The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3

by B. Hesse Pflingger

  “The package is addressed to me, and Nesseth has no business holding it.”

  “Well, be that as it may, I cannot surrender the key to you. This key here,” he said, pointing to a key on a peg on the wall. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to do, so I’ll be turnin’ my back to you.” And he turned away. Then muttered, “Mind you’ll be returnin’ it to the peg.”

  Myron guided me to Nesseth’s office. A quick search turned up my package, stashed away in a cupboard. No doubt keeping it safe for me and it had just slipped his mind. Right. I didn’t think many things slipped Roy Nesseth’s mind. The package didn’t seem to have been tampered with, but I’d check the SIG carefully once back in my hotel room. Why was I getting the impression that some of my associates in this operation were not entirely trustworthy?

  Don Lander, managing director of the plant, had wanted to meet me, so his office was our next stop. “Nobody’s told me anything about your role, Jake, but as you were brought in by John DeLorean himself, I can assume that it’s important, so I thought we should get together. I think a tour of the factory would be worthwhile. Do you have some time right now?”

  “I think I can find a gap in my schedule to squeeze in a tour. Lead on.”

  Lander was in his mid-30s, an obviously capable manager, as I’ve found most American corporate people on overseas assignments to be. Despite the prevailing atmosphere of despond he was enthusiastic about his job, which was to hold off disaster pending the arrival of the US Cavalry. He guided me down a corridor, out an exit door and across an access lane over toward a much larger building.

  “This was a swampy field just two years ago,” he explained. “Most of the fields in these parts are swampy or outright bogs, have to be drained before they’re usable. The team that Lotus assembled under their design and construction contract did a hell of a job. In Detroit getting a new line of cars flowing out of a new factory would take five years or more.”

  “That’s Lotus, the guys that win all the Grand Prix races?”

  “The same. They have the best cars and the best drivers—why shouldn’t they win? They do contract work as well, and as they’ve been in a financial jam we were able to hire them to put up our factory. The local workforce was a challenge. Unemployment’s high, though not as high as in the Republic of Ireland, our southern neighbors. We hired men who’ve been out of work for years, hired a number who’d never held a job at all. And then there’s the Catholic-Protestant frictions. Had to make sure we were seen as even-handed there. But the men they hired were willing to work, and they trained quickly. It’s a solid work force now—hate to see them going. Now, this building we’re heading for is the assembly plant, over 250,000 square feet under one roof.”

  The building sat low and wide, though not as low as it appeared from a distance. We entered a vast expanse of machinery, parts bins and cars in various stages of completion. Workers, mostly men, in spotless white smocks fitted sections, bolted things together, installed parts and components. Self-propelled platforms moved individual chassis from one stage of assembly to the next. It was squeaky clean, uncluttered, and for such a large agglomeration of men, machinery and metal, remarkably quiet.

  “We’re down to less than half the crew, and even so we’re not turning out cars as fast as we could, because they aren’t selling. Mostly I’m keeping the core of our workforce occupied so that when we come out of this funk we can get up and running quickly.”

  “There’s some problem with sales?”

  “To be honest, Jake, the problem is the cars. The DMC-12 is John DeLorean’s dream, but not his project. To get the deal he wanted from the Northern Ireland he made a lot of extravagant promises for other people to keep. This factory went up in record time, faster than they could properly design the car. Specs kept changing. The car wouldn’t pass various performance and safety tests in the US and had to be redesigned time and again. Those gull-wings are a marketing gimmick. If they were good design, more cars would have them. There’s really nothing very innovative here. The engines are standard, from Volvo. The frame and suspension are adapted from existing designs. DeLorean had an idea for a new type of plastic underbody, but that didn’t work out, so there’s nothing new there. Stainless steel sounds impressive, but it’s not a good surface for an automobile. Car owners like to personalize theirs with colors, and this finish won’t take paint.”

  “Now that I think of it, I like to put the top down in my Vette on nice days,” I said. “Can’t see doing that with gull wings.”

  “Tell me about it.” Lander said, rolling his eyes. “Performance is inferior to the competition, things don’t fit together well, it’s significantly overweight, and the price is way out of line. Just to get the list price within reason we had to make a lot of standard features ‘options.’ More time and money might have produced an okay car, but everything was done in a rush, and it shows. With all the publicity the DMC-12 has had, if these cars were any good they’d be flying out of here.”

  “Then why keep after it?”

  “Because, Jake, this factory was going to be the salvation, and the pride and joy, of this sad sack little country. NIDA—the Northern Ireland Development Authority—backed this thing to the hilt. This is a major failure for them. As well as a catastrophic loss of money for the British government. Everyone is hoping John can cobble together the financing to keep it together.”

  No denying that the facilities were top notch, and the workers seemed upbeat. I could see how great volumes of hopes and dreams were at stake. Lander showed me around the assembly plant, more than half of which now sat idle. We next went to the body press plant—about as large—and then moved along to the smaller fabricating building and the marshaling building. A cleaner, more modern factory I’d never seen. “What are the chances of me driving one of these beauties?” I asked.

  “Sure, good idea.” We returned to the office building, got a set of keys and came back out to a nearby car. “We use this one here for demos,” he said as he unlatched the driver’s gull wing and swung it up.

  I climbed in. The interior was nice enough, a little cramped because of the engine placement in the rear. I reached up for the door strap and pulled the gull wing down. It didn’t fit quite right the first time so I tried again; the second time it latched shut. Stainless steel notwithstanding, the fit and finish weren’t impressive. The dash and interior trim had elements of class but seemed thrown together. The leather seat was uncomfortable in some way I couldn’t identify. Despite being a few inches wider than my Vette, the interior just seemed a little crowded. I started the engine, sounded okay. Don was saying something. I had trouble opening the power window to hear him, finally got it cracked. “The entrance to the track is over there,” he said, pointing to an opening from the lot. “It’s a half mile, so you can try the acceleration, and the curves swing wide enough you can take them at reasonably high speed. It’s a little slick today, so watch it in sharp turns.”

  I pulled out and steered it onto the track. That was my first surprise: no power steering. I started off slowly and worked the wheel and the brakes to get the feel of it. Shifted up to 2nd and accelerated. Accelerated more. Shifted up to 3rd, then 4th, and presently I was back at the gate. The track was too confined to get up enough speed for 5th gear. I brought the car to a full stop, then tromped it, speed-shifted and counted off seconds to 60 mph. Reached the end of the straightaway before it reached 60, sluggish compared to my Vette. I drove it several more laps around the track varying the speed, weaving it back and forth to feel the handling (twitchy at high speed), trying to drift it through curves, hearing a few odd squeaks and rattles. The car wasn’t exactly calling out to me. I wheeled it back to where Don was waiting. “How much are they selling these for?”

  “John named it ‘DMC-12’ because originally it was to be priced at $12,000. But inflation has ramped up, and we’ve had to sticker-price them at $25,000 to meet the costs
, and given the prep costs at the dealers, even that isn’t enough. All the publicity and the ballyhoo built an initial pent-up rush. Some early buyers paid a premium to be first in line. But then the cars arrived. Even despite gentle treatment by the car magazines, the word about quality quickly got around, as you’d expect with the visibility of this car. If somebody who can afford it can get a Porsche for less, why buy one of these? The truth is, we aren’t selling them for anything. They aren’t moving much at all now.”

  I could see why. My Vette cost about $8,000 in 1975, and after the ensuing inflation a new one would still go for less than $18,000. I’m no automotive engineer, but I did have to wonder what they could do to improve these cars and at the same time lower the price, no matter how much money DeLorean raised. Strip away the image and the hype, and it just wasn’t that much of a car. An “ethical car”? What sense of “ethical” did DeLorean have in mind? I asked Don Lander about that. He told me this:

  “If you’ve paid attention to John’s public pronouncements, he’s positioned himself as the foe of Detroit hypocrisy and shortsightedness. He set out to make a car that represents his values, which he claims are the opposite of Detroit’s. His reputation was founded on sporty cars, but this one, besides being sporty, was to be rationally sized, durable, fuel-efficient and safe—the thinking man’s supercar for the post OPEC age. The DMC-12 is, um, a visionary concept still in the development stage, you might say.”

  “How is quality control in the factory?” I asked, thinking of Nesseth’s concerns about sabotage.

  “As car factories go, not bad, maybe better than Detroit,” said Lander. “The workers are conscientious, want to do a good job. Any problems with these cars lie in the design and engineering. Not much the assemblers can do about that except try to be extra careful, and from time to time a little inventive.”

  The next evening, I exited the DeLorean factory in my Mini through the gates on the Catholic side, along with a stream of factory workers heading home, some on foot, some on bicycles, and some pooled in autos and vans. The Catholic neighborhood of Twinbrook was not far distant. My idea was to have a beer or two in a local pub, grab some supper and get a feeling of the local scene. I’d dressed down for the occasion, though my American clothes would set me apart in any case. Too bad I hadn’t brought Levis—those were in style everywhere.

  I cruised the streets. What I saw wouldn’t have seemed far out place in close-in blue-collar suburbs around most American industrial cities. Small single family homes on small plots. Plain townhouses. Brick apartment blocks. Some rundown districts, some new construction spurred by the factory. Out here in the suburbs pubs weren’t as numerous as I’d expected. I wanted one that was Authentic Old Irish, but they looked pretty new. I spotted a parking space down the street from “The Duke’s Dalliance,” a bar and grill that at least offered no phony pretentions. It was what it was—a suburban neighborhood bar. If it was a tourist trap, their marketing strategy was reverse psychology. It looked as authentic as I was going to find, so I stowed the Mini and went inside.

  The interior was straightforward, a bar and an assortment of tables, comfortable enough but by no means cozy. Los Angeles has “Irish Pubs.” They spring to life overnight in strip malls, resembling antiseptic medieval dungeons festooned with shamrock décor and outfitted with overhead TVs blaring football games. I swear, somewhere in LA factories are churning out fake cobwebs and grime to achieve that look. This place was more like a poorly-lit Denny’s. As authentic as I was going to find, I guessed.

  An after-work collection was on hand, slouched at tables, propped up at the bar, ignoring me. I asked the landlord for a half and half—that is, half Guinness Stout and half lager ale. One thing I enjoy about overseas assignments is that you could get real beer, not the American commercial version: my authentic arf ‘n’ arf was a rare treat, practically a meal in a glass. I was thinking about ordering a meat pie, as the chalkboard menu featured, when I noticed that a young woman had sidled up next to me. She was small, a wee slip of a thing as they might say, dressed in worn men’s clothes, her tangled raven hair crying out for a shampoo and set.

  “Might I be askin’ after Jack McCool?” she said.

  What kind of pick-up line is that? Is “Jack McCool” some local catchphrase? Was it a comment on my appearance? I wasn’t in the market for a date, especially not with her, but I didn’t want to just shoo her away. Thinking maybe we could have a conversation, I decided to play along. “And what would Jack McCool be havin’ to do with the price of haddock?” I replied.

  “Jack McCool would very well know the price of haddock in Belfast,” she said defiantly.

  Was she talking in some kind of code? This made no sense at all. “And what is it about Jack McCool you’d be wantin’ to know?”

  “It’s them, me friends,” she said, indicating a group of scruffy young men seated on a bench at a table next to a door marked EXIT. “They’re thinkin they’re layin’ their eyes on Jack McCool. They’re thinkin’ they might appreciate a word with you, if you’d be so inclined. Would you be bringin’ your drink over and favor us with a parley?”

  What was I getting myself into? But I was curious what was up, and it was a way to meet some of the locals, and we were in a public place. I could always explain who I was and what I was doing there, and excuse myself, if there was some misunderstanding. I couldn’t see any harm to it. “Sure,” I said. “I’d be appreciatin’ a talk with your friends.”

  Famous last words.

  I discussed this with Professor Pflingger, and considering the circumstances of my ill-gotten gains—we’ll get to that presently—we thought that, notwithstanding this being a true and factual account, it would be a reasonable precaution, in the tale I will go on to relate, if I did not tag a lot of things I encountered with their right names. So let’s call my new friends Kelly O’Casey, Casey O’Clancy, Clancy O’Seamus, Seamus O’Grogan, and Saoirse O’Kelly (the girl). “Jack McCool” also is a made-up moniker (very California, I thought). As events unfolded, I was later to meet members of other foin Oirish families, the Hooligans, the Shenanigans, the Rapscalians, the Malarkeys…oh, a special cast of characters I found myself enrolled in, the cream of Belfast society it was, it was.

  The girl led me over to her group. Up close they looked like a coven of Grateful Dead fans the third morning of the Woodstock concert. Two of them wore black leather, the other two sporting worn army olive drab army jackets. One had a black balaclava, rolled up, sitting back on his mop. “Do you think it is himself?” she asked them.

  One of the fellows, Casey, examined me through thick glasses. “I can’t be certain, as it was ten years ago I last saw him before he departed to America, and I was but a little tyke then. He’s the right age, about. He is in American dress. It could be him. Ten years changes a man in appearance, you know.”

  “He sounds a little Yank,” The girl, Saoirse, put in. “He’d pick that up in ten years, I’m thinkin’.“

  Seamus observed, “Of course, if it was truly himself, he’d naturally be reluctant to admit to his identity, a price still bein’ on his head. Him not knowin’ us from Adam, and all.”

  “He’d know me, wouldn’t he?” Casey put in.

  “You was no more than a mascot to ‘em then, and since then you’ve changed no slight amount,” said Kelly. “From ten to twenty makes a big difference, like.”

  Saoirse, said, “If only Mairead was here. She knew him best of all, sweet on him she was. She’d know.”

  Just then came a commotion at the entrance. “Shit!” exclaimed Clancy, “It’s the RUC. Some snitch must have tipped them. Let’s go! Mister, you’d best come along with us. You’ve been seen in consort with us. You’d not want to be interrogated by the RUC about it. This way! Quick now!” They bolted out the EXIT, pulling me along in their wake. We dashed down a hallway past the WCs and burst out into an alleyway. It was dark and dimly lit. Seamus spott
ed some RUC at one end of the block, so we took off toward the other, running between densely parked cars on both sides, avoiding pools of light. Clancy darted between two cars and vaulted over a low fence, and we all followed. We ran through a narrow passage between houses, shot across a narrow lane into a lane on the other side. We dashed down another alley behind some businesses. Casey ducked into an alcove, lifted a door in the ground, and we all piled in down a loading ramp, last in pulling the door shut and bolting it. Clancy groped around in the air, found the hanging cord and pulled an overhead bare bulb to light. It was a basement room, beamed and low-ceilinged, apparently beneath a shop of some sort. This end was crowded with a couch, a desk and several chairs, what seemed to be a bed piled with an array of linens, clothing, books and what have you. The dimness toward the front was cluttered with stacks of goods and gear and tools and implements and packing boxes. There were cupboards and a long, well-equipped workbench against one wall. Doors suggested…a bathroom, closets?

  “They musta been tipped off,” Kelly panted.

  “Now, how are we knowin’ it was us they was seekin’?” asked Saoirse. “They’ve nothin’ on us. The fact is, we’re not all that notorious.”

  “Better safe than sorry,” observed Casey. “For all we know, we’re on their wanted lists. Who’s to say it would have gone well had we lingered? Easily there might have been a trip to the station. To return to the business at hand,” he said, turning to me, “we were discussing the topic of Jack McCool.”

  I needed more information. “And how is sweet Mairead doin’ these days?” I asked.

  “You haven’t heard then? She’s in Armagh. The RUC caught her settin’ a bomb at the Conway Hotel.”

  “The Conway, you say?” I asked. “I’d not heard. Ten years is a long time to be an ocean away.”

  “It’s a well-known sojourn for Brit soldiers on temporary duty. It was because the Brits revoked Special Category Status for our prisoners. She thought to teach ‘em a lesson. She’s a dedicated one, is Mairead.”