felt a buoyancy in the party, as if I’d walked in on some kind of celebration. That was close to the truth. The third-quarter sales figures were in and I learned from their conversation that Ford had tied Chevrolet for the first time since 1929. The company there assembled had inherited a firm whose employees were still paid in cash by Dickensian clerks in green eyeshades and sleeve garters and in eight short years had parlayed it into a world player in the same class with U.S. Steel and Standard Oil of New Jersey.
Ford emptied his glass and banged it down. As if it were a gavel, the others ceased their talk of figures and quotas and looked to the Chief, a name I would come to call him myself, and that had been conferred upon him by his brothers when they were still children. Bugas, the erstwhile G-man, detected a secondary significance to the gesture and signaled the waiter, who replaced the empty glass with another filled to the rim with amber liquid.
“Are you a drinking man, Mr. Minor?” Ford asked suddenly.
I sorted through my options. For all I knew his glass contained ginger ale, and I remembered his grandfather’s stand on any substance or activity that gave pleasure to the partaker. On the other hand, although my host’s condition was difficult to gauge, it was pretty clear from the way big Mead Bricker had been forced to steady himself against the partition when he stood to take my hand, and from a general ferment in the air of the booth, that this was no gathering of teetotalers. I plunged. “Scotch and water.”
The mood at the table lightened perceptibly. I’d passed a test of some kind. Ford said, “Single malt? They have an excellent selection here.”
“Oh, any kind. That iodine they smuggled out of Canada scorched off most of my taste buds twenty years ago.”
Bricker laughed boozily. Davis slid away from him half a foot and adjusted his glasses. “You’re that Connie Minor,” he said. “I used to read your column. At home, of course. If the old man found a copy of the Banner anywhere on Ford property he’d track down whoever brought it in and fire him on the spot.”
My drink arrived, giving me an excuse not to comment. A quick look from Zed had informed me that even a derogatory comment about Old Henry would be a violation.
“What do you think of our E-car?” Ford asked when the waiter had left. He was looking at me.
“E-car?”
“The Edsel.” Zed’s tone was a murmur.
My mind clawed for the connection. Edsel. edseledseled-sel Edsel Ford . Henry’s son. Henry II’s father. Hank wants to name it after his father. Suddenly I tasted summer squash boiled with butter. It had been one of the more palatable dishes served at Fairlane that day I’d sat next to Edsel, who had made less of an impression on me than the squash.
“It has snazzy lines,” I said. “That push-button transmission alone should sell millions. The grille is interesting.”
Bricker drank. “That’s Jack Reith’s baby. Brought it back from Paris along with one of those little Eiffel towers and a complete Apache dancer’s outfit.”
“I’m not worried about the grille so much as the name,” Davis said. “Cars named after people don’t sell. Ask Kaiser about the Henry J. Anyway, Hank’s father disliked the name enough not to give it to any of his sons.”
“I liked ‘Andante con Motor.’” Bricker drank.
“Oh, lay off that, Mead. We got that one from Marianne Moore, the poet,” Davis told me. “She also suggested ‘Utopian Turtletop.’ I don’t know whose idea it was to consult her to begin with. Poets can’t make a living off their own racket, let alone sell cars.”
Bugas had remained silent, seated erect with his forearms resting on the table as if it were his old desk at the Bureau.
His open eyes hadn’t left my face since our introduction. “Maybe Connie has some ideas in that direction. He’s the writer.”
Four more pairs of eyes joined his, Ford’s over the top of his
Ford emptied his glass and banged it down. As if it were a gavel, the others ceased their talk of figures and quotas and looked to the Chief, a name I would come to call him myself, and that had been conferred upon him by his brothers when they were still children. Bugas, the erstwhile G-man, detected a secondary significance to the gesture and signaled the waiter, who replaced the empty glass with another filled to the rim with amber liquid.
“Are you a drinking man, Mr. Minor?” Ford asked suddenly.
I sorted through my options. For all I knew his glass contained ginger ale, and I remembered his grandfather’s stand on any substance or activity that gave pleasure to the partaker. On the other hand, although my host’s condition was difficult to gauge, it was pretty clear from the way big Mead Bricker had been forced to steady himself against the partition when he stood to take my hand, and from a general ferment in the air of the booth, that this was no gathering of teetotalers. I plunged. “Scotch and water.”
The mood at the table lightened perceptibly. I’d passed a test of some kind. Ford said, “Single malt? They have an excellent selection here.”
“Oh, any kind. That iodine they smuggled out of Canada scorched off most of my taste buds twenty years ago.”
Bricker laughed boozily. Davis slid away from him half a foot and adjusted his glasses. “You’re that Connie Minor,” he said. “I used to read your column. At home, of course. If the old man found a copy of the Banner anywhere on Ford property he’d track down whoever brought it in and fire him on the spot.”
My drink arrived, giving me an excuse not to comment. A quick look from Zed had informed me that even a derogatory comment about Old Henry would be a violation.
“What do you think of our E-car?” Ford asked when the waiter had left. He was looking at me.
“E-car?”
“The Edsel.” Zed’s tone was a murmur.
My mind clawed for the connection. Edsel. edseledseled-sel Edsel Ford . Henry’s son. Henry II’s father. Hank wants to name it after his father. Suddenly I tasted summer squash boiled with butter. It had been one of the more palatable dishes served at Fairlane that day I’d sat next to Edsel, who had made less of an impression on me than the squash.
“It has snazzy lines,” I said. “That push-button transmission alone should sell millions. The grille is interesting.”
Bricker drank. “That’s Jack Reith’s baby. Brought it back from Paris along with one of those little Eiffel towers and a complete Apache dancer’s outfit.”
“I’m not worried about the grille so much as the name,” Davis said. “Cars named after people don’t sell. Ask Kaiser about the Henry J. Anyway, Hank’s father disliked the name enough not to give it to any of his sons.”
“I liked ‘Andante con Motor.’” Bricker drank.
“Oh, lay off that, Mead. We got that one from Marianne Moore, the poet,” Davis told me. “She also suggested ‘Utopian Turtletop.’ I don’t know whose idea it was to consult her to begin with. Poets can’t make a living off their own racket, let alone sell cars.”
Bugas had remained silent, seated erect with his forearms resting on the table as if it were his old desk at the Bureau.
His open eyes hadn’t left my face since our introduction. “Maybe Connie has some ideas in that direction. He’s the writer.”
Four more pairs of eyes joined his, Ford’s over the top of his
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