Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

The story revolves around the author's experiences and observations covering a period of thirty years in the automobile business. He wishes to stress that these experiences were not those gained at a single dealership, but rather the result of having worked in dealerships representing all of the Big Three automakers and in two used car lots. During that time, he worked as a porter, mechanic, warranty manager and salesman. As a result, he was well positioned to observe the people, products, and practices of every aspect of the automobile business.

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Watch Those Car Guys

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

The war was well into its second year but that was of little consequence to Marty Stein. He was on a roll ... well, it seemed that way.

Bob Iverson had introduced him to the "BBB" club. No, not the "Build Better Boys" club, but, rather, the "Bread, Booze, and Broads" club. Filet mignon, rack of lamb, lobster, manhattans, highballs, martinis ... and the women. Marty felt like he had died and gone to heaven. The women in those Chicago high-rise apartments looked like movie stars. And making love ... those women were the best. It didn't end there either; the free tickets to the professional football and basketball games were like icing on the cake.

Not bad for a twenty-one-year-old sophomore straight out of an NYU business program. He hadn't asked to go to Officer's Training School (OCS). Rather, he was given a choice; go to OCS or join the other thousands of guys who might get their asses shot off. What would you do?

Right! He made the "smart" choice. So they called him a "ninetyday wonder" and under their breath, they called him worse things. He could live with the remarks and the sneers but the thought of Tony Simone hung heavily on his mind.

He and Tony had been buddies since junior high. They lived in a predominately Irish neighborhood and minorities were expected to toe the line. When tempers flared, it was not uncommon for Tony and Marty to be referred to as Guinea Wop and Jew bastard.

Marty's father, Joseph, had an auto repair shop. Tony worked there each summer and after school. When Marty went to college, Tony started working full-time as a mechanic in the shop.

In one respect, Tony was less fortunate than Marty. While Marty was living the good life, Tony had been drafted and found himself serving as a mechanic in a motor pool unit.

Tony's group was part of an Allied offensive against Monte Casino and during the fighting, a German pilot sent a round through Tony's leg, leaving him with a noticeable limp. In some strange way, Marty would hold himself responsible for Tony's injury.

Another ghost haunted Marty. He suspected that Bob's largesse would come at a price ... and so it did.

His first assignment was to monitor a contract that Bristol Industries had with the Feds. Bristol was under contract to build an improved bombsight for a fixed sum of money. During the course of this assignment, Marty met Bob Iverson, a seasoned PR man. Bob had used his "magic" to prepare Marty so that when the final cost of the project came in above the original contract price, Marty would react favorably as he performed the audit. More importantly, Bob would cause Marty to undergo an evaluation of his moral convictions.

Bob supplied Marty with all the supporting documentation but Marty found himself being less diligent than the situation demanded. He went through the motions of doing a thorough review of the data. But the taste of the pleasures Bob had provided and the desire for more diminished his ability to look critically into the data or to suggest to his superiors that the cost overrun was unjustified. Bob had seduced Marty as he had done to other unsuspecting Second Lieutenants. For the first time in his young life Marty had learned that if you know a person's needs or desires, you have found a way into his soul. The lesson would remain with Marty for the rest of his life, as would the thought that Bob had bought his soul ... at a discounted price.

Another of Marty's responsibilities was to monitor the cost of a truck-manufacturing contract that the Feds had with General Motors.

He had occasion to visit one such plant, where he was scheduled to meet with a "Mr. George Moore." Moore was Iverson's counterpart, but he had no need or desire to bribe government personnel. The GM contract was straightforward; each truck had a specified price and there was no need for any deviation from the contract price.

When Marty arrived at the plant, Mr. Moore gave him a tour of the facility. Marty was impressed with the complexity of the plant and how efficiently the work seemed to be progressing.

When the tour was over, Moore led Marty back to his office and invited Marty to share coffee with him. While Moore's back was turned, Marty gazed at a nearby wall and saw three pictures. The first was of a young Boy Scout with various medals. The second was a picture of a football player getting ready to throw a pass. The third was that of a young man in army fatigues. Marty surmised that the photographs were of Moore's son.

Moore poured out two cups of strong black coffee, handed one to Marty and sat in a chair directly across from Marty. Now, Marty met Moore's gaze.

"What did you think of what you saw?" asked Moore.

"It was very impressive. Seems like GM and the workers are doing a great job for the war effort."

No sooner had Marty spoken the words "war effort," he sensed that he had said the wrong thing.

Moore straightened up in his chair, his head high above his thin neck.

Marty could see the two deep creases that emerged from the side of his nostrils and ended on either side of thin, narrow, purple lips. Moore had a high forehead from which strands of fine gray hair were combed backwards against his scalp. His gray eyes seemed empty and lifeless. His skin had the pallor of someone who had not seen the sun in months and the first three fingers of his right hand had turned yellow from the countless cigarettes he had smoked.

"No, Lieutenant, the war effort was in the trenches in the Argonne. I put in six months of effort in those trenches. We ate, slept, shit, and died in those trenches. If the machine guns didn't get you, then it was the mortars, or an artillery shell, or maybe a bayonet thrust. And there was always the gas ... waiting for you.

"My son exerted much more effort than I did. One of his buddies wrote me and said that a shell from a German `88' went through the thin armor of his tank. I'll bet that once it got in, it must have gone round and round and when it stopped, my son and his two buddies looked like Swiss cheese."

Marty grimaced as a sharp pain gripped his scrotum. As Moore continued speaking, his mouth stretched into a thin grin and his head swayed slowly from side to side. The words now came out like hissing sounds, and Marty imagined that he could see Moore's tongue.

In Marty's mind, Moore's head assumed the appearance of a cobra swaying back and forth with its tongue flicking the air for a scent of the prey. Now the words came out through clenched teeth.

"No, Lieutenant, what you saw was business."

The word business came out like the hissing of a snake.

"Everybody here is in business. You, me, GM, the banks, the government, we are all in business. Before the war, most of the `patriots' here didn't have a pot to piss in. Now they take their pay from this business, and drop it on the bar at another business. Before the war, the big corporations had to compete to stay in business. Now, Uncle Sam guarantees the profits. It doesn't end there, Lieutenant. The war will be over in a year or two, and GM and the rest will be ready to serve the boys ... if ... they come home. It will be business as usual. There's no war effort here; it is simply the effort of business."

When the tension in his body had...