To Kill the Duke (7 page)

Since filming on location had become all the rage in Hollywood, it was important that the locals didn’t get a head start on knowing that a movie was being filmed in their vicinity. By the time they realized what was going on, all the high-paying jobs were already filled by professionals from Hollywood, and the production company could then throw a few bones to the locals by offering very minor roles. However, Dick Powell made sure that everything that was needed on the set, that couldn’t be brought with them, was purchased locally. This made all the locals happy, because their economy got a financial shot in the arm and Dick and his crew were virtually left alone by the townies. Then, Dick Powell would make all the arrangements for credit with the companies in the valley for the necessities that the cast and crew would need. He couldn’t believe it only took him a few days to do so, but being a very good businessman, surrounded by an outstanding staff and crew, not to mention Howard Hughes’ money, didn’t hurt negotiations either.

“Howard Hughes has F.U. money,” one supplier whom Dick did a lot of business with, said.

“F.U. money?” replied Dick

“Fuck you money,” the man explained.

And Dick Powell agreed with that.

Now, all I need is a leading man and woman and the rest of the cast,
he thought as he laid down to sleep next to his wife the night before he was due to be picked up by his boss.

“Who is going to star in the movie now that Brando said no?” his wife asked him.

“How did you know that Brando wouldn’t be in the movie?” responded Dick.

“It’s Hollywood. You of all people should know that,” she said sarcastically.

He sighed.

She was right and he loved her even more.

The limousine picked him up at 5:00 a.m. just like Howard told him it would.

“You’ll sleep on the way to the plane,” Hughes told him when Powell complained about the departure time. “Don’t complain. I could have sent a horse and buggy to pick you up instead of a limo.”

The vehicle was staffed by the usual Hughes’ bodyguard types. Very tall and thin men dressed in dark aviator glasses who wore black suits with white, button-down collars and black combat boots. All of them put way too much gel in their hair and wore the same cologne, which to Dick Powell smelled like lilacs.

This was quite a contrast from the crew of Howard Hughes’ private jet… at least his private jet in California.

Dick was welcomed aboard the sleek aircraft by a woman who had the most magnificent breasts he had ever seen (and, as a big-time movie star, Dick had seen beautiful women and big tits many times). She was also wearing a uniform that looked as if it was painted on her. It was a black one-piece, with a zipper that went from crotch to cleavage. She wore boots that were exactly like the boots that Hughes’ male bodyguards and the limousine driver wore.

Howard probably gets a bulk discount on black boots
, Powell thought.

She wore a baseball cap and her hair was pony-tailed and pulled through the opening of the cap in the back. A giant gold-colored letter H was on the front of the cap. Powell smiled at her and tried to not look at her cleavage. It was difficult for him… until he got inside the plane and looked around at the décor, which was more of a surprise than the woman’s cleavage.

Howard Hughes’ plane had an interior that didn’t exist… well it did exists — there was an interior, but there was hardly any furniture. “It’s a plane,” what did you expect?” Oscar later asked him after Dick had been informed by Howard that the same stewardess with the big tits who had welcomed him aboard the plane, had been ordered to sleep with Oscar. (Dick had called Oscar to confirm and he was
still
placed on hold.)

“He’s rich — I expected something other than four swivel chairs that looked like they had come from a sunken battleship,” Dick said. “By the way, was she good?”

“I write stories, I don’t
tell
stories,” Oscar said defensively.

And laugh was what Dick Powell was doing as his eyes spied the four swivel chairs and a giant crate on the opposite side of the plane from the chairs.

“That chest was Blackbeard’s, Dick,” Hughes said as he emerged from the cockpit to greet his favorite movie executive — other than himself.

Only Howard Hughes would have a treasure chest that once belonged to Blackbeard the Pirate
, Dick thought. “Knowing you, I believe that it did, Howard,” Powell said as he instinctively went to hold out his hand to shake Hughes’ hand. Hughes recoiled. Powell reigned in his right hand and looked downward. He knew he was in for a tongue lashing. He knew that he had royally fucked up by offering his hand.

“Don’t do that again!” Hughes yelled.

Powell said nothing. He (did) know better.

“Want to see what’s in the chest?” a now giddy Hughes asked.

Grateful that Hughes had switched gears, Powell nodded yes.

Hughes went over to the chest and tried to imitate a pirate’s laugh and made some stupid statement to boot.

“I didn’t know you liked pirates,” Powell said, all the time thinking that Hughes’ pirate laugh sounded like Santa Claus.

“All capitalists are pirates, Dick,” Hughes replied. “Come on over and take a look-see.”

Powell slowly walked over to the chest.
Probably full of fake boobs and black bras
he thought as he slowly peeked in.

Dick Powell was a great movie star and studio executive. He was a terrible guesser.

In the chest were stacks of plastic plates, bowls and cups. There was another box full of plastic spoons, forks and knives. The ‘plastic ware,’ as Hughes called the eating utensils, was all individually wrapped in clear plastic bags. There were also some metal trays.

“Wow,” Powell said, hoping that Hughes wouldn’t hear the sarcasm in his voice.

“The future, my boy,” Hughes said as he picked up one of the trays and went to one of the swivel chairs and sat down. He set up the tray on its legs and hollered for the stewardess in the great outfit with the big hooters.

She sashayed over to the chest and brought forth one utensil packet, one cup, one bowl and one plate. She produced a cloth napkin from a
pocket that Dick Powell had no idea even existed in her pants suit, and then she went to the back of the plane. Powell just stared at his boss, who was sitting on the chair with the plastic paraphernalia, which was set on a very cheap-looking metal tray attached to flimsy legs that was in front of him. “Watch this,” Hughes said as the young lady returned with a pitcher of some liquid in it and a very large metal lunch pail.

She poured what Powell assumed was water into Hughes’ plastic cup and placed a crust-less sandwich on his plate. She took out a tin can of something that was yellow and poured that into the bowl. She went back to the station in the back of the plane and fiddled with what she had removed before she glided to the cockpit.

“Water from the top of the Rockies,” Hughes said as he took a gulp. “Nothing cleaner and better for you. Want some?”

“In a few minutes. What are you eating, boss?” Powell asked.

“American cheese on white bread with no condiments and of course no crust. Crust is very bad for you. My bowl is full of chicken broth. Want some of that?” Hughes asked.

Powell didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Here he was watching the richest man on earth eat food that wasn’t good enough for a soup kitchen in downtown Los Angeles, sitting on a chair that was probably purchased from a mothballed Navy vessel, with an even cheaper metal tray in front of him. Furthermore, he was eating off plastic plates with plastic utensils that Dick Powell wouldn’t let his children use to dig in a sand box.

“He is insane,” Oscar said later, after Powell and Millard had talked about the girl that Hughes had sent Oscar, and the location of their movie. “No one will ever buy plastic.”

“No, he is sane. He once showed me the papers that said just that,” Powell said with a hearty laugh. “I agree with you about the plastic stuff. Who wants to eat with plastic?”

“Hey, that line about having papers to prove you’re sane is good. Can I use it? Can you imagine cutting a piece of red meat with a plastic knife?” Oscar asked Dick.

“Yes, you can use the line and no, I can’t see using a plastic knife on a steak,” Powell replied. “By the way, Hughes told me that plastic will dominate consumerism in the near future as America becomes a ‘throw-away’ society.”

“Did you take a close look, Dick? Do you see the future?” Hughes had asked.

You don’t want to know what I see
, Powell said to himself as he shook his head no.

“These dinner trays. Everyone will be eating off them. No one will ever want to miss what is on the television, and the family dinner will disappear forever. I have cornered the market on dinner trays, Dick,” Hughes boasted as he quickly downed his food and drank his water.

Dick Powell didn’t want to engage his boss in a conversation about television. Unlike many people in the movie industry, Dick Powell thought that the movies and television could co-exist and create synergy that would benefit both. Powell also thought that Hughes was of the opinion that eventually TV would put Hollywood out of business.

“I think we could use those trays on location boss,” Powell said.

“Great idea. I’ll send a few hundred up, along with lots of plastic dining ware when we start filming. Let me show you who’s flying the plane,” Hughes said as he got up and sidestepped, getting too close to Dick Powell, and walked to the cockpit. Powell followed.

Suddenly Hughes stopped and whirred around.

“This is a no
COCK-PIT
,” he said. Hughes winked and he opened the door.

Powell agreed, because he could see that both the pilot and co-pilot were females with the exact same outfits that the stewardess was wearing. Both women also had huge knockers and Dick Powell hoped they flew the plane as well as they looked.

“Don’t worry Dick, both these women have been personally instructed by me and are as good at flying a plane as anyone… but don’t lump
me
in that “anyone” category. No one is as good a pilot as I am,” Hughes said quite proudly as both girls let out a slight chuckle. Knowing he was in for a long day, Powell asked his boss when they were leaving.

“As soon as you go back to one of the seats and sit down,” Hughes stated.

“What about you?” Powell asked.

“I’ll be back shortly. Need to make the word cockpit mean something on this flight my boy,” Hughes said as both girls grinned.

Powell left the threesome and strapped himself into his seat. He noticed that the stewardess wasn’t anywhere around and wondered if it was now a foursome up front, as well as wondering what type of protection Hughes wore when he was obviously having sex with the vixens that were piloting the plane, not to mention when he was screwing all the other women in his past.

“I bet he wears a see-through plastic body bag when he is having sex,” Oscar quipped later during their conversation after the weekend fly-over. “Of course there must be some sort of opening in the front for his manhood.”

“That mental image could ruin my sex life for decades… maybe forever,” Powell replied.

“Now that you mention it, it does make me sick to my stomach,” added Millard. “But I don’t think that June would stick around without a sex life.”

And sick to his stomach is exactly what Dick Powell got after a half-hour into his flight from Los Angeles to Southern Utah.