To Kill the Duke (8 page)

“Maybe I should have drunk the water and ate the food that Howard offered me
before
the flight,” Powell groaned to the flight attendant with the big puppies who had silently reappeared.

“Maybe,” she said softly “but you better make damn sure that Mr. Hughes doesn’t find out you puked. He will go nuts! And,
I
will really be pissed off because he will make me clean this plane three times a day for one week and then have me put in quarantine for an additional week,” she groaned.

“He must pay very well,” Powell managed to say in between his dry heaves. “Not when it comes to passing his grading scale on what is clean and what is not,” she said.

“Don’t worry, I don’t puke and brag,” Dick said as he upchucked into one of the plastic bowls that the stewardess had retrieved from the chest that once belonged to Blackbeard the pirate.

How ironic that I am puking into something from Blackbeard’s ship,
Powell thought as a mental picture came into focus showing him — Dick Powell — on a pirate ship from the 17
^th
century, being tossed against the ocean waves, which made him toss his insides even more.

“My goodness, Mr. Powell, you have a lot of items in your gut,” the flight attendant exclaimed as she approached Blackbeard’s chest to get another bowl for Dick Powell to fill up.

“Not much more,” Powell said with some restraint, because he was pretty sure that most of whatever was poisoning him and thus causing him to puke was out of his system.

“And the poison that causes you to puke your guts out can be anything,” Millard told Powell after the fly-over and they were both discussing the flight attendants’ sexual prowess.

“Miss, I need to freshen up,” Dick announced to the flight attendant.

“Right away, Mr. Powell,” she said as she helped him stand and walked with him to the bathroom. “Please flush what used to be in your stomach down the toilet for me,” she added as she handed him the two plastic bowls of vomit.

“I feel like a patient in a nursing home,” Powell said.

“That’s funny. That is where Mr. Hughes found me,” she said.

“You’re kidding me,” Dick said.

“No. He owns a few nursing homes around the country that he stays in when he feels like hiding from the world. I was in charge of wiping his ass. Of course, as a nurse’s assistant, I wiped a lot of people’s asses,” she said as she gave Dick a wink. “Can see why you ended up on this plane, but I can’t picture you in a nursing home” Powell said as he opened up the door and went into the lavatory. “Mr. Powell, good luck,” she cried out to him as he walked inside. “What did she mean by that?” he asked himself as he turned on the faucet in the sink. The water was ice cold.

“Probably from that same mountain stream as his drinking water,” Dick said as he washed his face and hands. He kept his eyes closed and fumbled for the towel on the rack on the wall. When his hands found the towel he jumped back. The towel wasn’t made out of cloth or paper… well paper yes; but on further inspection Dick saw that it was
sand paper!
Powell then went to the toilet paper dispenser and couldn’t believe that it was the same material.

So that’s what the ‘good luck’ wish was for
, he thought.

“Yikes!” Oscar Millard yelled out when Powell told him that.

“And no, I don’t even want to
think
that he wipes his ass with that type of paper,” Dick said to Oscar.

“I wasn’t thinking about Hughes. I was cringing for me, you and others who might find themselves in that bathroom, taking a crap and then reaching for the toilet paper only to have to…”

“To what?” Powell cut him off.

“Wipe their asses with sand paper,” Oscar said.

“I bet it really cleans,” Powell said with a laugh.

“No wonder he eats what he eats,” Millard said.

“If his deterrent is to have to wipe with sand paper, I can see why he has the diet that he does,” Powell said.

“What a practical joke it would be to slip him some stool relaxer,” Oscar said. “Maybe even replace the sandpaper with a real toilet paper roll.”

“That’s why you’re the writer,” Powell said.

Dick Powell opened the bathroom door to the cabin of the plane and realized that if he returned to the swivel chair, he would start the entire process of puking all over again.

Why me?
He pleaded as he thought about sitting somewhere else that wouldn’t rock while the plane rolled. He walked to Blackbeard’s chest and opened it. Then it hit him.

“The trays!” he said out loud. “I’ll sit on the tray and if the plane should lurch, I’ll slide and it will be all right,” he said in a louder voice.

He took out a tray and walked to the back of the plane near the doorway of the bathroom. The plane was moving steadily with no turbulence whatsoever. He sat on the tray and leveraged himself against the wall with his back; his feet anchored on the floor. He nodded with approval at his ingenuity and closed his eyes.

He must have dozed off into a deep sleep because suddenly he was moving very quickly to the front of the plane, as if the tray he was on was some new kiddie ride at the amusement park.
And Strabala doesn’t think Hughes is into games,
he mused.

As the plane moved in what Dick Powell thought was either rough turbulence or his boss in ecstasy, his tray went from the front of the plane to the back of the plane and from one side to the other. Powell was amazed that he wasn’t getting sick. He was overjoyed that he was having fun…
until the plane leveled off and the front door of the soon-to-be cock-less pit opened up and his boss stared at him.

Dick stared back, because Hughes had forgotten to zip up his pants and his penis was in full view.

“Having fun, Mr. Powell?” Hughes asked his number-one executive producer.

Given the situation that he found himself in, Dick Powell wished he was either a comedian or a gag writer. For if he was either, he would have knocked Hughes’ question out of the park with a snappy reply. Discretion being the better part of valor (and Hughes being his boss and already okaying a $6 million budget), told Dick to play it cool.

“Just enjoying the future, boss,” Powell replied.

“Those trays were made for eating… not sliding,” Hughes said as he walked to the area where the swivel chairs were located. “Better put the tray back and sit down. We’re flying low over South Utah. You’ll be able to see the vintage red soil soon.”

Should I tell him?
Dick thought. He decided to.

“I mean Oscar, if I had a piece of food on the side of my face while I was eating; you would tell me, wouldn’t you?” Powell pleaded with his script writer when they talked about their mutual experiences.

“Of course, Dick,” said Oscar as he pointed to Dick’s face where indeed a piece of pasta
had stuck
.

Dick Powell wiped his face with his napkin and looked to see if Oscar Millard was busting his chops. He wasn’t. A piece of food had found its way to Dick Powell’s cheek.

“That was a test Oscar. I had someone in special effects rig it up,” Powell lied.

“Dick. You’re not funny and you’re a terrible liar. How did you become so successful?” asked Oscar.

“Howard. Speaking about ‘flying low,’ I would like to point out something,” Powell said to Hughes.

“What’s that, kid?” Hughes said as he motioned to Powell to sit down and strap into the swivel seat.

“You’re flying low, too,” Powell said.

“No kidding. If you’re flying low of course I’m flying low. The plane is flying low and so are the women on the plane with us. Boy, I’m glad I put you in charge of a $6 million budget,” Hughes said sarcastically.

Dick Powell let out a long sigh.

“Come on kid, I wasn’t being serious. That was a little humor on my part. I always like to crack jokes after sex. Hope you don’t mind. Have my girls given you any inspiration in your quest to find an actress with big jugs for the picture?” asked Hughes.

Powell let out another sigh and then pointed at his boss’ crotch.

Hughes looked down at the part between his legs and started laughing, which in turn made Powell laugh.

“Now that’s what I call low flying,” Hughes cackled as he tucked in his penis and buttoned up his fly. He then excused himself to wash-up.

“Well?” asked Oscar later when Powell and Millard were talking about the fly over.

“Well what?” answered Dick Powell.

“His penis. What about his penis?”

“He has one,” quipped Powell.

“I’m definitely right about you. You’re not funny.”

“Anything I know about Hughes is serious. Funny is for Jack Benny,” Powell said.

Oscar Millard rolled his eyes. He would have loved to have found out something about Howard Hughes’ penis that he could have used as gossip around Hollywood, especially given how people in high places trade information with people in low places like him for something down the line… and as Oscar Millard knew, all writers need something down the line — especially screenwriters.