The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty

by Taraborrelli, J. Randy

  At the end of 2007, Barron Hilton announced a contribution of about $2.3 billion—which amounted to 97 percent of his net worth—to the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation. Furthermore, he contributed approximately $1.2 billion—his profit from the sale of the Hilton Hotels Corporation to Blackstone—into a trust that would also eventually benefit the foundation. “That gift, together with other personal assets, should bring the Foundation’s corpus to more than $4 billion,” he wrote in a letter to the Giving Pledge organization. “Today, we concentrate on a few strategic initiatives: safe water development, homelessness, children, substance abuse and Catholic sisters. Other major programs include blindness prevention, hotel and restaurant management, education, multiple sclerosis, disaster relief and recovery, and Catholic schools.”

  “Speaking for the family as well as the foundation, we are all exceedingly proud and grateful for this extraordinary commitment,” said Barron’s son Steven M. Hilton, president and CEO of the foundation. “Working to alleviate human suffering around the globe, regardless of race, religion, or geography, is the mandate of the foundation set by my grandfather, Conrad Hilton, and now reinforced by my father, Barron Hilton.”

  Barron’s decision in regard to his wealth begs the question: Is he really just doing to his heirs what his father did to him, that which he spent so many years contesting in court? It’s not an easy question to answer, at least not until Barron dies and his last will and testament can be carefully examined. At this point, it isn’t clear how much money his heirs will inherit. However, from all available evidence, it seems that they will inherit and then have to split between them just 3 percent of his entire net worth, with the rest going to the foundation. It also seems fair to reason that whatever decisions Barron has made in regard to his own will will likely be more ironclad—or at least not as open to analysis—as his father’s. In other words, it’s likely that Barron’s heirs will not benefit from a will that has in it a clause (like “Barron’s Option”) that would be open for reinterpretation.

  Today, the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation—which in October 2012 relocated from traffic-congested Century City, California, to a bucolic, sprawling seventy-acre campus in Agoura Hills at the base of Ladyface Mountain—spearheads many important charities around the world. The Hilton organization distributes about $60 million a year. (It also awards an annual $1.5 million humanitarian grant.) As well as supporting Catholic sisters, its priorities include caring for vulnerable children, especially those suffering from HIV and AIDS; assisting transition-age youth out of the foster care system and into the mainstream of America; ending chronic homelessness; preventing substance abuse; and providing safe water. The foundation also responds to international disasters, and has a special concern of overcoming multiple sclerosis. The foundation’s board of directors includes Barron Hilton as chairman emeritus and Eric Hilton as a member. The chairman, president, and CEO of the foundation is Barron’s son Steven M. Hilton. Barron’s daughter Hawley Hilton McAuliffe is also on the board, as is Nicky and Trish Hilton’s son Conrad N. Hilton III. Conrad’s longtime friend and adviser Donald H. Hubbs is now the director emeritus.

  As of December 31, 2011, the assets of the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation were approximately $2 billion—probably more money than Conrad Hilton ever could have imagined making in his lifetime. After all, almost a hundred years ago, he was a man with just $5,000 to his name, all of which he decided to use to purchase the ramshackle Mobley Hotel in Cisco, Texas. If not for the help of his devoted mother and an assortment of friends, he never would have been able to put together the balance of the $40,000 purchase price. From there, his empire grew not only in this country but around the world. His is a true, genuine American success story, or as his son Barron once proudly put it, “It’s definitely one for the record books, and not a day goes by that I don’t sit and marvel at what my father did with his life. It is my hope that others are inspired by my father’s story, and by our family’s steadfast adherence to his charitable philosophy.”

  Marilyn Hilton: Rest in Peace

  Barron Hilton, who at the time of this writing is eighty-six years old, suffered the loss of his beautiful and effervescent wife, Marilyn Hawley Hilton, in 2004. Marilyn was struck down in her prime by a most debilitating disease, multiple sclerosis. “Barron and I were walking down the stairs when a cry alerted us that Marilyn had fallen,” the late foundation board member Gregory R. Dillon once recalled. “We ran back to see what happened to her. [Marilyn’s] legs had given out, and it was after that incident that we found out what her problem was. It took some time to do so, since they gave her all sorts of tests, before the doctors finally diagnosed MS. She went on, however, for years thereafter… leading a full life, though her later years were not too comfortable. But Marilyn was a trooper.”

  Over the years, the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation would award almost $15 million to the medical community in the name of MS research. “As often happens, the suffering of a loved one opens the hearts of family members serving on a foundation board to the plight of all other families who also have a loved one struggling with the same disability,” explained Marilyn’s son Steven Hilton.

  Marilyn Hilton passed away on March 11, 2004, at the age of seventy-six due to complications from her disease. At the time, she and Barron had been married for fifty-seven years. Besides Rick Hilton—the father of Paris—the children of Barron and Marilyn Hilton are: William Barron Jr., Hawley, Steven, David, Sharon, Daniel, and Ronald. Most lead quiet lives out of the spotlight. However, Steven Hilton, as earlier mentioned, is the chairman, president, and CEO of the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation, and Hawley Hilton McAuliffe is on the board of directors. It was reported that Marilyn Hilton had a portfolio worth about $60 million—smart investments over the years into which she was guided by her husband—which was divided among her children.

  Demonstrating not only the grace for which she had long been known, but great courage as well, never for a moment, say those who knew and loved her, did Marilyn Hilton ever feel sorry for herself—even during the many years she was confined to a wheelchair. “You don’t look back at what might have been,” says Steven Hilton in explaining his mother’s philosophy, “you accept what life has presented and make the best of what you have.”

  “She was a wonderful lady,” said her sister-in-law Trish Hilton. “I don’t think I ever met a single person who didn’t have a lovely memory associated with Marilyn. She touched so many of us. In my life, she was like a sister. I miss her terribly.”

  On the Town with Paris

  When Barron Hilton telephoned his granddaughter Paris on the morning of April 14, 2010, to tell her that he wanted to spend some time with her, she was delighted. She and her paternal grandfather had always been close, despite overblown headlines suggesting that he was ashamed of her high-profile tabloid-making exploits. In truth, Barron never paid much attention to the private life of his most famous grandchild. Rather, it was her entrepreneurial spirit that he always found most fascinating. He would say that she reminded him of his father, Conrad—her great-grandfather—in that, to use his words, “she’s the ultimate salesman. She has a product and she knows how to sell it. Like Conrad.” Barron likes to keep abreast of Paris’s current business ventures, thus his invitation to meet her for dinner.

  Paris, who was twenty-nine at the time, suggested that they dine at one of her favorite restaurant’s, Dan Tana’s, a popular Italian eatery on Santa Monica Boulevard in Hollywood. At the last minute, though, after discussing the matter with her father, Rick, she thought that perhaps Barron would be more comfortable in a private setting, perhaps a more obscure location. “No,” Barron told her. “Let’s go out into the world and have a nice night on the town.” Rick Hilton, though, wasn’t sure how he felt about his eighty-two-year-old father being caught in the kind of chaos he knew that his daughter’s presence usually causes in public places. Therefore he suggested that he and his wife and Paris’s mother, Kathy, and sister Nicky, twenty-seven, tag along. Now i
t had become a Hilton family affair, all the better as far as Barron was concerned. Though he had originally sought out some private time with Paris, family still meant the world to him, just as it always had to the Hiltons. He always enjoyed spending time with his son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter Nicky. He asked if his grandsons—his namesake, Barron, and Conrad—would be joining them, but both already had plans for the evening.

  Virtually no photographers were present when the Hilton family arrived at the restaurant. However, as they ate their meal at a large table, it seemed as if the eyes of most of the diners in their midst were on them. The next day, one of the national wire services even reported details of their meal, all the way down to the foods they enjoyed. “Why does it seem so odd to note that Paris Hilton’s family seems like any other?” asked the writer of the published report. “If she is as spoiled as we think she is, one would never know it from the way she acted around her grandfather. She was solicitous toward him, sitting right next to him and never taking her eyes off him.” At one point, Paris was heard urging Barron to tell his “famous old joke, the one you used to tell my dad.” In response, Barron told a long story in an animated fashion, much to everyone’s delight as they all laughed at a punch line they’d likely heard many times before.

  By the time the Hiltons finished their meal, word of their presence had apparently spread through the Hollywood grapevine, because an eager pack of paparazzi awaited them as they exited the restaurant. As the family stood at the front door waiting for the valet to fetch their car, the photographers began snapping away and shouting questions. “How annoying is this?” a disgruntled Rick Hilton said, turning to his wife. But none of them could have been surprised by the gathered crowd. It was par for the course, especially when they were out on the town with Paris. “Oh my,” Paris was heard saying. “Well, here we go, Granddad. Are you ready?” she asked, smiling at him. Barron took in the bustling scene with a bemused expression. “Wow,” was the only phrase he could seem to muster.

  As usual, Paris was, to use show business parlance, “camera ready,” in her sleeveless, low-cut black silk cocktail dress with matching spiked heels. Her blonde hair was parted in the middle, cascading past her slim shoulders. In contrast, her grandfather was more casually dressed in a black-and-white plaid jacket, an open-collared white shirt, and gray slacks. Paris wrapped one arm around Barron’s, and the two then took a few steps out toward the curb… and right into the middle of the mob scene, every moment of which would be filmed by crews from Hollywood photo agencies for television entertainment programs. Meanwhile, Rick, Kathy, and Nicky remained in the entryway of the restaurant, as if to give Paris and Barron the full spotlight.

  “Say, Paris, who gave you those diamonds?” one photographer shouted out.

  “Oh, these?” Paris answered, motioning to the exquisite diamond brooch at her neck and its matching counterparts dangling from her ears. She also sported a diamond bracelet on her left wrist. “Why, I don’t even remember!” she exclaimed, batting her blue eyes. “Let me think,” she added as she glanced at her white BlackBerry. She is connected to social media at all times—such is the way of the present-day socialite. Clutching her BlackBerry in the same hand as her black leather purse, she sent a quick text before returning to the question at hand. “You guys know what I always say,” she observed, “every woman should have four pets in her life: a mink in her closet, a jaguar in her garage, a tiger in her bed, and a jackass who pays for everything.” The crowd laughed. It was a line she used quite often, but—like Zsa Zsa—Paris can call up any of her best quips at a moment’s notice. Though Barron seemed a little taken aback by her remarks, upon seeing everyone else’s reaction he couldn’t help but approve. “Very clever, my dear,” he said with a chuckle.

  Flashbulbs continued to pop all around them while Paris held her grandfather close, protectively. “Look this way, Paris,” one photographer shouted out. “No, Paris! Over here, Mr. Hilton! Over here!”

  As a public figure, Barron was accustomed to dealing with the press. However, this was a very different experience. In the past, when he was surrounded by reporters in public it was usually because he was trying to obtain a new gaming license, or was hosting the opening of a new hotel or involved in the promotion of some other important business venture, such as when he owned the San Diego Chargers. The attention he generated wasn’t because he was a celebrity, but rather because he was a respected businessman. Though it could be argued that the sensation Paris causes is at least in some way related to her product lines, it’s really more directly linked to her celebrity. In this moment, Barron was really just basking in—and, in a sense, helping to celebrate—his granddaughter’s success.

  After about fifteen minutes, the Hilton family’s vehicle still had not arrived and Rick Hilton could be seen in the doorway of the restaurant gesturing wildly to the head valet and pointing at his watch. Meanwhile, the paparazzi continued to shout out questions and take photographs. “How do you like being out with Grandpa?” someone asked.

  “Oh, he’s such a doll,” Paris said, looking at Barron lovingly. “If I can be just a tenth as successful as he has been, I’d be a very happy girl.”

  “So, how’d you do it, Mr. Hilton?” someone asked. “What’s your secret?”

  Barron shook his head, smiled, and hesitated for a moment as if wondering how to distill the experience of fifty years in the hotel business down to a simple answer. “Nice guys finish first, not last,” he finally offered. “At least that’s what my father always said.”

  “And your father was?” the paparazzo asked, showing complete ignorance about not only Barron’s life but Paris’s lineage.

  “Conrad Hilton,” Barron answered with a humble smile. “That’s C-o-n-r-a-d Hilton,” he repeated gamely.

  “Why not give Grandpa a little peck?” the same paparazzo then suggested.

  “Sure!” Paris said. “Take off your glasses, Granddad,” she recommended. “You look hotter without them.” He obliged. She then leaned over and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He blushed a little. But by this time, Barron was beginning to visibly wilt; he’d clearly had enough.

  “Okay, that’s it,” Rick Hilton suddenly announced as he pushed his way through the crowd, his wife following close behind. “Here’s our car, Paris,” he said, motioning to the approaching vehicle. “Come on, Dad! Let’s get you out of here.”

  A uniformed valet jumped out of the Hiltons’ black SUV and then dutifully held the driver’s door open for Rick. At the same time, another valet held the door on the front passenger side for his wife, Kathy. Meanwhile, Paris helped her grandfather into one of the backseats, after which her sister, Nicky, joined him there. Paris then got into the car just as someone rushed around to slam the door behind her. As the vehicle began to slowly pull away from the curb, Paris lowered the window and popped her head out. “Thanks so much for showing my grandfather so much respect,” she shouted out at the paparazzi. “You guys are hot!”

  EPILOGUE: A FINAL TOAST

  Flashback.

  It’s 1965, the end of the year on a chilly California winter’s night, an evening during which the Hiltons had gathered at Conrad Hilton’s Casa Encantada manse for a pre-holiday meal. It was a formal dinner as usual, everything proper and ceremonial. The men wore tailored black suits and ties, while the women were in elegant evening gowns. As was always the custom, Conrad sat at one end of the imposing oblong dining room table while his eldest son, Nicky, sat at the other, and next to him, his wife, Trish. Barron sat to Nicky’s right, next to his wife, Marilyn. Across from Barron and Marilyn sat Conrad’s companion, Ann Miller. Eric was next to her, and seated at his side was his spouse, Pat, and across from him, his mother, Mary, Conrad’s first wife. Also present was Zsa Zsa Gabor, Conrad’s second wife. Especially for the occasion, Conrad had ordered a bottle of Unicum, the popular Hungarian liqueur, for Zsa Zsa’s enjoyment. He, Zsa Zsa, and Nicky each enjoyed a shot together just before sitting at the table. “Holy Christ
! That’s about the worst thing I’ve ever tasted,” Nicky had said, bringing both Conrad and Zsa Zsa to gales of laughter. Zsa Zsa then presented Conrad with an early birthday gift, an extremely expensive Georgian silver desk set. “For your seventy-eighth,” she told him, delighted that he seemed pleased by the present, “and may you have many more!”

  In the kitchen, at another table—the “children’s table,” as it was called—were all of the Hilton offspring, at least a dozen of them: the broods of Nicky, Barron, Eric, and even Zsa Zsa, her daughter, Francesca, who was eighteen at the time, sitting happily with her cousins.

  Meanwhile, in the grand dining room under an enormously imposing crystal chandelier, the adults chatted noisily among themselves as an army of uniformed servants passed through with one entree after another—all main courses, from game hens to steaks to pastas to fishes, even two large turkeys with all of the trimmings. So decadent a display was it, it was as if no consensus could be reached as to what to serve, so someone just said, “Oh, the hell with it! Let’s just serve everything!” Uniformed servants carefully placed the heaping serving platters of food on the table. The help was completely ignored as they did their busy work, all of the family members enjoying each other, chattering among themselves and laughing.