To Kill the Duke (48 page)

“It’s been one of the greatest on-location items I have ever seen,” Dick said.

“When I was on location, all I did was see a couch or a bed,” Hughes said.

“Get sick a lot or something boss?” Powell asked.

“No. All I did was screw the actresses that had the biggest tits,” Hughes said.

“Of course. How stupid of me. Well sand skiing isn’t sexual, but it sure is fun. I was nervous when I did it. But this crew of ours is fabulous at letting the first timers go slow on the more tame horses. Duke is fearless. He is always challenging the crew and making bets with them. I think he loses on purpose,” Powell said.

“If John Wayne wasn’t an actor he would be a great stuntman. I wish I could get into horses, but I like planes. Anyway, when I said that my metal
dinner trays were going to be the next great thing, I didn’t envision that they would be on the bottom of people’s feet,” Hughes said. “Maybe I can patent it? Maybe sell three trays to people. One tray for eating and two for sand skiing.”

“One problem boss,” Powel said.

“What’s that kid?”

“Not everyone owns a horse,” Powell pointed out.

“Sometimes you really depress me,” Hughes pointed out. “See you soon.”

Howard Hughes was livid. He was mad. He was pissed… and all this anger was directed at himself, because of the question that Dick Powell had asked him during their phone conversation. “How did you find this place?” That question stuck in his throat like too much of that red sand on location in South Utah where the windblown filming of
The Conqueror
was finishing up.

Howard rarely got mad at himself, because when Hughes got mad, it was usually directed at someone or something else.

Damn, I wish what he told me about that sand was the complete opposite of what he did tell me
, Hughes thought as looked at the thick file on his desk that had two words written in red on it:
The Conqueror.

As a matter of fact, the last time Howard had been this mad at himself was when he awoke in the hospital after he had crashed his test plane — the XF-11 — in a neighborhood of Beverly Hills in July of 1946.

When he awoke in the hospital bed and was told the extent of his injuries, which included a crushed collar bone, multiple cracked ribs, a crushed chest, a collapsed left lung that actually moved his heart, and 3
^rd
-degree burns. Being the daredevil that he was, he wasn’t mad at himself for the injuries. Rather, he was mad at himself because he never thought he would be bed-ridden for such a long time while he recovered. Time was everything to the richest man in the world, and he didn’t like that he would be spending so much time not being able to do things. He started yelling at himself and then he realized he was alone in the room. He decided right away that his attitude had to change. His first
stab on the road to recovery to cure his anger was to custom design a better hospital bed. With the help of his engineers, he made a hospital bed that actually provided him with running hot and cold water.

But that was a long time ago. Now, he was angry with himself for being taken for a ride by the United States Federal Government.

A big ride.

A ride that the United States Federal Government gladly strapped the richest man in the world into for the measly sum of one lousy dollar.

Hughes realized he had been had and couldn’t believe it. After all, one of his favorite quotes was “Play off every one against each other so that you have main avenues of action open to you.”

Now as stared at the report in front of him that he had already read four times, he felt his blood boil.

Howard didn’t get to be the richest man in the world by being a pussy cat. Sure, he had been mad at Joe Kennedy, the critics of his movies, competition in business as well as women, women who didn’t fawn over him, employees who didn’t perform and of course the media — especially after they heaped abuse on him after the one-and-only flight of the Hughes H-4 Hercules on November 2nd, 1947.

“The fucking media is made up of bloodsuckers!” Hughes screamed to Dick Powell after the American news media gave the H-4 Hercules their nickname of the largest flying boat ever built.

“And they are not smart, Howard,” Dick added.

“No kidding. Calling my plane a ‘Spruce Goose’ and it’s made out of birch wood, not spruce wood,” Hughes pointed.

But now, instead of being mad at his government for taking advantage of him — he found himself focusing all the negativity of the decision to lease the land in South Utah on himself.

It was easy to understand.

As Howard leaned back in his executive chair and swung his feet onto the top of his desk, which was made out of spruce wood, he put down the file on
The Conqueror
, and reached for his doodling pad and a pencil. After a few minutes of drawing airplanes, big breasts and dollar signs, he started to draw dump trucks. This made him toss the pad into the waste basket and re-pick up the report that had him really pissed off at himself.

Howard Hughes had commissioned the report on the property he thought he’d made a killing on. Hughes usually did his due diligence before a deal was made. Sometimes he did not — he would go on a gut instinct — which is one of the reasons he bought RKO Studios — gut instinct (and a huge stable of good-looking women who were easily available being another). It was this same ‘gut’ instinct that led him to lease the vast amount of land in South Utah for $1.

Hughes had reports done on just about anything and everything in his orbit. Reports on actresses, actors, designs on planes, his enemies and investments crossed his desk every day. For many reasons, he had a great interest in the report he again held in his hands. The most pressing, being that he had found out he had to truck at least 60 tons of sand that
The Conqueror
was being filmed on back to RKO.

Hughes rifled through the thick report and accompanying memos, notes (both type-written and hand-written), pictures, telegrams, reports and charts as he thought back to his meeting with the top military brass, CIA operatives and civilian advisors when they’d hurried him into a private room after a very boring briefing at The Pentagon. They wanted to talk to him about Southern Utah.

Hughes had been bored to tears by the various politicians, lobbyists and military brass giving one boring talk after another boring talk. The amount of doodling he had finished told him that. He couldn’t remember one person or one topic that these people talked about. He did remember his doodling of airplanes, engines and breasts, though. When the meeting adjourned — Hughes (who wanted to leave so badly) started to sprint out of the room so he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. Of course, shaking any hands and back-slapping were already out of the question. But once again, he forgot he was the richest man in the world and everyone wanted a piece of him.

“I am their Prospero,” he said out loud as he quickened his pace.

Suddenly he felt himself being pulled sideways. He was mortified that he was being touched. He looked at the hands of the people who were doing the touching, grabbing and pulling and relaxed when he saw that the hands were covered by gloves.

“Come with us, sir,” a voice that belonged to one set of the hands said to him.

“Do I have a choice? Because if I do I’m choosing not to go with you,” a defiant Hughes said as he brought his gaze up from their hands to their faces.

All the men holding him shook their heads no.

“Up and away lads,” Hughes said as he relaxed, because they had let go of him.

They led him to a side door that led to another side door that led to yet another side door, which in turn led to a long, dark corridor.

“This place has more mazes than the one in New Harmony,” Hughes casually remarked.

“Where is New Harmony?” one of the soldiers asked.

“You don’t know where New Harmony is?” Hughes replied sarcastically.

“No sir, I do not,” said the solider.

“Do any of you four?”

They all shook their heads no.

“Why, next to old Harmony of course, lads,” Hughes said as he started walking past them down the corridor. They quickly caught up and surrounded him while all five kept walking.

“That wasn’t funny, sir,” one of the soldiers said.

“I thought it was,” Hughes said. “By the way, New Harmony is in Indiana. There is a maze there in the outdoors that is quite impressive. Supposed to be a replica of mazes in Pennsylvania, dating from the early 1800’s, all of which have something to do with spirituality.”

“We work for the federal government. We are not allowed to be spiritual,” one of the soldiers said.

“Too bad. Remind me to talk to your superiors about that. I hear that a little spirituality goes a long way,” Hughes said.

The soldiers stopped walking about nine minutes later and Hughes couldn’t believe how long the corridor had seemed and how far he had walked. They motioned him to enter two steel doors. As he went to open the one door, it started to open by itself. He also noticed that the four men were not accompanying him to wherever he was going.

“Thanks for the ride gentlemen,” Hughes said as he walked in.

They said nothing, exited the room and Hughes heard the two big doors clang shut.

He looked around the room and was surprised that for all the walking and security he was under it wasn’t much of a room.

“Very plain,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?” a voice that Howard Hughes had never heard before said.

“Where are you, voice?” Hughes asked, because after looking around the room, he noticed there was no one else in the room but himself.

“Over here. By the desk,” the voice beckoned.

Hughes walked to the desk and sat down in the only chair in the room that was in front of the desk.

“Make yourself comfortable,” said the voice.

“I could be a lot more comfortable if I wasn’t here talking to a voice that is not connected to a human, after just enduring the most boring talks ever listened to,” complained Hughes. “By the way, where is your voice coming from?”

“See the little box on the desk next to all the items that usually belong on a desk,” the voice said.

Hughes look at the surface of the nondescript desk and saw a writing tab, some pencils, pens and a little box.

“Your voice is coming from a cigar box?” Hughes asked astonished.

“It’s an intercom designed as a cigar box,” the voice said.

“Why couldn’t we have met in person? Don’t you like me?” Hughes asked sarcastically.

“I’m somewhere else,” the voice answered.

“I’m the richest man in the world, not the smartest, but even I could figure that out,” Hughes said as he grabbed the pad of paper, a pencil and started to doodle.

“I wanted to be there. But I couldn’t. You don’t know me, but I know you. I have been put in charge of explaining something to you, because I explain things very well,” the voice said.

“I’m leaving right now unless I get something up front,” Hughes said.

“Like what?” the voice asked.

“I want a glass of my favorite water from the Rockies and I want the technology to this box that you’re speaking to me from. I want
to be able to be the voice coming from the box, in the future, when I have to have talks with people I don’t want to see in person,” Hughes said.