Glenn Patterson - Gull

He turned. The man’s face broke into a smile. ‘John!’

‘Well in the name of…’ DeLorean’s eyebrows went up, but the eyes themselves registered only confusion. He stalled. ‘Johnny…’ but Johnny had been grabbed for a photograph by the woman with the broken shoe, ‘ Edmund , this is…’

‘Jim Hoffman.’ The man shoved a hand into Randall’s and almost at once took it back. There was something of Roy Nesseth about him, his truculence, only concentrated, and even less palatable.

‘You haven’t been at the ranch in a while,’ he said to DeLorean.

‘The ranch, no.’ Certainty had returned to DeLorean’s eyes. ‘Jim here’s a neighbour in Pauma Valley,’ he told Randall, who nodded. He didn’t like this guy. The guy’s mouth went up at one corner. The feeling was clearly mutual. DeLorean talked on, oblivious. ‘What has you in town tonight?’

‘Oh, a friend here bought a hangar down in Mojave. You remember Hetrick?’ DeLorean smiled, a little uncomfortably, Randall thought: yes, he remembered Hetrick. ‘He’s thinking of going into the air haulage business.’

‘Hauling what?’ Randall asked.

‘I guess whatever needs hauling.’ Hoffman had his hand on DeLorean’s sleeve, turning him slightly, making a circle of only two. ‘But what about you? What about the car? I hear you’re still on the lookout for capital.’

‘Oh, we’re in pretty good shape.’ DeLorean’s turn to play the gagman. ‘About another seventy-five million, build us a factory, and we’ll be ready to go.’

Hoffman gave a laugh (it sounded as though he had the loan of it), clapped his pockets. ‘Seventy-five million? A bit out of my league… at least for now.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ said DeLorean. ‘“For now.”’

They shook hands.

‘Keep me posted,’ Hoffman said. ‘And, hey — good luck!’

He unbuttoned his sport jacket as he walked back to his table. Randall watched him all the way. Mary Tyler Broken Shoe had got her photo and an autograph to go with it. Johnny and his entourage were moving on, in .

‘You coming, John?’

‘Be right with you,’ DeLorean said then dipped his head level with Randall’s ear. ‘Get me Romero-Barcelo on the phone first thing in the morning.’

As Randall turned to go he saw Hoffman cock his thumb and squint down the barrel of his squat forefinger at him, taking aim.

The men with him laughed and shook their heads. Hoffman crooked the finger: bang.

The deal tabled was for half a million square feet of factory, rent free in perpetuity, on the site of a decommissioned army base at Borinquen, not far from Aguadilla, which was itself about a two-hour drive north from the Puerto Rican capital San Juan: half a million square feet and exclusive use of the base’s former airfield. They would be as good as self-sufficient: a state within a state, or to invoke the language of Puerto Rico’s own constitutional position, an unincorporated territory within an unincorporated territory.

Randall got to know the island’s precise legal status pretty well in the months of negotiations leading up to the letter of agreement. He got to know Washington too — the road from the airport to Governor Barcelo’s offices on 17th Street at any rate — having been dispatched there half a dozen times to work with the governor’s chosen people on amendments to the early drafts, early drafts that did not, for instance, include help in fitting out the fifty thousand feet of office space that went with the factory and the airfield. Every last word — every comma, colon and dash — had to be weighed and evaluated and weighed again.

‘I want what we begin here to last for generations,’ DeLorean said, over and over. ‘It is essential that we get the foundations absolutely right.’

To that end too the company had been trying for some time to identify a suitable permanent home in New York, which it found at last on the forty-third floor of 280 Park Avenue, formerly the home of Xerox, which had copied itself across, Randall could only suppose, to somewhere pretty much identical in another part of town.

Two-eighty Park Avenue was in effect two buildings — a mid-rise West joined by a passage to a high-rise East, which in turn was served by a choice of two elevators, the first car servicing all floors, the second, express car taking you straight to the very top and number forty-three.

Within days of the lease being secured the entire suite had been fitted with apricot carpet on the advice of one Maur Dubin, whose floor-length mink coat was such a fixture that Randall came to think of him not so much as a man wearing fur as an overgrown mustelid that had acquired a human — and entirely bald — head.

He busied about the forty-third floor, in and out of offices, as though it was his private domain, supervising the installation of desks one day, the hanging of a piece of art the next, and the day after insisting that the piece of art be taken down, the desks rearranged, removed altogether. Randall never once heard DeLorean gainsay his advice. And with reason. For all his oddness and his affectations Dubin was good, better than good. (The apricot carpet, when the sun shone through the forty-third-floor windows, was out of this world.) He would probably have said the best.

There was, even among DeLorean’s closest associates, an amount of muttering: who was this guy? And where had he come from? Randall remained aloof from it. Where had he come from himself, after all? He had got on the lucky side of one of those epiphanies, the moment that John DeLorean knew for sure an expanded bumper did not a new car make.

So, paintings went up and paintings came down, desks were tried here and tried there and replaced by other desks till at long last Dubin declared himself as satisfied as he was ever going to be. (Because, really, to get it absolutely right you would want to start from the ground floor up: what lay beneath your feet — and he wasn’t talking apricot carpet here — was as important for the harmony of a place as what lay before your eyes.)

At long last too DeLorean pronounced himself satisfied with the commas, colons and dashes of the Puerto Rican deal.

Randall arrived on the forty-third floor one morning to find a memo on his desk asking him to book conference rooms in the Crowne Plaza for early the following week and to make ‘all other arrangements necessary for an exchange of contracts’.

Randall did not see DeLorean at all that week, had not, come to that, seen him for most of the previous week either. This was not unusual. On the contrary, it was a rare week when he was in New York or any other city for more than a couple of days at a time. He had, on top of everything else that was going on, a baby daughter at home, her arrival in this world a source of genuine — almost mystical — wonder to both parents. (His son, the only child from his two previous marriages, was adopted.)

A source of wonder and, Randall didn’t doubt, the cause of more than one night’s lost sleep.

Alejandro Vallecillo from the Puerto Rican Economic Development Agency — reconciled in the months since his initial phone call to dealing with Randall as an equal — moved into the Plaza several days in advance of the signing and Randall spent the larger part of that week shuttling between there and the company’s lawyers up on E 42nd Street. He looked in on the conference rooms first thing every morning and again before he left for home at night. The Plaza’s management was installing extra telephone lines in the main room and bringing sofas and armchairs into the rooms opening off it.

(Maur Dubin, to the best of Randall’s knowledge, was in Miami, recuperating, otherwise he might have wanted a say in it too.)