Now I’m not swearin’ this story is true. But I am a firm believer that if you repeat a tale long enough it’s almost true, and that’s the next best thing.

Back in the 80s there was a dealer meeting that Iacocca attended in San Antonio to wine and dine the Chrysler-Plymouth faithful and treat them to a week on the Riverwalk on Chrysler’s dime. Lots of cheap liquor and expensive cigars and back-slapping by the top brass from Detroit with the overweight white guys in plaid leisure suits from all over the Texas-Oklahoma-Lousianna Tri-State Dealers Association who pushed MoPar products the way Regean was pushing tax cuts. Both were good for the economy.

Over lobster and Lone Star Long Necks, Lee ‘let it slip’ that there were acquisitions in the offing that would be better for Chrysler than even the government bailout had been. Even though the hints were obvious, none of the plaid-plastered platoon of Plymouth-pushers ever suspected that Lee would soon scoop up both AMC and Lamborghini.  They were known to underestimate Iacocca almost as much as Henry Ford II had.

The next morning Lee and his troop of minions boarded the Gulf Stream hung over and ready to land in Palm Springs for a weekend of golf and more Escorts than a Ford dealer’s parking lot.

This is where the plot thickens.

An hour out of the Alamo City, the Gulf Stream develops serious engine problems and is forced to find the nearest spot to land. That ends up being the Fort Stockton Municipal Airport and Feedlot.

The whole entourage is forced to bed down at the Naughty Pine for the night while they wait for parts to be flown in from Detroit in. A couple of Gran Fury taxi cabs are sent to pick them up at the airport. Due to their celebrity status, a Gran Fury police car even escorts them into town, Chief Martin behind the wheel,  Mayor Goodman riding shotgun, waving to passersby. This would be the only escort the boys from Detroit would end up enjoying that weekend.

From the back seat of the taxi, a peeved Iaccoca looks around the black vinyl cabin of the cab and asks, “Did we build this turd box?”

A minion in the front seat begrudgingly confirms that to be the case.

The convoy makes its way to the K-Bob’s where the line of Fort Stockton regulars has been cleared out, despite it being All-U-Can Eat Night.  The Governor Dolpf Briscoe Banquet Room and Wedding Chapel was roped off for the exclusive use of the newly arrived famous guests.

Before Lee even gets to the end of the line at the Big Tex Dessert Bar and Lone Star Soft Serve machine to pick up the biggest piece of pecan pie available, he has formulated a plan. As the group sits around the imitation barn wood Formica-topped table, the faux candles in the wagon wheel chandelier hanging above them are dimmed.  “Here’s what we do,” the Boss says. “We take that gawd -awful turd box of a car we rode into town in and we put a Corinthian Leather interior in it. Make sure the seats have got more buttons than your wife’s nightgown. Then, we slap a vinyl top on it with more padding than your girlfriend’s bra. We throw on some wire wheels and weld a Continental grill to the front. People go nuts for wire wheels and Continental grills. Bump up the price and make ten grand on every one we sell.”

The sirloin melts in his mouth, while the butter heads for where his heart should have been.

A mere Vice President of Marketing, looking for his next promotion, says “How about we make it just one third of a vinyl top, call it a ‘Landau Roof’ to make it sound exclusive instead of just an easy way to cut costs.  Use fake wire wheel covers instead of the real thing, and make eleven grand a piece?”

“You’re a genius, Lutz!” Lee says.

“Don’t you think America will know what we’ve done?” a previously silent underling meekly says.  “I mean, it’s still a cop car or taxi cab underneath all the leather, buttons, and chrome.”

There is nothing but silence. And fear. Lee leans back in his faux Captain’s chair, slowly takes a two-hundred dollar Cuban cigar out of the breast pocket of his three-thousand dollar Pierre Cardin suit. He lights it with a crystal and sterling Cartier lighter as he stares down the impertinent fool who’d questioned his brilliance.

And then he breaks into a grin, then a full-fledged belly laugh. And then loud laughter from all around the table, even the nervous underling.

I love that they were able to pull it off. Not as good as turning a Falcon into a Mustang, but a pretty neat party trick, nonetheless.