phases, was also requiring his concentration and working hours, at the office and at home.

Another thing on his mind was Smokey Stephensen. Adam knew he must resolve soon the question of his sister Teresa's investment in the auto dealership where he was overdue for another visit and a showdown with Smokey over several issues. Somehow, next week, he must try to fit that in.

He asked himself: Did he really want to take on something more?

Erica said, "It wouldn't take time. All Hank's asking is for an introduction so he can demonstrate his machine."

Adam laughed. "Sorry! It doesn't work that way." He explained: Any idea passed on for consideration at the summit of the company must have exhaustive analysis and views appended because nothing was ever dumped casually on the president's or chairman's desk. Even working through Elroy Braithwaite and Hub Hewitson, the executive vice-president - as Adam would have to - the ground rules still applied. Neither would authorize approach to the next higher echelon until an entire proposal had been sifted, costs worked out, market potential mapped, specific recommendations made.

And rightly so. Otherwise hundreds of crackpot schemes would clog the policy making process.

In this instance - though other people might be involved later - Adam, initially, would have to do the work.

Something else: If farm products division had turned down Hank Kreisel's thresher scheme, as he admitted, Adam could make enemies by reviving it, whether success or failure followed. The farm products arm, though small by comparison with automotive operations, was still a part of the company, and making enemies anywhere was never a good idea.

In the end, tonight, Adam had been impressed by his host's demonstration and ideas. But would Adam gain by involvement? Would it be wise or foolish to become Hank Kreisel's sponsor?

Erica's voice cut through his thoughts. "Even if there were some work, I should think it might be a lot more useful than those other things you do."

He answered sarcastically, "I suppose you'd like me to drop the Orion, Farstar . . ."

"Why not? Those won't feed anybody. Hank's machine will."

"The Orion will feed you and me."

Even as he said it, Adam knew his last remark was smug and foolish, that they were drifting into a needless argument, but Erica flashed back, "I suppose that's all you care about."

"No, it isn't. But there's a whole lot more to think of."

"For instance, what?"

"For instance, Hank Kreisel's an opportunist."

"I liked him."

"So I noticed."

Erica's voice was ice. "Just what do you mean by that?"

"Oh, hell! Nothing."

"I said: What do you mean?"

"All right," Adam answered, "while we were by the pool, he was mentally undressing you. You knew it, too. You didn't seem to mind."

Erica's cheeks were flushed. "Yes, I did know! And no, I didn't mind! If you want the truth, I liked it."

He said sourly, "Well, I didn't."

"I can't think why."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means Hank Kreisel's a man, and acts like one. That way, he makes a woman feel a woman."

"I suppose I don't."

"No, you bloody well don't!" Her anger filled the car. It shook him. He had the sense to know this had gone far enough.

Adam made his tone conciliatory. "Look, maybe lately if I haven't been . . ."

"You objected because Hank made me feel good. A woman. Wanted."

"Then I'm sorry. I suppose I said the wrong thing, didn't think enough about it." He added, "Besides, I want you."

"Do you? Do you?"

"Of course I do."

"Then why don't you take me any more?"

Don't you know it's two months since you did? Before that, weeks and weeks. And you make me feel so cheap telling you."

They had left the freeway. Conscience stricken, Adam stopped the car.

Erica was sobbing, her face against the window on the other side. He reached gently for her hand.

She snatched it back. "Don't touch me!"

"Look," Adam said, "I guess I'm a first-class dope . . ."

"No! Don't say it! Don't say anything!" Erica choked back tears. "Do you think I want you to take me now? After asking? How do you think a woman feels who has to ask?"

He waited a while, feeling helpless, not knowing what to do or say. Then he started the car and they drove the rest of the way to Quarton Lake in silence.

As usual, Adam let Erica out before heading into the garage. Leaving, she told him quietly, "I've thought a lot, and it isn't just tonight. I want a divorce."

He said, "We'll talk about it."

Erica shook her head.

When he came in, she was already in the guest room with the door locked.

That night for the first time since their marriage, they were in the same house and slept apart.

Chapter 20

"Gimme the bad news," Smokey Stephensen told Lottie Potts, his bookkeeper.

"How much am I out of trust?"

Lottie, who looked and frequently behaved like a female Uriah Heep, but had a mind as sharp as razor blades, did quick arithmetic with a slim gold pencil.

"Counting those cars we just delivered, Mr. Stephensen, sir, forty-three thousand dollars."

"How much cash is in the bank, Lottie?"

"We can meet the payroll this week and next, Mr. Stephensen, sir. Not much more."

"Um." Smokey Stephensen rubbed a hand over his heavy beard, then leaned back, lacing his fingers over his belly which had grown larger lately; he reminded himself, absently, that he must do something about his weight soon, like going on a diet, though the thought depressed him.

Characteristically, Smokey was not alarmed about the financial crisis in which, this morning, he suddenly found himself. He had weathered others and would manage this one somehow. He pondered over Lottie's figures, doing further mental calculations of his own.

The day was Tuesday, in the first week of August, and the two of them were in Smokey's mezzanine office at the big suburban car dealership, Smokey behind his desk, wearing the blue silk jacket and brightly patterned tie which were like a uniform. Lottie, across from him, waited deferentially, several accounting ledgers spread open around her.

Smokey thought: There weren't many women around nowadays with Lottie's attitude. But then, if nature snarled at you at birth, making you as ugly as Lottie, you had to compensate in other ways. By God! She was a dog. At thirty-five, or thereabouts, she looked fifty, with her lumpish lopsided features, buck teeth, the suggestion of a squint, nondescript all-direction hair, appearing as if first grown on a coconut, a voice that grated like metal rims on cobblestones . . . Smokey switched his thoughts away, reminding himself that Lottie was utterly devoted, unquestionably loyal, unfailingly reliable, and that together they had clambered out of scrapes he might never have survived without her staff work.

Smokey had followed a dictum all his life: If you want a woman to stick beside you, pick an ugly one. Pretty girls were a luxury, but fickle. Ugly ones stayed to slice the meat and stir the gravy.

It was another ugly girl who had precipitated this morning's crisis.

Smokey was grateful that she had.

Her name was Yolanda and she had telephoned him at home late last night.

Yolanda worked for the downtown bank which Smokey dealt with, and which financed his dealer's inventory of cars. She was a vice-president's secretary, with access to confidential information.

Another thing about Yolanda was that stripped to bra and panties she weighed two hundred pounds.




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