Read Online The Stallion (1996) by Harold Robbins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Harold Robbins
Tags: thriller
Ads: Link
that. Talk to us about how to build this car.”
“Time has passed,” said Angelo, “since I told you what you had to do to save Bethlehem Motors. GM has been working on a fuel-efficient car with a transverse engine. So has Chrysler. You’re late at the starting gate, Mr. Hardeman.”
“Yes, yes. I read your Wall Street reports. I know what you think. The question is, what do we do?”
Angelo glanced at Roberta, who he guessed was listening to him with a more open mind than Number One or Number Three. “It’s very simple,” he said. “You can’t build the car now. By the time you design the car, engineer it, and tool up the plant to make what it needs, your competition will have taken the market away from you. But there’s a way you can do it.”
“Tell us,” said Loren, unable to subdue the scorn in his voice.
“The engine and drive train you need is being manufactured by Shizoka. It’s a beautiful unit, manufactured to the highest quality standards. They don’t sell many cars in the States because … well … the Chiisai is too small or, depending on how you look at it, too large. The American market right now is for two kinds of cars. They want family cars—the idea still being that you should be able to cram six people into an automobile for a Sunday-afternoon drive—or ‘pony’ cars, ones that leave rubber on the road. With relatively little work, the Chiisai can be reengineered to carry a body into which five, and maybe even six, American-size people can be squeezed. If that body is cleverly designed, it will look good—that is, racy, romantic.”
“I know the Chiisai,” Loren said impatiently. “What has it got to do with Bethlehem Motors?”
“You form a partnership with Shizoka,” said Angelo. “Maybe even merge the two companies, though I don’t think that will be necessary. Jointly, you design, manufacture, and sell one car. In Japan it’s whatever Shizoka wants to call it. In America it’s whatever you want to call it. In Europe maybe it’s called something else. But it’s always the same car: medium size, peppy but not overpowered, solid, manufactured to high standards of quality control—”
“Partnership!” Number One yelled. “Merger! With the fuckin’ Japs? I’d rather the company went under.”
Loren smiled tolerantly. “C’mon, Angelo. For a twenty-five-thousand-dollar consulting fee, surely you can come up with something better than this.”
“Stick your money up your butts, Hardemans,” said Angelo. “I don’t need it, and I don’t need you.”
“You were never as smart as you thought you were,” grumbled Number One.
Angelo shook his head tolerantly at the old man. “My dear friend,” he said. “In nineteen thirty-nine, when you rebuilt my kiddie car, you were alive to ideas and possibilities, in spite of the fact you were already in a wheelchair. Your trouble is—and I can’t blame you; you’ve lived too long too painfully—that you’ve been dead to anything since … well, since nineteen thirty-nine. Your company won’t survive you, because all the juice has gone out of you. And you never passed any along to your son and grandson.”
Number One stared at Angelo for a moment. His face was bland, showing absolutely no emotion or thought. Finally he nodded. “Good-bye, Angelo,” he said softly.
2
Angelo checked the airline schedules. He could have flown back to New York that night, but it would have involved a rush to the airport, a change of planes at Atlanta. No, he decided to enjoy a restful evening after a good dinner.
He called Cindy and told her she’d be glad to hear he’d had no offer from the Hardemans. He’d said good-bye toNumber One, and he guessed he would never see the man again.
From past visits to Palm Beach, Angelo knew you could eat much better off the premises of Casa Hardeman than you could seated across that grim dining table from that ever-grimmer old man. He sat at a table overlooking a crashing surf lighted
“Time has passed,” said Angelo, “since I told you what you had to do to save Bethlehem Motors. GM has been working on a fuel-efficient car with a transverse engine. So has Chrysler. You’re late at the starting gate, Mr. Hardeman.”
“Yes, yes. I read your Wall Street reports. I know what you think. The question is, what do we do?”
Angelo glanced at Roberta, who he guessed was listening to him with a more open mind than Number One or Number Three. “It’s very simple,” he said. “You can’t build the car now. By the time you design the car, engineer it, and tool up the plant to make what it needs, your competition will have taken the market away from you. But there’s a way you can do it.”
“Tell us,” said Loren, unable to subdue the scorn in his voice.
“The engine and drive train you need is being manufactured by Shizoka. It’s a beautiful unit, manufactured to the highest quality standards. They don’t sell many cars in the States because … well … the Chiisai is too small or, depending on how you look at it, too large. The American market right now is for two kinds of cars. They want family cars—the idea still being that you should be able to cram six people into an automobile for a Sunday-afternoon drive—or ‘pony’ cars, ones that leave rubber on the road. With relatively little work, the Chiisai can be reengineered to carry a body into which five, and maybe even six, American-size people can be squeezed. If that body is cleverly designed, it will look good—that is, racy, romantic.”
“I know the Chiisai,” Loren said impatiently. “What has it got to do with Bethlehem Motors?”
“You form a partnership with Shizoka,” said Angelo. “Maybe even merge the two companies, though I don’t think that will be necessary. Jointly, you design, manufacture, and sell one car. In Japan it’s whatever Shizoka wants to call it. In America it’s whatever you want to call it. In Europe maybe it’s called something else. But it’s always the same car: medium size, peppy but not overpowered, solid, manufactured to high standards of quality control—”
“Partnership!” Number One yelled. “Merger! With the fuckin’ Japs? I’d rather the company went under.”
Loren smiled tolerantly. “C’mon, Angelo. For a twenty-five-thousand-dollar consulting fee, surely you can come up with something better than this.”
“Stick your money up your butts, Hardemans,” said Angelo. “I don’t need it, and I don’t need you.”
“You were never as smart as you thought you were,” grumbled Number One.
Angelo shook his head tolerantly at the old man. “My dear friend,” he said. “In nineteen thirty-nine, when you rebuilt my kiddie car, you were alive to ideas and possibilities, in spite of the fact you were already in a wheelchair. Your trouble is—and I can’t blame you; you’ve lived too long too painfully—that you’ve been dead to anything since … well, since nineteen thirty-nine. Your company won’t survive you, because all the juice has gone out of you. And you never passed any along to your son and grandson.”
Number One stared at Angelo for a moment. His face was bland, showing absolutely no emotion or thought. Finally he nodded. “Good-bye, Angelo,” he said softly.
2
Angelo checked the airline schedules. He could have flown back to New York that night, but it would have involved a rush to the airport, a change of planes at Atlanta. No, he decided to enjoy a restful evening after a good dinner.
He called Cindy and told her she’d be glad to hear he’d had no offer from the Hardemans. He’d said good-bye toNumber One, and he guessed he would never see the man again.
From past visits to Palm Beach, Angelo knew you could eat much better off the premises of Casa Hardeman than you could seated across that grim dining table from that ever-grimmer old man. He sat at a table overlooking a crashing surf lighted
Similar Books
