Under glass, a half-dozen upholstery samples had been arranged, each identified by mill and purchase number. Other similar samples were loose on the table top. Though variously colored, they bore the generic name "Metallic Willow." Dave Heberstein picked one up. "Remember these?"
"Sure " Brett nodded. "I liked them, still do."
"I did, too. In fact, I recommended them for use." Heberstein fingered the sample which was pleasantly soft to the touch. It had - as had all the others - an attractive patterned silver fleck. "It's crimped yarn with a metallic thread."
Both men were aware that the fabric had been introduced as an extra cost option with the company's top line models this year. It had proven popular and soon, in differing colors, would be available for the Orion.
Brett asked, "So what's the fuss?"
"Letters," Heberstein said. "Customers' letters which started coming in a couple of weeks ago." He took a key ring from his pocket and opened a drawer in the display table. Inside was a file containing about two dozen photocopied letters. "Read a few of those."
The correspondence, which was mainly from women or their husbands, though a few lawyers had written on behalf of clients, had a common theme. The women had sat in their cars wearing mink coats. In each case when they left the car, part of the mink had adhered to the seat, depleting and damaging the coat. Brett whistled softly.
"Sales ran a check through the computer," Heberstein confided. "In every case the car concerned had Metallic Willow seats. I understand there are still more letters coming in."
"Obviously you've made tests." Brett handed back the folder of letters.
"So what do they show?"
"They show the whole thing's very simple; trouble is, nobody thought of it before it happened. You sit on the seat, the cloth depresses and opens up. That's normal, of course, but what also open up in this case are the metallic threads, which is still okay, providing you don't happen to be wearing mink. But if you are, some of the fine hairs go clown between the metallic threads. Get up, and the threads close, holding the mink hairs so they pull out from the coat. You can ruin a three-thousand-dollar coat in one trip around the block."
Brett grinned. "If word gets around, every woman in the country with an old mink will rush out for a ride, then put in a claim for a new coat."
"Nobody's laughing. Over at staff they've pushed the panic button."
"The fabric's out of production?"
Heberstein nodded. "As of this morning. And from now on we have another test around here with new fabrics. Rather obviously, it's known as the mink test."
"What's happening about all the seats already out?"
" God knows! And I'm glad that part's not my headache. The last I beard, it had gone as high as the chairman of the board. I do know the legal department is settling all claims quietly, as soon as they come in.
They've figured there'll be a few phony ones, but better to pay if there's a chance of keeping the whole thing under wraps."
"Mink wraps?"
The studio head said dourly, "Spare me the lousy jokes. You'll get all this through channels, but I thought you and a few others should know right away because of the Orion."
"Thanks." Brett nodded thoughtfully. It was true - changes would have to be made in Orion plans, though the particular area was not his responsibility. He was grateful, however, for another reason.
Within the next few days, he now decided, he must change either his car or the seats in his present one. Brett's car had Metallic Willow fabric and, coincidentally, he planned a birthday gift of mink next month which he had no wish to see spoiled. The mink, which undoubtedly would be worn in his car, was for Barbara.
Barbara Zaleski.
Chapter 6
"Dad," Barbara said, "I'll be staying over in New York for a day or two.
I thought I'd let you know."
In the background, through the telephone, she could hear an overlay of factory noise. Barbara had had to wait several minutes while the operator located Matt Zaleski in the plant; now, presumably, he had taken the call somewhere close to the assembly line.
Her father asked, "Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why, do you have to stay?"
She said lightly, "Oh, the usual kind of thing. Client problems at the agency. Some meetings about next year's advertising; they need me here for them." Barbara was being patient. She really shouldn't have to explain, as if she were still a child requiring permission to be out late. If she decided to stay a week, a month, or forever in New York, that was it.
"Couldn't you come home nights, then go back in the morning?"
"No, Dad, I couldn't."
Barbara hoped this wasn't going to develop into another argument in which it would be necessary to point out that she was twenty-nine, a legal adult who had voted in two presidential elections, and had a responsible job which she was good at. The job, incidentally, made her financially free so that she could set up a separate establishment any time she wanted, except that she lived with her father, knowing he was lonely after her mother's death, and not wanting to make things worse for him.
"When will you be home then?"
"By the weekend for sure. You can live without me till then. And take care of your ulcer. By the way, how is it?"
"I'd forgotten it. Too many other things to think about. We had some trouble in the plant this morning."
He sounded strained, she thought. The auto industry had that effect on everybody close to it, including herself. Whether you worked in a plant, in an advertising agency, or on design, like Brett, the anxieties and pressures got to you in the end. The same kind of compulsion told Barbara Zaleski at this moment that she had to get off the telephone and back into the client meeting. She had slipped out a few minutes ago, the men assuming, no doubt, that she had left to do whatever women did in washrooms, and instinctively Barbara put a hand to her hair - chestnut brown and luxuriant, like her Polish mother's; it also grew annoyingly fast so she had to spend more time than she liked in beauty salons. She patted her hair into place; it would have to do. Her fingers encountered the dark glasses which she had pushed upward above her forehead hours ago, reminding her that she had heard someone recently deride dark glasses in hair as the hallmark of the girl executive. Well, why not?
She left the glasses where they were.
"Dad," Barbara said, "I haven't much time. Would you do something for me?"
"What's that?"
"Call Brett. Tell him I'm sorry I can't make our date tonight, and if he wants to call me later I'll be at the Drake Hotel."
"I'm not sure I can . . ."
"Of course you can! Brett's at the Design Center, as you know perfectly well, so all you have to do is pick up an inside phone and dial. I'm not asking you to like him; I know you don't, and you've made that clear plenty of times to both of us. All I'm asking is that you pass a message. You may not even have to speak to him."
She had been unable to keep the impatience out of her voice, so now they were having an argument after all, one more added to many others.
"All right," Matt grumbled. "I'll do it. But keep your shirt on."
"You keep yours on, too. Goodbye, Dad. Take care, and I'll see you at the weekend."
Barbara thanked the secretary whose phone she had been using and slid her full, long-limbed body from the desk where she had perched.
Barbara's figure, which she was aware that men admired, was another legacy from her mother who had managed to convey a strong sexuality - characteristically Slavic, so some said - until the last few months before she died.
Barbara was on the twenty-first floor of the Third Avenue building which was New York headquarters of the Osborne J. Lewis Company - or more familiarly, OJL - one of the world's halfdozen largest advertising agencies, with a staff of two thousand, more or less, on three skyscraper floors. If she had wanted to, instead of phoning Detroit from where she had, Barbara could have used an office in the jam-packed, creative rabbit warren one floor down, where a few windowless, cupboard-size offices were kept available for out-of-town staffers like herself while working temporarily in New York. But it had seemed simpler to stay up here, where this morning's meeting was being held. This floor was client country. It was also where account executives and senior agency officers had their lavishly decorated and broadloomed office suites, with original Uzannes, Wyeths, or Picassos on the walls as well as built-in bars - the latter remaining hidden or activated according to a client's known and carefully remembered preferences. Even secretaries here enjoyed better working conditions than some of the best creative talent down below. In a way, Barbara sometimes thought, the agency resembled a Roman galley ship, though at least those below had their martini lunches, went home at nights, and - if senior enough - were sometimes allowed topside.