The Finance executive strode along with Joe as he walked back towards his own office section, saying little until she was inside, with the door firmly closed. "Surely you might have guessed what I was about to say, Joe?" she asked in a level voice. "you have been around the mill just as long as I have, and I also know that you have an accountancy degree taken by correspondence. I haven't said anything which hasn't been known about before, it is just that nobody has had the balls to lay things out on the line!"
"Jeezus, Virginia, you can't expect everyone to just line up and shout 'hooray' after you calmly announce that you want us to ditch three years work, all that tooling and design time, all those millions of dollars; and start all over. It might well break us!"
"It might break us, yes; but if we go on the way we are right now, it will break us!" Virginia walked over to stand in front of the Sales and Marketing V.P.,"I have laid out the probabilities. Nothing more, nothing less! You have been deputised by Nick Cavalieri to find a way out. Well, this is one way. Cut our losses, and start again. I'm sorry if it is unpalatable for you, but we have been starkly realistic in Finance. That is our position! Bye, Joseph."
As Joe watched her walk away from him, and exit past his secretary, he heard the dull buzz of the internal phone, watched his secretary answer, then lift her head, "It's Harry Lassitter, says he has a name for you!"
Picking up the receiver, he answered, "Yes, Harry, what have you got for me?"
Lassitter answered him, "The team leader at Morson, Hutcheons, Drew and Zeno goes by the name of Allison Klein. She's the one that we met when we okayed the final running for the t.v. ads before the launch."
"Harry, I want you to get hold of our Miss Klein, and say that we want her, and her team, complete with all their storyboards, first shoots and final cut films, in these offices at ten tomorrow morning. No excuses, no cancellations. Those people have been paid a fortune to pass the message along to the buying public, and I want re-assurance that the message is correct. Give it to her straight; she can come alone, or with an armed escort, but come she will, or else we will pull the plug! Got it?"
"Sure thing, Joe. She'll be here, I can guarantee that. Have you got anything in mind, or is it just a general waltz around?"
"Let's just say that I want to cover all bases. I don't have anything to go on, Harry; but the adverts just don't seem to be doing their job, and we should have a review!"
The advertising section leader replaced his phone, rubbed his chin with palm of his hand, then called his secretary and asked her for the number of M,H,D &Z on Madison Avenue, in New York. He dialled out, and with the latest Bell technology, was answered just as the last tone had sounded in his ear. "Morson, Zeno, how can I help you?"
"This is Harry Lassitter, from Continental Auto. Put me through to Allison Klein, please!" He twiddled the phone cord around his finger for maybe ten seconds, then he was answered.
"Klein here. Is that Harry? How can we be of service to Continental?"
"Allison, you are maybe not gonna like what I'm about to say, but that really burns me! We want you, and as many of your team as you think necessary, plus all your original story boards, rough shoots, semi- and final finished clips on a plane from Kennedy, and sitting in our offices in Detroit tomorrow morning. Our marketing V.P., Joe Kozcinski, is on the warpath, and we gotta have answers. We need a complete run-down on your demographic structures, how the ads were targeted, why you did things in a certain way in a specific area; the works. Before you answer, I have to tell you that, if your answer is not positive, we're gonna pull the plug, and you lose a billion dollars worth of billings! What say, honey?"
"Jeezus, Harry, you sure know how to say the sweetest things to a girl! We will be there if I have to hitch a lift on the turnpike; you are too damn important to us not for us to move. Can you give me any sort of a clue, so we can review as we travel?"
"We think that, somehow, the damn ads are somehow not working, something has gone screwy. Hell, I just don't know if it is your ads. for certain, but we have to review all areas, and you are mine. Do you want me to organise transport at the airport?"
"No, I'll be getting the team together, and we'll probably shoot out this evening, and get into Motortown late, catch a friendly Hilton bedroom, and see you tomorrow, when, ten?"
"Ten is fine by us," replied Lassitter, "see you tomorrow!"
Chapter 3
The calm which Joe Kozcinski exhibited to the world was, on this particular day, very much a front. Having stirred up a hornets' nest in the advertising burrows of Madison Avenue, he called up Larry Burnett, and announced that he wanted a fast walk around in the main Stiletto assembly area, so as to get a feel for the car. He hadn't been able to make any of the previously scheduled tours, and had regretted those lost opportunities. Burnett, who knew the pressures which were building the fire underneath Joe's call, simply asked when Joe would like to turn up. Joe replied that he already had his coat on, and would be waiting at the front for Larry to drive him.
Five minutes later, having told Mrs. Grady to take messages, Joseph Kozcinski stood waiting as Larry's fire-engine red Stilletto eased up to the kerb. "What made you choose a car colour like this, Larry?" asked Joe as he snapped his seat-belt closed.
"It's all part of the Burnett mystique, my man," grinned Larry as he gunned the car away towards the freeway, "this is what's known as goose trap red! Psychologist statistics say that girls are more likely to get turned on by a powerful car painted bright red, than virtually any other colour. Now I ain't saying I believe totally in the theory, but every little helps, and my own statistics have not dipped since I got the new car."
Joe shook his head wryly as his associate sent the car along the freeway off ramp, at the end of the short drive into the heartland of Motortown. The vast assembly halls of Continental, lay spread out before them, as they came on to the feeder road towards the main entrance. The security guard, recognising the car as it came up towards the barrier, raised the pole, but Larry slowed as he passed, "Quentin, a minute please!"
"Yes sir, what can I do for you?"
"No warning calls to the plant. O.K.?"
"No problem, Mr. Burnett. If you want quiet, you got quiet!"
"Thank you, Quentin!" Larry eased the car forward, keeping strictly to the ten mile-an-hour speed limit inside the works, before setting course for the exit ramp, where all the cars were driven away to the vast parking and holding areas at the back of the plant. While they cruised slowly along, past the long buildings where the actual cars were assembled, Joe suddenly asked, "Larry, if you had to buy a car, if you had no company car, if you were Joe six-pack; would you buy a Stilletto?"
The big car slowed almost to a standstill, while the Engineering V.P. put his answer together. "If I didn't know anything about how the autos were designed, if I was just an average Joe; like a dentist's assistant, or a foreman somewhere,..., I might buy. Maybe a Sabre, more my price range, but then again, maybe I would need persuading. If I had been a Continental buyer before, probably 'yes', because I would have had value before, and wanted to buy the same again. I might not, however, if I was just looking to trade in, and buy the new year model. I don't know why, Joe, I just have this feeling that, well maybe they aren't to be trusted. Hell, I should know how well we put these heaps together, and you have just heard it from the horse's mouth! No-one has asked that question of me before, and I think maybe you have hit on something. What made you ask, Joe?"
"I have a vague idea, nothing more than a feeling, but your answer has helped; I think. Gotta admit, Larry, when two top directors are unsure about the product that has so much money invested in it, it does kinda make you wonder why!"
Larry Burnett slid the big car into a spare slot near the ramp, both men got out, and then slung Day-Glo vests, marked with a big 'V', around their shoulders, and slapped hard hats on their heads. Larry flicked the lock switch on his key ring, hearing the locks thud down, before turning to walk, abreast of Joe, towards the ramp, which g
ave birth to a brand-new Stiletto every five minutes. The two men watched the procession for maybe three minutes, before setting their ear protectors down, and walking into the roar of the main works of Continental Motors.
The controlled frenzy which was the daily life of the assembly lines, more like a ballet of machinery, with the human attendants forever darting to and fro, was the first thing which always gripped Joe as he walked slowly into the plant. The final inspection lines, with quality control men, armed with clipboards and white cotton gloves, ducking and checking all the paint and body lines in the brightest of lights. The driver-inspectors inside the vehicles, answering the calls of the outside staff; the headlights flashing, the indicators blinking, the engines starting with the first turn of the ignition, and the horns blasting as the final efforts of seven thousand men were judged in the space of five minutes. The TQM, or Total Quality Method, adopted by Continental after the Japanese invasion had been recognised for what it was; namely economic war, was working well; with the trumpeted Zero Defect program in place both in fact and in theory. As the two executives walked slowly down the long final assembly lines, with motorised slave buggies bringing parts and components to the right spot at the right time, Larry simply turned to Joe, motioned with his hand, and shouted, "This is sure one hell of an investment to even think of junking it!"
The news of the entrance of two senior V.I.P.s, however quietly done, had not taken long to be spread towards the Plant management, and a covey of shirt-sleeved men started hurrying towards the last reported sighting of Larry and Joe. The Plant Manager, Axel Fallden, a big, burly man, whose Scandinavian ancestors had bequeathed him a superb physique and a mop of almost white-blond hair, was first to catch up with the two men, as they stood watching a team slotting engines into place in front of the gear and drive trains. The hydraulic ram, operated by one man who only answered to one voice, because of the danger of sudden accident, slid up, hesitated, while the leader felt with his hand inside the back section; he withdrew his hand, checked his crew were all clear, ordered the final rise; the bolts slapped into place on the mountings and drive cap, and another Stiletto drive train slid forward for finals.
"Larry, Joe, you should have let me know, and I would have been at the front door to meet you," shouted Fallden, leaning close to both visitors, "was there anything special you wanted to view?"
Larry turned, and screamed, "No worry, Axel, we don't need the grand tour. We're just mooching along, getting Joe here updated on the latest line operation. We have a bit of a problem in house at Head Office, and we thought to come out here and view the operation might just clear away some of the cobwebs, is all!"
The Plant Manager nodded dubiously, but he, and his attendant retinue, kept pace as the two senior men slowly made their way through the view gallery of the high-tech paint shop operation, with pre-programmed robot arms delivering charged paint in exactly the right quantities, to otherwise inaccessible areas. They walked through the dipping and cleaning tank area, with the fumes and steam carefully ducted away, with reclamation in full use wherever possible, and then side-stepped towards the start of the main metal assembly lines, where the chassis were mated with the bodies, and the air was hellish with the flash and crackle of automatic welding tools, all operated totally by robots, which resembled some deadly dance, in a nightmare ballet. Joe and Larry watched as the 'hammer' man, wielding a plastic-headed mallet, gave the assembly the human touch by tapping the roof sections into place before the robotic welding machines advanced to complete the work. The procession slanted off towards the inward goods lines, where pre-quality checked items, such as seating, complete dashboards, wiring looms and gas tanks were shuttling in on command of the 'Just-in-Time' philosophy, which kept parts inventory to a minimum. Joe's eyes never settled on one item, but fed everything into a check pattern he had established in his mind, looking for the one thing which seemed out of place in this computerised cathedral.
The pair watched as a painted shell paused over a reader, which electronically noted the information contained on a transponder, and then, through remote terminals, alerted the loading of seats, tyres, special equipment such as radios and air-conditioning. These would arrive down carousels, or overhead tracks, just when the assembly workers on the bodies or engines needed their presence. The track workers removed the doors, and slung them onto moving lines which would return the doors, fully fitted and equipped, to the car as it neared the end of it's assembly run. The protective plastics guards were slapped on to the gleaming painted wings and sides, and the shell moved forward for the start of the final run towards completion. Joe remembered the uproar when the cost of the computerised order system had been laid before the Main Board, but the expense had been agreed, and the savings had been unique.
The retinue had slowly dwindled, as Axel Fallden had realised that he wasn't included in this particular walk around by senior management, and had tersely detailed all to return to their tasks in the main plant. He alone remained, as Joe Kozcinski and Larry had swung back up the lines, to return to their start point near to where the big red Stiletto was parked. They paused next to a notice board, full with the usual company and union notices, with a luminous red bordered poster extolling the virtues of the"enhanced Continental pension fund" benefits, including the newly-negotiated "early retirement on extra payout", and listing the options which were available to the Continental pensioners.
"Axel, please accept my apologies for skating around your works without formally advising you of our visit." Joe called out, "it's just that I have an itch, and I thought I might scratch it in the plant. Didn't succeed, but I appreciate the visit. The guys have really started to put out a good set of wheels. Thanks again, Axel!"
The burly blond manager slowly scratched his head in puzzlement as the two Main Board directors shed their protective gear, entered their car, and slowly drove away towards the main gate.
One other pair of eyes, belonging to a plant administration worker, had carefully watched the progress around the plant of the two unheralded visitors. He went to a payphone in the deserted canteen, dropped some coins in, dialled, and immediately the receiver was lifted, simply said, "We had lice around this afternoon. Know about it?"
The answer was given, with some hesitation. "There is a small possibility that action may be necessary, if he starts sniffing around deep enough. He has ordered the Morson, Zeno team out to Detroit for a review meet tomorrow morning. I think he is just covering all bases, and does not have any idea what is happening. We have very good intelligence on what our friend Joe is doing, and I don't think he has any idea where to go with this one. Just keep us informed if there are any further visits, not that he would discover anything in the plant; after all he would be looking in the wrong direction entirely. Did you get your usual envelope?"
"Yup. No problems there. Be in touch!"
The big red Stiletto moved steadily along the freeway, back towards the Continental office complex. Joe slouched against the door, one foot propped up over his knee, as Larry drove the car back towards their original start point. The silence was finally broken by Larry, as he asked, "this itch, can you maybe describe it?"
The Sales and Marketing V.P. grunted as he glanced across at Larry. "It's not in the plant, not in the build of the cars, or the components, or anything to do with the actual manufacturing process. Anything wrong would be so quickly picked up on the line that it wouldn't last half a day. It is as I asked you earlier. 'Would you buy a Stiletto?' That was the question; and your answer was 'only maybe' or even 'probably not'. And you are Joe Six-Pack, not the goddam Engineering director. If we can't even convince you, we may as well follow Virginia's lead, and start all over again."
Larry Burnett nodded slowly, as he steered the big car towards the reserved parking lot, situated right next to the main entrance. Parking, both he and Joe got out, and headed for the main doors, then Joe turned back, saw his car was already in it's slot, ready for his use, and called, "Hey, Larry, I'm gonna pl
ay hookey, head off and pay court to my bride. I need a bit of space, and there ain't nothing coming up before tomorrow with the whizz kids from the Big Apple. I'll just get my case, and I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for the ride, Larry. Get some rest!"
Joe whipped in, up in the elevator, took the back route to his office, picked his briefcase up before Mrs. Grady had registered him back, tipped her a wink, and was out of the office section before anyone could call him back. He flipped his keys up from the reception desk, unlocked his car, and was moving out of the complex before his phone started ringing, as people had been advised he was back in the offices. He turned the bonnet of the car towards the suburban mall where Alex had her office, and leisurely eased himself towards an early afternoon and evening with his wife, knowing that he was away from his desk early for the first time, apart from duty trips, in maybe four years. He drove past the 'numbers', a huge automated poster which registered, or at least used to register, the numbers of cars produced every day in Detroit, before the advent of the Japanese invasion started the steady downward path of the American domination of it's own auto market. He turned off the freeway, and headed into the suburbs of Detroit, past the park where, he had been told by a senior Detroit policeman, Jimmy Hoffa had been shot before being entombed in a barrel full of concrete; to become part of the freeways of the city. He honestly did not really know why he had given any credence to this story, apart from the tone in the voice of the Inspector, a man who never exaggerated. Further along the parkdrive, the young executive turned off once again, to find himself in the midst of outer suburb America, where all the whites had escaped to, when their inner city life had been taken over by a Black and Hispanic wave. Tightening his lips a little, because he was part of that very same problem, he navigated around the tree-lined streets, until he came up to the Garden Mall, and swung into an empty parking slot. After he had locked his car, he walked slowly down into the air-conditioned atmosphere of the covered mall, and wandered along until he came to his wife's own little empire. A sign above the door read simply, 'We don't sell houses, we sell homes'. Alex spotted him as he paused in front of the window displays, jumped to her feet and welcomed him with a big kiss in front of everyone.
Continental Attack: Murder and Mayhem in Detroit's Auto Industry Page 3
