This is the sixth part of a series that’s been going on all week.

It was one of those grey Michigan days.  They hadn’t seen the sun in days, maybe weeks.  The cold was constant; the wind coming in off Lake Michigan cutting like a knife.  In the back of the K-Car limousine taking them to the airport, Iacocca looked out the dark tinted privacy window and shook his head.  “Whoever the hell ever thought it was a good idea for the automotive industry to be centered in Detroit should be taken out back of the abandoned Packard plant and shot at sunup.  If there ever is a sunup.”  He was in a mood.

Lutz, crammed into the back seat of the wannabe limo, nodded in agreement.  “It ain’t Palm Springs, that’s for sure.”

But it was about to be.  The two of them were headed out to “The Springs” for “executive meetings”.  Those meetings could have been scheduled for Iacocca’s office, since only the two of them would be attending them anyway.  But that’s not how it works at the top tier of American capitalism.  If John Q. Public ever calculated how many Plymouth Reliants had to be sold for every one of the trips out to Palm Springs for the executives who churned them out, the peasants would storm the gates with pitchforks and torches.

Iacocca looked around at the midnight blue company supplied limousine and snickered.  “Have we actually sold any of these turd boxes?”

“Mostly back to the company,” Lutz replied.  “Everyone with a VP title has access to one.  Most of them just take their own cars.”

“Do you blame them?” Iacocca asked, rhetorically.

“Other than Liza Minnelli and PeeWee Herman, they never really caught on with celebrities,” Lutz said.

“So we committed resources for R&D, advertising, Production, and someone to oversee a project that involved selling two cars?” Iacocca asked.  “How the hell did we convince the government to bail us out?”

“Just the persuasive powers of the Italian Stallion, I suppose.”  Lutz was not above playing up to the boss.  He didn’t reach the upper levels of  the automobile hierarchy by not brown-nosing a little when he had to.  And with Iacocca, he had to frequently.  It was expected.

Iacocca just shook his head.

The quasi-limo pulled into the airport, and then right into the hanger where the Falcon 50 corporate jet was fueled and waiting for them.  The bar had been stocked with the adult beverages of choice for each of the two executives.  The favorite flight attendant of each had been delivered to the airport and hour before, each brought to the hanger in a company LeBaron Town and Country.  Using one of the limos would have been embarrassing for each of them.

They were wheels up within twelve minutes, efficiency being a key to their success in the industry.  Once in the air, the flight attendants poured drinks for each of the male passengers.  Iacocca lit up one of his famous Gran Habano No. 5s.  Each of those cigars cost more than the flight attendants would make for the entire weekend.  Lutz hated the smell of them.  He told friends he smelled like a Cuban brisket after being around Iacocca for an entire afternoon.  “Small price to pay,” they chuckled back.  They were right.

Once the pilot had leveled out the Falcon 50 above the snow filled clouds, sunlight they hadn’t seen in weeks filtered in through the cabin windows.  Iacocca loosened his Italian silk tie and pointed at his feet.  ‘His’ flight attendant recognized her cue, got up, removed the charcoal Santoni  loafers and rubbed his feet just the way he liked.  Lutz thought to himself, ‘It’s good to be King.’

Twenty minutes later Iacocca waved her off, her rendition of This Little Piggy having relaxed him to the point of nearly falling asleep.

“I’m buying American Motors.”  Iacocca announced, like someone else might say, “I think I’ll get a hamburger.”

Lutz was stunned.  He was used to Iacocca treating The Chrysler Corporation like he owned it, rather than the stockholders.  But he had not seen an acquisition on the horizon, especially not one along the lines of American Frickin’ Motors.

“What?  Have you lost your mind?”

Iacocca laughed, only because how he knew that’s exactly Lutz would react.

“Why in the world would you want that turd in our punchbowl?”  Lutz continued.    “The French have regretted buying it since before the ink was dry on the check.”

“Have you ever been to the French War Museum?” Iacocca asked.  “The only thing in it is a white flag.  Are you going to trust the French to make the right automotive decision?  That ‘turd in the punch’ bowl is the diamond in the rough that will ensure our success in the long run.”

Lutz started to say something about the Italy’s record in world conflicts subsequent to the Roman Empire, but thought better of it.  At this point, silence was the best option moving forward.  Iacocca would share his plan in due course.  It might take another tumbler of expensive Scotch, but Lutz was starting to see the whole reason behind this “Executive Meeting” at 30,000 feet in the air.

There was a long period of silence while Iacocca puffed on his Gran Habano No. 5.  The cabin of the Falcon 50 filled up with enough smoke that the pilot was worried there had been a malfunction and he’d have to put the thing down in a cornfield somewhere in Iowa.  Lutz could barely breathe.  The flight attendants’ eyes were beginning to water and turn red.

“You remember the 1960 Falcon?”  Iacocca asked.

“Of course.”

“The likes of Volkswagen was coming over and kicking the Big Three’s ass with a car developed before the damn war by Hitler with technology not much more advanced than the Model T,” Iacocca began.

“I remember.” Lutz nodded.

“We were all caught with our pants down.  Ford.  GM.  Chrysler.  We all had to come up with a solution to beat back the foreign cars,” Iacocca continued.

“That’s right.” Lutz nodded again.

“GM tried to get all cute with the Corvair.  A cross between a Beetle and a dog turd.  It bombed.  Chrysler went all weird like they always did back then.  Came up with the Valiant.  Not a resounding success, I would say.  I pushed the Falcon.  Simple.  Reliable.  Cheap to build.  What happened?”  Iacocca asked.

“Most popular car since the Model T.  Couldn’t build ‘em fast enough.” Lutz admitted.

“Damn right,” Iacocca noted.  “Then the Mustang.  Basically a fancy Falcon built for the emerging youth market.  How’d it do?”

“Beat the Falcon record for sales.  Changed the entire market.”  Lutz knew where this was going because he’d already seen this movie more than once.

“The Continental Mark III?  The Chrysler mini-van?  The return of the Great American Convertible?”  Iacocca had this speech planned out for days.

“The first two changed the industry.  The third one is a stretch,” Lutz said.  “But I see where you’re going.  You’re an automotive genius.  I’ll give you that.”

“Automotive genius?  That’s kind of limiting.  People are saying I could run for president of the United States and win in a landslide!” Iacocca humbly suggested.

Lutz was taken aback.  “Okay, Lee.  I’ll give you credit for all the things you named.  And more.  I get it.  But don’t try to sell me on the American people being so gullible that they would elect someone with no political experience just because they’ve seen them on TV a lot and he’s had a little success in business!  They’re not that gullible!”

“That’s beside the point.  And you’re right.  They’d be crazy,” Iacocca responded.  “But you’d agree that I can read the market before anyone else, right?”

“I’ll give you that.”

“Okay then, follow along.”  Iacocca leaned in.  “This minivan craze is going to play itself out.  Men are going to figure out they don’t have to drive something that is self-castrating.  Women are going to tire of being behind the wheel of something that is nothing more than a box of progeny.  In ten years, the minivan will be dead.  Twelve tops.”

“You serious?” Lutz questioned.

“Everything has a shelf life.  We need to be ready for the Next Big Thing.  That Next Big Thing is going to be SUVs.  They are going to be a BFD.”  Iacocca was finally at the point in the story that made the case.

“You’re saying that the NBT is going to be a BFD.  And that BFD is the SUV.  And AMC already has the SUV?” The flight attendants didn’t have a clue what the alphabet soup was they were talking about.

“Now you get it, Bob. That’s exactly what I’m saying.  “Their car lines are crap.  We might try to work ‘em over to get some use out of the R&D expense they’ve already written off.  Then throw ‘em in the big automotive dumpster.  The CJ, Cherokee, and Wagoneer are the future.  People will be paying top dollar for glorified trucks.  AMC already has ‘em.  I want ‘em.  Otherwise, we start from scratch with dollars we don’t have and time we haven’t got. We can’t go back to the government trough again. We can only play with house money so long.”  Iacocca explained the vision.  “Mark my words, in the not too distant future people with money will be buying Grand Wagoneers instead of Cadillacs and Lincolns.  Soccer moms are going to be driving SUVs. Young folks are going to be begging for Jeeps instead of Pony cars. We may as well get a jump on it.”

“What do you really want?  More than anything?  In the long run?”  Lutz was surprised he had the courage when he heard himself ask the question. He chalked it up to the alcohol.

“I want everyone with the last name FORD to wake up every morning and envy what I’ve done at Chrysler.  I want them to wish I was still there.  I want them to realize they made a mistake when they fired me,” Iacocca admitted.  It was just the Scotch talking.

Lutz took a long sip of what was probably his fourth drink since takeoff.  ‘Envy is a faulty compass.  No matter which direction it points,’ he thought to himself.