Well, not that crime, anyway. The fact was, DeLorean for decades had scammed governments, corporations and private parties out of hundreds of millions of dollars to float his jet-set lifestyle and blue-sky visions, leaving shattered lives, stunted careers and savaged balance sheets in his wake. He and Christina claimed they’d become born-again Christians following the trial, but a year later they divorced. He later married a fourth wife, that time for keeps.
He stiffed me on my fee, of course, making me a member of a vast and distinguished global community of creditors. If his drug scheme had succeeded he might have paid up. Or not. With DeLorean, you never knew. He had that con man’s knack for giving the impression, while he was talking to you, that you were the most important person to him in the world. But at bottom everything, all the time, was all about John Z. DeLorean.
I never amounted to more than a minor cog, a bargain-basement fall guy. He believed my five-year “MIA” record plus my CIA stint meant I’d been covertly running drugs in the Golden Triangle. His plan was to have me out front, and if things went awry I’d be the one fingered: he calculated that to a jury, John Z. DeLorean had more credibility than a shady former spook with dubious means of support. He’d stationed me in Belfast to keep me out of the loop and not be in a position to mess anything up. I guess I should be grateful to the RUC. Had I not been temporarily residing in the Maze, I’d have been a featured attraction on the videotape, reprising my high school stint as a Hollywood extra.
Subsequent investigations by a variety of authorities disclosed that much of the missing GPD funds had been diverted to DeLorean’s personal accounts. Some went to finance the purchase of his Utah-based snow-groomer company, Logan Manufacturing. Other millions of GPD money were never located. Thanks to able lawyering, DeLorean beat Federal charges of fraud, tax evasion, and racketeering. His attorney admitted that his client had received the money from GPD, but insisted it was a legitimate personal loan from Colin Chapman, DeLorean’s partner from Lotus. DeLorean denied any knowledge of fraud or of any missing money. Since Chapman had by that time died, the prosecution was unable to disprove or discredit DeLorean’s account. The British government, not happy with that verdict, set Scotland Yard’s Serious Fraud Office on the case. DeLorean’s lawyers were able to forestall extradition, thereby avoiding a probable ten years in prison across the pond. Not being able to set foot in the United Kingdom was a small price to pay.
Summing up, DeLoren’s life fit the advice Evanston gave me—if you can’t be honest, be legal—with a twist: DeLorean cynically exploited the legal system for all it was worth to enable his essentially dishonest scheming and dreaming. Though if he truly believed in everything he said and did, he wasn’t cynical so much as just flat-out deranged. Ironically, it was his bent for litigation that did him in. The costs of more than 40 lawsuits finally overwhelmed what remained of his fortune. He declared bankruptcy in 1999, and the court auctioned off most of his assets. One of his lawyers sued him for four million dollars in unpaid fees. Even his brother, Charles, a former DMC dealer, sued him.
I one morning found an envelope under one of the wipers on the DMC. It attached to a wire that ran across the hood and disappeared into the engine compartment. Even the IRA weren’t that stupid. Figuring it was too obvious to be real, I lifted the wiper and heard a click under the hood. I dove from the car, hit the deck and rolled away. Nothing happened. I waited on the ground for a full minute, then opened the gull-wing and popped the hood. The wire led to a battery-operated switch but nothing else. I opened the envelope. It contained a note-pad page sporting a Russian logo, on which was written a single character, “Г”—a Russian “G.” Ha ha. Grotesqcu’s little joke. Well, it served me right. I had kind of screwed him. I was glad for proof that he’d survived that morning. Couldn’t wait to hear what fables he’d spun about me in his after-action report, as I was sure I would the next time an assignment took me overseas.
It was the note that came in the mail a few days after I arrived home that sent chills to the depths of my very being. It came in a plain envelope, no return address, postmarked Langley, Virginia. Hand-printed on a plain white 3x5 index card, this note said: “Jake, you owe me.”
When Steve Spielberg mentioned he was thinking of using a DeLorean car as a prop in a movie he was gearing up to shoot, I was happy to give him mine. As various ruthless men at that time might still be yearning to visit calamities on me if they could find me, we thought it prudent not to call attention to it in the film credits. But the audience for Back to the Future’s premier at the Malibu Theater knew the story, and they gave my former car a home town cheer.
Years later, a celeb took me with him to New York City to deal with a stalker who had become threatening (after my little talking-to, stalked no more). One evening we attended a lavish gala in honor of some megabucks media launch, and who should I espy there but John DeLorean, looking time-worn, but even though 70ish still showing glimmers of his once-dazzling persona. Try as I might to duck him, he spotted me and came over. “I think I know you,” he said.
“I get that a lot,” I said.
“You’re Jake whatshisname…Fonko? That’s it. Jake Fonko. Belfast, the DMC factory, right?” I looked at him blankly, hoping he’d give it up. No such luck. “That whole business went sour, my dream destroyed, despite all our blood, sweat and tears to make it succeed. I always meant to thank you, Jake, I really did, but one thing and another, you know how it is, never got around to it. I’ll thank you right now.”
Huh? “Thank me? For what?”
“Saving the factory. You missed that meeting in LA. I was pretty pissed off until I found out the reason you didn’t make it. You foiled an IRA plot to blow the factory up. The IRA always had it in for me, and you stopped them cold, saved the factory. Not to mention those saboteurs you caught.”
“Well, you know…” I said, praying for an excuse to slip away.
“Just as well you missed that meeting. What a disaster. Some FBI goons tried to entrap me in a drug deal, planted a bag of cocaine on me. Numbskulls. I beat the rap, of course. Never anything to it.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” I said.
“Well, of course that settled the fate of DeLorean Motors. No way I could revive it, with that hanging over my head. Everybody steered clear of it, even though I beat the damn rap…you find out who your real friends are, and it’s disappointing. But I’m coming back. I’m laying plans for a revolutionary new car, going to call it the DMC2. All I need is financing. Spielberg might go for it—he’s got a good sense of the future, you see that movie of his? Featured my car, made it a cultural icon. He’s rich, he’s in with the big Hollywood money. He’ll bring his pals along when he hears what I’ve got in the works. You’re from California, maybe you have some wealthy connections…” I shook my head “no.”
“And that’s not all,” he continued. “I’ve designed a raised monorail train concept, took out a patent on it. The future, Jake, it’s the future! Cheap, efficient, ethical mass transit. Big, you cannot imagine how big. I’ll get the EPA behind it. High speed monorail lines connecting all the major cities, faster than air travel, and think what that’ll do for the environment! With EPA on board, the Energy and Transportation Departments will come up with some grants. I’m rounding up backers, gathering support, thinking about going down to DC, talk to some influential people in the next couple weeks. Just a matter of time…Speaking of time, I’ve designed a revolutionary watch—DeLorean Time, I call it. Need a few backers to move it forward. You want to invest some money in a sure thing? I can put you on the waiting list for one of my watches right now. For when we start making them, I mean. Everybody will be wearing one.”
I spotted my client in the crowd. “Well, that’s great, John,” I said. “I hope everything works out. Listen, I’m here on an assignment, and my client wants to talk to me…“
“But,” he continued, “it’s not getting any easier. It’
s the same old story. Idiots and morons blocking me on all sides. People with no vision, stuck in the past. Terrified of the future…” He sighed. “The thing is, my whole life all I ever wanted was to do some good in the world, I really tried…and look where it got me. There’s a lesson in that: Good intentions aren’t enough. I’ll bet your client would be interested in hearing about my ideas. Maybe you could…”
“Really great seeing you again, John, really great. My best to your wife.” I broke away and left him standing there, one eye fixed on distant stars, and the other eye fixed on other people’s money.
Spielberg’s DeLorean time machine in Back to the Future was fueled by garbage. Had John Z. DeLorean only figured out how to make his DMC-12 run on bullshit, he might have realized his vision of a global automotive empire.
Afterword
I was extremely relieved to find that, following publication of Fonko on the Carpet (Book Two in the saga of Mr. Jake Fonko), my worst fears were not realized. Mr. Fonko always “tells it like it is,” as he says, and some of his observations regarding our Muslim friends could, I feared, be taken in a negative light by misguided parties with delicate sensibilities. Now, we all know that the vast…the vast, VAST…majority of the Muslim faithful are peace-loving and tolerant, setting an example that indeed we could all follow to our benefit. But in any group there resides a few bad apples. NOT THAT I’M IMPLYING THAT THE MUSLIM BARREL (as it were) COULD BE SPOILED! I am aware that some who maligned that noble faith have been known to come to harm.
The Ayatollah Khomeini had issued a fatwa on one of Jake’s identities in Tehran. I realize that was 30 years ago, but some’s memories are long. So after the book came out I exercised more than usual caution, alert to possible “tails,” avoiding sinister-looking people of swarthy complexion (probably unnecessary in Mexican, er, that is, “immediately south Hispanic” restaurants, but one can’t be too careful), and calling the bomb squad when the dust on the hood of my car seemed disturbed (squirrels one time, the neighbor’s cat the other, they deduced). One evening I went to the faculty parking lot to go home and found that someone had let the air out of all my tires. Vengeful Muslims were not the culprits, rather it was a student in my lecture class, History of the Recent Past 305 (a burdensome course: I must update my lecture notes every month—thank goodness for wikipedia). It seems she was acting out her disappointment with her grade, the lowest in the class. But she had done no assignments, refused to take the exams (she claimed my presuming to test her was an affront to her personhood) and as best I could tell had never come to class since the first meeting when she signed up. How could I justify anything higher than a B+, I ask you? No serious harm done. The Auto Club took care of it.
Otherwise Fonko on the Carpet seems to have enjoyed a modicum of success. In fact, it may have given my career a much needed boost, as well as raised my esteem among my faculty colleagues. Not only did the department chair forward to me a circular from the History Department of Western North Dakota Normal College seeking to fill a tenure track opening, but to a man…(man and woman?)…(person?) my entire department enthusiastically volunteered to write letters of recommendation. So finally my labors on this project may be paying off. I submitted my application, and should they make an offer, it will be a condition of acceptance that they find a slot for my assistant, Dr. Bertha Sikorski (she was recently awarded her doctoral degree). In the current economic climate, despite her PhD she has not been able to find a suitable academic position and instead has taken up temporary employment as a masseuse. The History Department at WNDNC has scant visibility in the field, and our work in bringing Mr. Fonko’s exploits to light very well may help elevate its reputation and thereby repay their hiring us several fold. Provided they hire us, of course. Go, Tumbleweeds! (their team mascot)
In the meantime my efforts to reveal to the world the remarkable contributions of Mr. Jake Fonko continue unabated. In this volume, Fonko’s Errand Go Boom (a very clever pun by Tinderboxed Press, I thought—”Erin Go Bragh,” get it?), we see how he indirectly helped bring about the fall of the Iron Curtain and the collapse of the Soviet Empire. Margaret Thatcher was all too thorough in expunging traces of his presence from Northern Ireland, so it was impossible to verify all facts. Nevertheless his recountings, as usual, ring true. I hesitate to applaud the manner in which he finally managed to procure compensation after his employer failed to honor their agreement. But I’m willing to make allowances. After all, the worker is worth his wage.
B. Hesse Pflingger, PhD
Professor of Contemporary History
California State University, Cucamonga
Book 4 - Fonko in the Sun
No matter how cynical you become, it’s never enough to keep up. In Jake’s fourth adventure, our hero soon discovers the full truth of Lily Tomlin’s quip. To the lilting rhythms of calypso and reggae, Jake jukes and jives, zigs and zags, and scuffles and dodges from one sun-drenched island paradise to the next.
Fonko in the Sun is now available from all major online booksellers in eBook and paperback. For more information, visit your favorite online retailer or watchfirepress.com/fonko.
A Final Note
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The Jake Fonko Series
Jake Fonko M.I.A.
Fonko on the Carpet
Fonko’s Errand Go Boom
Fonko in the Sun
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 1 - 3 Page 61