Our fresh round arrived, and I ordered a shepherd’s pie. “What the villagers may call you speaks not well of them,” I said, resuming the conversation. “What I would call you is ‘John the Master of Many Trades’. You’ve lived long in these parts, then, John?”
“Except for military duty with the Desert Army during the War, me entire life.”
“Perhaps you can enlighten me. I’ve been in Ireland a few weeks, and I find it puzzling. The land is lovely, the people are warm and friendly, yet there’s such animosity and hard feeling. Can you explain that?”
“Sure and it’s easily and obviously explainable,” said John. “‘Tis a matter of history pure and simple. Startin’ with St. Patrick, whose day is celebrated in many lands, especially includin’ your own, as we see when they show the New York City St. Paddy’s Day Parade on the telly. ‘Tis said he banished snakes from Ireland, which most likely harbored no snakes in the first place. More likely it is that he converted the Druids, whose worship had some aspect of snakes. But most important was that he established Christianity on our blessed isle. This enabled our Celtic monks, workin’ away in their monasteries, to preserve Christian culture and literature and scripture during the long period known as the Dark Ages. I reference to you the fabled Book of Kells.
“Ye might say the Troubles had their origin when in 1532 King Henry the Eighth separated the Church of England from the Papacy owin’ to its lack of sympathy with his marital difficulties and philanderin’s. Only twelve years later he made the Ireland Parliament declare him King of Ireland. Not that Ireland didn’t have troubles enough of their own afore him, mind. He confiscated monastery lands in England and dealt ‘em out to his cronies. Now, his daughter, the Good Queen Bess, coveted Ireland’s fine oak forests for ship-buildin’ and as charcoal for iron smeltin’, so she further put the squeeze on.
“Thanks to Mr. Luther, the Church of England became Protestant, wherein there ensued doctrinal disputes, culminating with the rise of Puritan and Presbyterian factions. The Puritans gained ascendancy, and, on the pretext that Irish Catholics were slaughterin’ Protestant settlers transplanted from Scotland—at that time another poor, benighted and despised land—and note that I emphasize settlers, usurpers of our native land, in other words—Oliver Cromwell and his army was sent in 1649 to straighten things out. Talk about slaughter! At Drogheda the streets flowed with blood loosed by his slashin’ swords. But let me clear up one point right now. Was it ever about religious belief truly? No, them English coveted our fair land. In the wake of Cromwell’s conquests, fully a quarter, and the best quarter you may be assured, was seized and bestowed on his supporters.”
“The basic issue isn’t religion, then?”
“Not among Christians, no sir. Just a pretext. Just labels—us against them, we’re one thing and they’re another. As the centuries rolled on, the English only tightened their hold. Wealth and power, that was at the bottom of it, let no man tell you different. The native Irish bridled under the foreign yoke bendin’ their necks, but could do naught about it, it bein’ enforced by superior arms. Nevertheless they was prosperin’ in a way, and the population grew. The potato was introduced to our agriculture from the New World and became the diet mainstay. In 1845 a fearsome blight came and destroyed the potato crop all across the island. Now, it was the native Irish that lived on potatoes, as well as on milk and cheese, an adequate and nourishin’ diet. The English landlords, few of whom lived on their holdings, grew corn, or as you might say wheat, barley and oats, the word ‘corn’ no doubt derivin’ from the word ‘kernel’. We here call your corn “maize,” which we do not eat. The English grew their corn for export, and when the blight destroyed the potato crop they sent food away for sale what could have stayed here, preservin’ lives. With the result that the native Irish was devastated, one million sons and daughters of Erin perished of starvation, another million thrown off their landholdin’s, and another million emigrated to points west, primarily America, who has them to thank for diggin’ their canals and layin’ their railroads, I might point out.
“Ireland lay impoverished, although Ulster, as Northern Ireland is often called, prospered relatively, it primarily bein’ the realm of the Protestants, whose appetite for gold and treasure surpassed their southern neighbors’, and consequently them livin’ posh on the fruits of our land. Forty years hence another famine threatened, and with this one the tenant farmers defied their landlords, hard feelin’s havin’ never abated since the previous one, which still haunted many’s memories. Mr. Gladstone instituted some legal improvement that improved their situation, and the movement for home rule began to take firm root. Many Irish lads served with distinction in the Great War, and it was thought that might lead to England grantin’ independence after the Armistice, but them hopes was betrayed. At that point the Troubles began in earnest with armed insurrections and pitched battles. The Irish Republican Army, led by Michael Collins , rose up and soon Ireland saw an actual gunfire and bleedin’ war, the IRA against the Black and Tan, and no quarter given on either side until 1921, when a treaty was signed grantin’ independence to 26 counties, and leavin’ the issue up to the voters in the six northern, Protestant-majority counties. The southern counties was known as the Irish Free State until 1949, when they became the Republic of Ireland, left the British Empire and joined the United Nations.”
“I’d think that would have settled it.”
“You’d think so, you’d hope so. However, in the Ulster counties, the sizeable minority of Catholics maintained they were not dealt an honest hand by the Protestant majority, and factions of them began an agitation for a united Ireland, which they conjectured would give ‘em a fairer shake. Ulster, bein’ part of the United Kingdom, sought protection from Britain, which stationed troops, which occasioned frictions, sparked violence and fueled further resentments, which escalated to the present-day Troubles. I reference you to the slaughter of Bloody Sunday, 27 innocents shot by British troops in the fair city of Derry, of whom 13 died, ten years ago. But, tell me now, do you think for a minute this all has anything to do with religious beliefs? These fine people shootin’ and bombin’ and betrayin’ and bleedin’ one another over whether there’s statues of saints in the churches, or meatless Fridays, or encyclicals from the Vatican? No one’s as foolish as that. It’s like all other human conflicts: Who has the power? Who gets the best land and the best jobs? Who gets his way, when push comes to shove? Who gets the last word? And, of course, the Divil’s workshop—idleness. With no work what are young blades to do with themselves? Can’t prove your manhood by makin’ a livin’ and raisin’ a family, so you shoot up some other poor bloke in your same situation. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth, goin’ back half a millennium, and if saner heads don’t come to prevail up north, they’ll all end up blind and toothless.”
By now the lunchtime crowd was filing in, filling the tables around us. John became aware of this. I proposed buying the next round, but he held out a denying hand. “Well, Mr. Jacob, I appreciate your offer, but I see it’s time I be on my way. I was just whilin’ away an idle mornin’. I’ll now repair home where me old lady has prepared a tasty dish for me. Enjoy your time in our grand country. It’s been a right pleasure talkin’ with you. I can’t remember ever engaging with a more scintillatin’ conversationalist.”
“Wait ‘til you see me in action after I kiss the Blarney Stone, John. Take care.” Scintillatin’ conversationalist, my ass! The old gasbag jabbered my ear off. What these people may lack in money they more than make up for with a wealth of verbiage. John clumped over to the bar, settled his tab, gave me a little salute good bye and faded out the door. A barmaid cleared his table and in short order it was taken by a group of noisy young blokes who ignored me as I ate my shepherd’s pie and finished my Harp.
I continued down the road to Dublin. It being a sunny, crisp day I decided to make a walkabout of the city, which offered charm in an Old Country, centuries-e
stablished way. I parked the Mini in the vicinity of Kings Inn and strolled here and there, getting a feel for Dublin. The atmosphere in town seemed relaxed. Men on the business streets mostly dressed in coat and tie, but elsewhere it was well-worn tweed coats, leather jackets and bulky sweaters. The River Liffey lay just a few blocks down from where I parked. I ambled along the quay, keeping pace with a piece of paper I noted drifting along toward the harbor. Turned back toward the business district at the Ormond Hotel, turned to the right at the next busy corner by some sort of Abbey. Was tempted by Thornton’s chocolate shop across the way, but still full from lunch. Out of curiosity joined a clutch of school children in a candy store a few blocks down, Graham Lemon’s, and bought a little bag of Lemon’s Irish Butter Toffees to nibble on, then crossed over the river. If I wasn’t mistaken, the floating piece of paper I’d noticed had kept pace with me. I veered over along the promenade on the sea wall overlooking Sandymount Strand, such as it was—not much sand, a lot of clamshells. No surf bunnies down there to ogle, just a few walkers bundled up against the October weather, one of them with a little limp. A big flock of white gulls scavenged the shingle, which, the tide being out, stretched long toward the sea, a curious shade of green that day.
Passed by Crampton Court, the Merchant’s Arch and Dublin Castle. Russell’s showed an interesting display of gems and jewelry through its leaded, web-like windows. A chemist shop, down the street from a Post Office, featured lemon-scented soap. I think of high school labs when I see those “chemist” signs, not drug stores, which they are. Pubs in abundance, typical of Ireland. Davy Byrne’s looked inviting, so I checked the menu—gorgonzola sandwiches? No thanks. The National Library of Ireland imposed, a place for serious scholars surely. The National Museum I passed by, an imposing cylinder-shape with street front guarded by an arc of stone columns. Holles Street Hospital was as far in that direction as I wanted to venture, so I let my feet stroll me around Trinity College and took the O’Connell Street Bridge back across the river. Stopped to watch a man toss pieces of bread to hovering, white gulls. The main business and shopping streets were broad, bright and well-kept, some street level shops sporting “up-to-date-quaint” fronts, others suitable for American strip malls. I continued into a residential district. Off the main drags contemporary apartment blocks and row houses mixed with low and old, brick, stone and mortar buildings. No checkpoints. No armored cars, no militia patrols, a refreshing change of ambiance. Belfast may be more industrially developed, but I found Dublin livelier and more hospitable. More open, more greenery.
Dinnertime came, and I hankered for some ale and a plate of fish and chips. Picked O’Donohue’s, a hangout for rugby players and tourists. Afterwards strayed here and there for a while to see what nightlife might develop. Not much that appealed to a 30-something American alone in town. There were some girls on Railway Street lurking around the council flats, hanging out of their windows (seemed a little chilly for that). I found myself at the corner of Eccles Street, nothing waiting for me there. It was time to go home; I’d seen enough to get the concept, so I followed Dorset Street down to where I’d parked the Mini
All in all my day’s odyssey through Dublin was uneventful, pleasant but nothing anyone would ever write a book about. I’d satisfied my curiosity, and I’d learned a little more about the Troubles. I found the highway to Belfast and careered back through the quiet night, arriving at the Conway a little over two hours later.
John DeLorean blew into town the next day. I returned from lunch at a nearby pub and there he was, rifling the files in the accounting section, putting some through the shredder, slipping some into an expanding briefcase and leaving the rest in their cabinets. He saw me, stopped what he was doing and exclaimed, “Jake! The man I came here to see. We’re on the verge. October 19 is the day of reckoning, your day in the limelight. You’ll fly out to Los Angeles on the 18th. We’re going to sit down with Hoffman and Vincenza. They’re bringing in their money guy, Jim Benedict from Eureka Federal Savings and Loan. Our pilot, Morgan Hetrick, will definitely be on hand for this one. We’ll be closing the deal and making final arrangements, and you’ll be a key player this time. You saw the reports about my press conference? Something big’s going to happen soon? This is it, the biggie. We need $20,000,000 to pay off some debts and keep DeLorean Motors operating. I’m going to come up with that and then some. Then I’m going to laugh in the faces of all those assholes and jerkoffs who’d thought they could stop me.”
“Maybe you could tell me more about this meeting? I’d do a better job if I knew what it is I’ll be expected to talk about.”
“I wish I could give you the details, Jake, I sincerely wish I could. But if one word gets out prematurely, the whole thing goes up in smoke. You’ll get a full briefing before the meeting. Don’t worry, it’s right down your alley. This much I can tell you: It’s something better than gold.”
I ran what I knew through my mind: A wild man desperate for big, fast money. A California playboy. A thug. A pilot. A banker from an obscure Savings and Loan. Me as resident muscle. And something better than gold. “You know, John, this sounds like a drug deal to me.”
All good cheer fled DeLorean’s face, and he hardened up. “A drug deal? You’re accusing me of a drug deal? You think I’m crazy enough to try something like that?”
“From what you’ve said, I can’t think of anything else it could be.”
“That’s because you don’t understand big finance, Jake. This is not a grocery story. It’s not a McDonalds. It’s not an NYSE-traded corporation. It’s not a mortgage loan. This is international finance. It’s on a global scale. There’s huge amounts of money sloshing around out there, crying out for high risk/high return investment opportunities. That’s been the key to my success all along—find those deep pockets and bring them into the game. Everybody wants to be part of the future, and DeLorean Motors is the future, you mark my words. When we get the bugs in the cars ironed out, when we get this plant back on its feet, when we clear all the morons and idiots out of our way, when the ethical sedan hits the market—you’ll be part of a global industrial empire. The world is crying out for safer, cleaner, more efficient, more ethical cars, and this company will be the first to catch that wave.”
“It’s a grand vision,” I agreed, “but I’d still like to know more about this meeting.”
“You’re just going to have to trust me on this, Jake. It will be all for the best, I can assure you. In the meantime, I expect loyalty from the people on my payroll.”
“Speaking of that, the second installment of my fee has yet to be deposited, and my expense money is running low.”
“There, you see? That’s exactly why I came here today. I want to get to the bottom of just what’s been happening to the money in this operation. Roy Nesseth tried to dig into that, and bean-counters and obstructionists blocked all his attempts to get at the truth. The money just damn disappears, and I think it’s purely and simply the locals. I’ve never had any faith in the Irish, a bunch of hot-headed drunks and bead-rattlers. Their IQ about money and finance is single-digit. A pot of gold at the end of the rainbow is their idea of a good investment. Roy Nesseth told me you’d uncovered a sabotage ring at the factory. That would explain the problems the dealers are finding in the cars, and I’ll bet the IRA is behind that too. They’ve been out to get me from the beginning.”
“Roy asked me to look for evidence of sabotage. I told him that I didn’t find any. If you have such a low opinion of the Irish, why did you locate your factory here?”
“Because the NIDA offered the deal I wanted. I’d been poised to build the factory in Puerto Rico, all but signed the papers, and then the Irish Republic government stepped up to the plate with a better offer if I’d put the plant in Limerick. I thought I could squeeze them for a little more, but when I tried it they backed off. It looked like I’d be siting the plant in Puerto Rico after all, but then a Dublin lawyer told me Northern I
reland would invest in almost anything if they thought it would help quell the Troubles. ‘Jobs, homes and hope’ was their strategy for defeating the IRA, so that was what I sold them—not cars, not a factory, but Jobs, Homes and Hope. They put together a package of loans, subsidies and tax write-offs three times better than the Dublin offer, and twice Puerto Rico’s. Best of all, I laid all the risk off on the British government—from my point of view, pure gravy. It was taxpayers’ money, what did the fucking Labour Party care?
“Now that we’ve hit some bumps in the road, the Brits are stabbing me in the back too, but they owe me millions, and I’ll make them pay. I’ve got good lawyers, a lot of them. Don’t worry. When this deal goes through you’ll get your fees in full, with a bonus. In the meantime, sit tight and be on that plane on October 18. The flight’s arranged, and you’ll be met at the airport. Don’t let me down now, Jake. I reward good performance, but when people do me dirty I don’t just pass it off. I put shit on their shoes.”
“That’s a new one on me. What do you mean, ‘shit on their shoes’?”
“I destroy their careers. I had this Chief Financial Officer for a while. He couldn’t adjust to my way of doing things, couldn’t understand that to get around the morons and idiots you sometimes had to keep things out of sight. When he resigned I put out the word that he was under threat of indictment for fraudulent activities involving a Kentucky coal buyer in West Virginia. No way he can disprove it, those records stay sealed. It will hang over him for the rest of his life. Another CFO that let me down, I let the word get around that he’d left because of a nervous breakdown. Who’d hire a CFO who has nervous breakdowns?
“Do you know why the company wound up in receivership? One person blew it all away—my personal secretary and office manager, a woman I trusted with every company secret and confidence, Marian Gibson. Last September she went literally insane. She stole confidential information from my personal files, flew to London and took everything to a crooked crony of hers in the British government. Then a reporter got wind of it and broke the story in News of the World—that low-class check-out line rag, can you believe it?
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 54