To Kill the Duke (25 page)

“Go on,” Powell urged.

“Before I took a bite out of it, I asked the gorgeous creature with no name if I could wash the sandwich down with something. She replied that she had forgotten to provide me with the liquid that must be consumed with the food,” Oscar said.

“Let me guess,” began Dick Powell, “rain water?”

“Close, but no cigar. She reached into the bag that had been on her shoulder and produced a sparkling thermos,” Millard said.

“What did you say?” Powell asked.

“Nice thermos. She then informs me that it’s made out of silver from one of Howard’s silver mines. Tells me that the liquid inside the thermos is water from the mountain streams of the Rockies, and that it is
obviously
another ingredient that came out of the sex studies. I told her that I hated water and that I was a scotch man,” Oscar said.

“Scotch isn’t natural, but would probably blunt the taste of that shit sandwich,” Powell said.

“She tells me that Hughes hates all scotch whiskey of any kind, because Joe Kennedy makes money on every bottle of scotch that enters America. Furthermore, no water… no sex.”

“So?” Powell asked.

“I ate the sandwich and downed the water. To my utter surprise, the food tasted pretty good and the water was very refreshing,” Oscar said.

“Well… enough about food and water. What about the sex?” Powell said.

“I couldn’t get it up and you almost lost Wayne for the role,” Oscar said quietly.

“Part of that last statement is a joke, right?’ Again, Powell asked Millard.

“No Dick. I’m serious about both. All that food, water, money and woman wasted,” he said with a heavy sigh. “I bet those sex studies are a rigged game.”

“Money, what money?” Powell asked Millard.

“The broad told me that Hughes sends more money to Wittenberg for the sex studies than he spends on the studio!” Millard yelled.

“So you didn’t get laid, but you decided to let Hughes put Wayne in the movie. I don’t understand you writers one bit,” an exasperated Powell said.

“I don’t understand us either, and furthermore, I don’t understand why you didn’t just get me laid with a normal hooker if you wanted Wayne that badly,” Millard said.

Powell let that remark blow into the wind… a wind that he disliked, because it had been uncooperative in the initial set up. Not only that, due to the gusts, there was this metallic-like taste that sometimes came when the wind seemed to whip itself up in a frenzy.

Powell was happy as he sped off from the set… weird story by Oscar aside, and floored the car on a long straightaway of road that led from the set to the local grocery store, which was the only place that had a workable phone where he could send and receive messages. He also needed to see if some supplies had come in. He usually didn’t drive fast… but maybe all the time with Hughes was making him more of a daredevil. That thought was soon squashed because of the scene Dick and Oscar came upon.

Horses were running at a breakneck speed on the left side of his auto. The horses were kicking up a lot of dust, so it was hard to see if they were being ridden. Powell noticed that the dust was very reddish in tint, and made a mental note to check with Miss Burchett about asking someone with knowledge of sand as to whether dust in the air loses it color once it’s left the ground.

“Look over there,” Powell shouted to Oscar as he pointed with his left hand toward the horses and the dust.

“Must be those wild mustangs I heard about from one of the locals,” Millard said.

“And they are to our right, too,” Powell said, pointing to their right as he slowed the car to see if the horses were indeed wild.

“Why are you stopping, Dick?”

“I think the dust from my car and the dust from the horses will blow over and we can get a real look. I mean wild horses! Won’t that be beautiful? I can’t wait to get the wranglers to try and corral some of them.”

“I have a great idea, Dick,” Oscar said.

“What’s that?”

“Let’s round up some of those wild horses, put them in a corral and
not
tell Duke. He’ll get on one of those and be bucked off,” Millard said with a giggle. “Remember how he loves practical jokes!”

“I know what you’re thinking, Oscar,” Powell said. “You think Duke will break his leg and then we
will
have to pull out all stops to get Brando”

“You’re pretty smart, Mr. Powell,” Millard said with a sigh.

“But it’s not a bad idea, considering all the practical jokes Wayne plays on people. You better be on your toes,” Powell warned his screenwriter.

“Hey look, Dick. I don’t think that those horses are wild,” Millard pointed out as he pointed at the horses.

“They are not being ridden either,” Powell noticed.

“It looks like something is chasing them,” Oscar pointed out.

“What would be chasing horses in Southern Utah in the 1950’s?” Powell asked.

“Now that’s a great question to ask a writer, Dick. How about aliens? Maybe another movie is being filmed around here and it’s a stampede!” Millard yelled out sarcastically.

“Okay wise guy… just remember I sign the checks,” Powell said.

“That’s why John Wayne is Genghis Khan,” Millard moaned.

“Wait a minute, the horses are pulling something behind them,” Powell said as the dust and wind settled down, and Powell put the car in park while ignoring Millard’s cheap shot.

As their vision returned — Millard cursed.

“What are you swearing for, Oscar?” Powell asked.

“To hell with this red dust caking my new shirt and pants,” Oscar growled. “If I want natural, I’ll go to Wittenberg and eat raw hamburger!”

“The perils of on-location filming. The hell with your clothes! Now I’m going to have to make the best-boy wash my car… twice! And next time don’t wear white,” Powell said. “As a matter of fact, grab me a piece of paper and pen will you,” Powell told his screenwriter.

“Are you going to start writing a screenplay? A memo to Hughes maybe?” teased Millard.

“No, smart ass. I’m making a note about not having the cast wear any white clothes when we start filming. That red dust will show up and won’t look so good,” Powell said.

“So much for realism,” groused Millard.

“Realism went out the door when John Wayne became our leading man,” Powell said. “Come on, I want to see what those horses are pulling.”

Oscar frowned at that remark, but said nothing.

They jogged about 25 yards and were stopped dead in their tracks.

The horses were not being chased by aliens. The horses were not being filmed by another director for a stampede scene. The horses were not running wild. The horses were not being ridden. The horses were pulling men behind them as if the horses were speed boats and the men water skiers.

But this was the desert. The horses and men were on sand.

And the men were having a blast.

“Hey…those are
my
stuntmen!” Dick Powell yelled as he observed something he thought wasn’t possible, or if he had ever thought about it, wouldn’t think it was possible.

Sand skiing? Or was it sand surfing?

The stuntmen the production company had hired were all holding reins that were connected to their respective horse’s bridle. The men seemed to be gliding over the flat sand as they stood on some object that was uniform in look… but too far away for Dick and Oscar to make out.

Dick and Oscar started jogging over to the men, yelling and waving their arms to attract attention.

Finally, Dick and Oscar were noticed, but only because one of the stuntmen who was skiing or surfing tried to go up and over a large rock and failed miserably.

Powell and Millard ran to aide him.

It was one of their younger stuntmen, Boyd “Red” Morgan, who had taken the tumble.

“Sorry Mr. Powell,” Boyd said, as he was helped to his feet and dusted himself off.

“Sorry about what, Red?” Powell asked. “By the way, where are your skis?”

“Not making that jump. I think it might be a perfect shot for the second-unit director,” Red Morgan stated.

“Excuse me, Red,” Oscar cut in “There are no scenes in the script that call for men skiing behind their horses.”

“You mean we don’t have chariots?” Boyd “Red” Morgan asked sarcastically.

Right away Dick Powell got it, but Oscar Millard didn’t.

“Nailed, right?” Powell said to his stuntmen. Dick Powell always liked to take care of his stunt personnel. They were too valuable to a movie… especially
this
movie’s success.

“Yeah,” replied Morgan.

“Now I get it,” chimed in Millard as the rest of the men who’d been sand skiing or surfing came to check on and check out what the three men were talking about.

All of the men, except for one, gave their reins to another fellow who stayed back a spell.

“Are we fired, Mr. Powell?” asked Roydon Clark.

“Why would I fire you guys?” a bewildered Dick Powell asked of his stuntmen. “You guys are crazy… or you wouldn’t be stuntmen. From what I see, my second-unit action shots are going to be fabulous.”

“Tell ‘em, Red,” Roydon said to Boyd.

“No, show him,” Henry A. Escalante ordered Boyd.

“Why me?” protested Boyd “Red” Morgan.

“Why not?” Bernie Gozier asked. “Besides, you have the least seniority.”

To Hollywood stuntmen, seniority meant everything, especially when it came to the more dangerous stunts. The less seniority one had, the more dangerous stunts he or she had to perform.

Boyd “Red” Morgan started to mouth a protest and the rest of the stuntmen took off their cowboy hats and playfully hit him over the head with them.

“Okay Boyd, show me,” Powell said.

Morgan pointed to his feet.

Both Dick and Oscar looked down and saw a pair of cowboy boots. They looked at each other and shrugged. They turned to Boyd looking for more information. Red pointed at the feet of the other stuntmen. Again, Dick and Oscar looked and saw nothing but pairs of boots on very red sand.

“I don’t get it,” Powell said.

“What are we missing, Boyd?” Oscar asked.

And all the stuntmen broke into a huge laugh. The laughing was so contagious, that even Dick Powell and Oscar Millard started to chuckle.

Then Bernie grabbed Boyd’s right thigh and Henry grabbed Boyd’s left thigh.

“One, two, three,” they said in unison as they swung Boyd’s legs up and tipped him over, so that his head was hanging near the red sand.

It wasn’t cowboy boots that Boyd “Red” Morgan had been pointing to, but what his boots were attached to. The thick red sand had been hiding the contraption that Boyd and the other stuntmen were using as sand skis.

“Hey those are the dinner trays that…” Powell started to say “…I had shipped up here for the purpose of
eating
on, not
skiing or surfing
on.”

“I meant to talk to you about that boss,” Cliff Lyons said as the boys returned Boyd to the upright position.

“So is it skiing or surfing?” Powell said.

“We got the trays before you came up here and tested them out. There are a few problems with them being of any help unless we use them to sand ski,” Lyons reported.

“Go on… but add some detail,” Powell said. Millard nodded in agreement. Writers like detail.

“First, we set the trays up for lunch after we had been doing some stunt work. Before we could put the plates and glasses on them, a wind came along and knocked them all over,” groaned Boyd. “By the way, we call it sand skiing.”

“Can’t you figure out how to weigh them down?” Oscar asked.

“Takes too much time…
your
time Mr. Powell,” Red answered.

Dick Powell liked that response.

“The eating utensils, along with the cups and bowls that we get at the canteen, are made out of plastic and paper and they get blown over along with the trays whenever the wind kicks up,” Red complained.

“How can cups and bowls get blown over when they have food and drink in them?” Millard asked.

“Not full for long when hungry stuntmen are eating and drinking!” Boyd “Red” Morgan said as he started to laugh, which was soon a chorus of laughs with the other stuntmen.

“Okay. I’ll ask the set people to rig up some picnic tables from the spare wood I saw around. But gentlemen, real dishes and cups are not going to happen because of the costs associated with them. I have better things to spend money on,” Powell said.

“So we can continue to sand ski, Mr. Powell, as long as we use paper plates and cups?” Boyd asked.

“Will it keep you boys out of trouble?” Dick asked his stuntmen.

They all nodded in the affirmative.

“Will you do incredible stunts for me and the movie?”

They all agreed.

“We have a deal,” Powell said.

“Want to try it?” Norm Taylor asked both Dick and Oscar.

“Not I,” Oscar said.

“I will. But not until after the shoot. And on a very slow horse,” Dick told the men as they slipped on their tray skis and started back to the main set and compound.