It was luck which had given him a lifetime, so far, filled with the two things Hank Kreisel relished most - work and women. Occasionally the luck had failed. Once had been during a fervid affair in rest camp with a colonel's wife, after which her husband personally busted Master Sergeant Kreisel down to private. And later, in his Detroit manufacturing career, disasters had occurred, though successes well outnumbered them.
Brett DeLosanto had met Kreisel when the latter was in the Design-Styling Center one day, demonstrating a new accessory. They had liked each other and, partly through the young designer's genuine curiosity about how the rest of the auto industry worked and lived, had become friends. It was Hank Kreisel whom Brett had planned to meet on the frustrating day downtown when he had had the parking lot encounter with Leonard Wingate.
But Kreisel had failed to make it that day and now, two months later, the pair were keeping their postponed luncheon date.
"I've wondered, Hank," Brett DeLosanto said. "How'd you get started with the auto parts bit?"
"Long story." Kreisel reached for the neat sourmash Bourbon which was his habitual drink and took an ample sip. He was relaxing and, while dressed in a well-cut business suit, had the buttons of his vest undone, revealing that he wore both suspenders and a belt. He added, "Tell you, if you like."
"Go ahead." Brett had worked through the past several nights at the Design-Styling Center, had caught up with sleep this morning, and now was relishing the daytime freedom before returning to his design board later this afternoon.
They were in a small private apartment a mile or so from the Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village. Because of its proximity, also, to Ford Motor Company headquarters, the apartment appeared on the books of Kreisel's company as his "Ford liaison office." In fact, the liaison was not with Ford but with a lissome, leggy brunette named Elsie, who lived in the apartment rent-free, was on the payroll of Kreisel's company though she never went there, and in return made herself available to Hank Kreisel once or twice a week, or more often if he felt like it. The arrangement was easygoing on both sides. Kreisel, a considerate, reasonable man, always telephoned before putting in an appearance, and Elsie saw to it that he had priority.
Unknown to Elsie, Hank Kreisel also had a General Motors and Chrysler liaison office, operating under the same arrangement.
Elsie, who had prepared lunch, was in the kitchen now.
"Hold it!" Kreisel told Brett. "Just remembered something. You know Adam Trenton?"
"Very well."
"Like to meet him. Word's out he's a big comer. Never hurts to make high-grade friends in this business." The statement was characteristic of Kreisel, a mixture of directness and amiable cynicism which men, as well as women, found appealing.
Elsie rejoined them, her every movement an overt sexuality which a simple, tight black dress accentuated. The ex-Marine patted her rump affectionately.
"Sure, I'll fix a meeting." Brett grinned. "Here?"
Hank Kreisel shook his head. "The Higgins Lake cottage. A weekend party.
Let's aim at May. You choose a date. I'll do the rest."
"Okay, I'll talk with Adam. Let you know." When he was with Kreisel, Brett found himself using the same kind of staccato sentences as his host. As to a party, Brett had already attended several at Hank Kreisel's cottage hideaway. They were swinging affairs which he enjoyed.
Elsie seated herself at the table with them and resumed her lunch, her eyes moving between the two men as they talked. Brett knew, because he had been here before, that she liked to listen but seldom joined in.
Brett inquired, "What made you think of Adam?"
"The Orion. He okayed add-ons, I'm told. Last minute hot stuff. I'm making one of 'em."
"You are! Which one? The brace or floor reinforcement?"
"Brace."
"Hey, I was in on that! That's a big order."
Kreisel gave a twisted grin. "It'll make me or break me. They need five thousand braces fast, like yesterday. After that, ten thousand a month.
Wasn't sure I wanted the job. Schedule's tough. Still plenty of headaches.
But they figure I'll deliver."
Brett already knew of Hank Kreisel's reputation for reliability about deliveries, a quality which auto company purchasing departments cherished.
One reason for it was a talent for tooling improvisations which slashed time and cost, and while not a qualified engineer himself, Kreisel could leapfrog mentally over many who were.
"I'll be damned!" Brett said. "You and the Orion."
"Shouldn't surprise you. Industry's full of people crossing each other's bridges. Sometimes pass each other, don't even know it. Everybody sells to everybody else. GM sells steering gears to Chrysler. Chrysler sells adhesives to GM and Ford. Ford helps out with Plymouth windshields. I know a guy, a sales engineer. Lives in Flint, works for General Motors.
Flint's a GM company town. His main customer's Ford in Dearborn - for engineering design of engine accessories. He takes confidential Ford stuff to Flint. GM guards it from their own people who'd give their ears to see it. The guy drives a Ford car - to Ford, his customer. His GM bosses buy it for him."
Elsie replenished Hank Kreisels Bourbon; Brett had declined a drink earlier.
Brett told the girl, "He's always telling me things I didn't know."
"He knows a lot." Her eyes, smiling, switched from the young designer's to Kreisel's. Brett sensed a private message pass.
"Hey! You two like me to leave?"
"No hurry." The ex-Marine produced a pipe and lit it. "You want to hear about parts?" He glanced at Elsie. "Not yours, baby." Plainly he meant: Those are for me.
"Auto parts," Brett said.
"Right." Kreisel gave his twisted grin. "Worked in an auto plant before I enlisted. After Korea, went back. Was a punch press operator. Then a foreman."
"You've made the big leagues fast."
"Too fast, maybe. Anyway, I'd watched how production worked - metal stampings. The Big Three are all the same. Must have the fanciest machines, high-priced buildings, big overhead, cafeterias, the rest. All that stuff makes a two-cent stamping cost a nickel."
Hank Kreisel drew on his pipe and wreathed himself in smoke. "So I went to Purchasing. Saw a guy I know. Told him I figured I could make the same stuff cheaper. On my own."
"Did they finance you?"
"Not then, not later. Gave me a contract, though. There and then for a million little washers. When I'd quit my job I had two hundred dollars cash. No building, no machinery." Hank Kreisel chuckled. "Didn't sleep that night. Dead scared. Next day I tore around. Rented an old billiard hall. Showed a bank the contract and the lease; they loaned me dough to buy scrap machinery. Then I hired two other guys. The three of us fixed the machinery up. They ran it. I rushed out, got more orders." He added reminiscently, "Been rushing ever since."
"You're a saga," Brett said. He had seen Hank Kreisel's impressive Grosse Pointe home, his half dozen bustling plants, the converted billiard hall still one of them. He supposed, conservatively, Hank Kreisel must be worth two or three million dollars.
"Your friend in Purchasing," Brett said. "The one who gave you the first order. Do you ever see him?"