“I’m supposed to be leaving for Tucson.”
“Vegas is on the way. Get Dieter to bring out an Electra. You can go on to Tucson after we see what he wants.”
“Vegas is north and Tucson is south.”
“Right, but they’re both east.”
“Now?”
“You know Howard.”
“We won’t be in Vegas before ten o’clock.”
“So. When did Howard ever keep normal hours?”
Coming in from the southwest shortly after ten, they spied the lighted Flamingo tower beyond McCarran Field. Far beyond the Flamingo, the lights of the city twinkled against a dark sky. There was not much to Las Vegas, but the gamble of opening its first resort hotel five miles from downtown had paid off for Bugsy Siegel. The Flamingo was a smash from the beginning.
“I’d hate to come in from the north in fog and run into that tower,” said Terry.
“The sky is always clear in Las Vegas.”
“Except for dust storms.”
“They come from the north so from the south you’d be landing into them.”
“Smart girl.”
They left flight suits on the plane and walked through an empty airport to a waiting car. Five minutes later they were crossing the busy Flamingo lobby to the front desk.
“Mr. Hughes is expecting you,” said the night manager, eying Terry, “though the reservation is for one. I guess it’s okay. Suite 1400. The boy will take your bags directly to your room, room 209. Here are your keys. This gentleman will accompany you.”
The gentleman, in white shirt and skinny black tie, grunted, and they followed him down long empty corridors that looked too much like the airport they’d just left.
Anointed the world’s richest man by Time magazine, Howard Hughes lived everywhere and nowhere. He kept in touch by phone when he wanted, but don’t try to call him. He hadn’t been seen at Hughes Aircraft since a dispute with the IRS prompted him to split Hughes Aircraft off from Hughes Tool, the cash cow his father had left him, and form something called Howard Hughes Medical Institute. HHMI was a neat way of avoiding taxes. He didn’t pay his Mormon lawyers for nothing. He liked Mormon neatness.
He’d opened a plant in Tucson, offices in Miami and flew his own Lockheed Electra everywhere he went. He kept rooms at the Flamingo and Desert Inn and when in Los Angeles rented houses in Santa Monica, Bel Air, and Beverly Hills from Hollywood friends. His latest film, The French Line, was universally regarded as a disaster, even by its star, Jane Russell. They said his luck in Hollywood was running out, but Hughes had other ideas.
Two more gentlemen in LDS uniform of white shirt, dark pants and skinny tie, were stationed outside Suite 1400. A knock, an opening, an identification and the chain was lifted.
“Like old speakeasy days,” Maggie whispered to Terry.
“You’re too young to know about that.”
“Learned from my dad.”
The gentleman inside the room looked more respectable, at least wore a jacket. “I’m Bill Schmidt,” he said, pointing across the room toward open French doors that looked out onto lighted palms, lawn, and cactus. In the distance they heard noises from a pool. Beyond the window lurked the shadow of what would be another gentleman.
Hughes sat by the French doors in a leather Eames chair with ottoman. Approaching, she saw he wore beige slacks, an open shirt with a Billy Eckstine collar and apparently didn’t shave anymore. He had his feet up and was watching a television movie with the sound off. He bore little resemblance to the man she’d dated during the war, looked changed even from the last time she’d seen him at Hughes Aircraft, whenever that was. Plane crashes, loss of hearing, acute mysophobia and advancing syphilis were taking their toll.
She noticed grotesquely long fingernails and felt a chill, as if entering some kind of quarantined sanctum. He looked up, frowned and did not stand.
“What the hell are you doing here, Terry? You’re supposed to be in Tucson.”
“I asked him to come, Howard.”
“Well, he can just go on to Tucson. This doesn’t concern him.”
“What doesn’t concern him?”
“Bye-bye, Terry.”
“What, now?”
“Why not? Your Electra’s equipped for night flying, isn’t she? I invented that system myself. Fuel up and you’ll be there in two hours. They start testing the new radar units tomorrow morning. I want you there. Hell, you should already be there.”
Terry stared silently, then turned to Maggie. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Call me, too,” said Hughes. “I want a full report.”
“Jesus, Howard,” she said when he was gone. “What’s gotten into you? What’s one more day matter? Why am I here?”
He looked to Bill Schmidt who was still standing by the door. “You want anything, Maggie? Probably haven’t eaten. How about a sandwich?”
“How about a sandwich for Terry before he leaves?”
“Terry can get his own sandwich. Restaurant never closes. Sit down, Maggie, in the chair where I can see you. You look good. Terry taking good care of you?”
She was more than a little tired and vastly annoyed. She hadn’t liked flying to Vegas at night and didn’t like Terry flying past midnight to Tucson. The Hughes night-flying system was still new. She didn’t like jumping when Howard snapped his fingers, when any man snapped his fingers. She thought he looked cadaverous and wanted to find out what he wanted and get the hell out of that room. She wondered how she was supposed to get back to Los Angeles.
“We’re fine, Howard. Now what’s on your mind?”
He motioned to Schmidt. “Bring the folder on my desk, Schmitty. Then you can leave. Tell the others to leave. Lock the door to the garden.”
She didn’t like it. She felt better with the goons hanging around.
“Maybe I will eat something. Could your friend phone for a chicken salad sandwich and a beer for room 209?”
He glanced at Hughes.
“Have it sent here, Schmitty. Wait till it comes. We’re going to be here a while.”
“Doing what?”
“That depends on you.”
“Howard, you’re crazy.”
“Not entirely.” He took the folder Schmidt handed him. He smiled for her. “Have a look.”
There it was, the letter Cal had asked for on official stationery of the Hughes Tool Company. She read slowly, taking her time with each sentence, each paragraph. It was clear enough, though she wondered what possible legal value it would have. The places for dates and signatures were blank.
I, Howard Robard Hughes, sound of mind and body on this date as witnessed by the under-signed, do stipulate that pursuant to the contract signed between Hughes Tool Company and executors of the former Mull Oil Company, that the following is my intention:
That the land now occupied by Hughes Aircraft Company, a newly created subsidiary of the Howard Hughes Medical Institute, shall remain part of Hughes Aircraft Company in my lifetime. The land in question, located in the city of Los Angeles, is bounded by Lincoln and Jefferson Boulevards, Centinela Avenue and the Loyola bluffs.
That in the event of my death or incapacity and the sale of the aforementioned land, the new owners will make all necessary efforts to maintain it as an airfield.
That if for some future reason an airfield is no longer practical on the designated land, that it shall be returned to its original state as part of the Ballona wetlands and so maintained.
That the land between Lincoln Boulevard and Falmouth Avenue, bounded by Culver Boulevard and the Playa del Rey bluffs, owned by Hughes Aircraft Company pursuant to the aforementioned contract with the executors of the former Mull Oil Company, land which is at this time undeveloped, shall remain in its present state.
“That good enough?” Howard asked.
�
��To my un-lawyerly mind it looks like what we wanted. When is it to be signed?”
“When I’m back in L.A.”
“Which is when?”
“I don’t know. My lawyers tell me it’s not legally binding, but they still hate it.” He paused a moment and looked across the room. “Don’t you, Schmitty?”
Schmidt, moving silently around the room, stared back, but did not respond.
“My Mormon minders,” said Hughes. “Never happy. Happiness is for the next life. They’re going to get me to the next life, did I tell you? Got their own planet. Schmitty can get me there even if I don’t want to go, which I don’t. Baptism of the dead they call it, and you can’t do a damn thing about it because you’re already dead.”
Maggie looked at the man she’d taken for a bodyguard. A lawyer factotum. She wondered how much Howard paid him to be humiliated. She heard a knock, and Schmidt admitted a waiter, directing him to the table by Maggie’s chair. Hughes nodded and Schmidt left with the waiter. The door clicked. The French doors were closed and the shadow gone.
She began eating, uncomfortable under the scrutinizing eye of her former lover and present employer. It was a long time since they’d dated, and this was not the same man. That Howard had liked restaurants and company and people buzzing around and a photographer or two so he could see his picture in the papers the next day with the sexiest Hollywood girl available. He’d been with so many of them—Hepburn, Russell, Peters, Crawford, Gardner, Sheridan, Rogers, Tierney, Davis, Fontaine, her sister de Havilland. Sisters, Maggie thought, how strange. Why would sisters want to do it? Lizzie certainly wouldn’t.
This was a creature she didn’t know. The man she’d dated didn’t need a flying squadron of Mormon lawyer/goons to protect him. That man was attractive and sexy and, yes, fun. This man was a mess. The fingernails alarmed her, and she was not easily alarmed. Why would a man as fastidious as Howard Hughes let his nails grow like that? She was aware of his stare as she wolfed down her sandwich. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. She chug-a-lugged the beer and wanted nothing more than to get up and get out.
“Don’t see much of you anymore, Maggie.”
“Well, drop around sometime. I work at Hughes Aircraft.”
It was the same laugh, deep and genuine, a bit of a surprise to people who judged him by the slightly cynical smirk that was the natural set of his face.
“I wish I could. The TWA business is eating away at me. It’s the bankers, goddamn it. Time calls me the world’s richest man, and the goddamn bankers put a lien on my airline before they’ll lend me enough to buy a few Convairs. Now why would the world’s richest man need a bank loan to buy planes?”
Again he laughed.
“I have to go, Howard. It’s been a long day.”
“Live in the moment, my dear.” He tried a smile. “Why don’t you stay here tonight?”
“I am staying here tonight.”
“I mean with me.”
She knew it would come to that, but still it astounded her. It didn’t shock her; she knew Howard too well to be shocked, but it astounded her, yes. Some things shouldn’t have to be said. Terry Heyward was his friend. Moreover, what woman would get in bed with something like this? Be shredded by those claws?
“I’m married, Howard.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Maybe nothing for you. For me, for women, it’s different.”
“For women? Christ, I haven’t dated a single woman since I met you in Washington. I never heard any protests.”
She wanted to say that maybe that was before he grew vampire fingernails, caught syphilis and traveled with a gang of lawyer/goons. Instead, she stood up. He stood, too, a little shakily, she thought, and came over and put his hands on her shoulders. She still wore a heavy flying shirt and so couldn’t feel the fingernails, but was aware of them.
“Why don’t you get into something more comfortable? Let me show you the ladies’ bedroom—every kind of nightgown and robe you can imagine.”
“Sorry, Howard, not tonight. I don’t want to ruin the good memories.”
Later, she couldn’t tell what time it was. With the inch-thick black curtains, it could have been 3 a.m. or 8 a.m. or noon or anything, but she was still dead tired so too much time could not have passed. A telephone was ringing and after a while she knew it wasn’t a dream and reached for it but couldn’t find it, couldn’t even find the lamp if there was one, had no recollection of where she was or why but the ringing kept on.
Half asleep, groping in the dark, she knocked the phone off the bedside table and couldn’t get the lamp turned on and got down on her knees beside the bed and eventually located the receiver.
It was Howard.
“What the hell do you want, Howard?”
“Terry,” he said.
“Terry what?”
“Terry’s down. They’re looking for him.”
She understood immediately. Pilots don’t need more than that.
“I’m sorry, Maggie, I’m truly sorry. Mount Lemmon, coming into Tucson, lost contact. No idea why he was over Mount Lemmon. Shouldn’t have been. They’re up there looking.”
She dropped the receiver. She had no idea how long she stayed like that. On the floor, in the dark, leaning against the bed, the receiver voice squawking until a horrible buzzing started that might have been in her head. Why had she insisted that he come?
Chapter 38
Joe called Lizzie with the news. She was in Chicago covering the trial of “The Great Transportation Conspiracy,” as the newspapers called it. The carmakers’ scheme to destroy electric rail had started in Galesburg, and nearby Chicago is where the justice department chose to conduct the trial, which was already into the second month. She’d been home twice so far, catching the Super Chief each time to spend two days with Joe in the garden. She was due home again a day before the funeral, but Joe decided not to wait to inform her.
“Maggie would have called,” he said, “but she’s still in Tucson. She’s coming back today with the remains.”
Lizzie didn’t answer right away. She sat with the phone in her hand thinking of her sister and how sad it was: two husbands, two airplane crashes, two deaths. She’d been blue anyway from too many days in courtrooms, nights alone in hotels, meals in diners. Terry’s death stunned her.
“The remains,” she whispered. “That’s what we are when we’re dead.”
“If we’re lucky.”
“I’ll be on the train tonight. At least it’s the weekend.”
“I’m glad you prefer trains. When’s this trial going to be over?”
“Who knows? So many indictments, so many lawyers—GM, Firestone, Standard Oil, Greyhound, Mack, on and on, and they all have to tell the judge that they really didn’t know what was going on, and anyway what’s done is done, and the new buses are so nice and gasoline is cheap and so let’s move on, etc., etc. And then the lawyers from a dozen cities argue that costs run into the tens of millions and somebody is responsible and somebody has to pay and somebody has to go to jail. Thank heaven Fred Barrett’s back here to keep things focused on Pacific Electric. His records are meticulous. The judge understands that the damage done to Los Angeles dwarfs everything else.”
♦ ♦ ♦
The services were in the Wadsworth Chapel on the V.A. campus off Wilshire, about which Terry surely would have had mixed feelings. He was not religious but kept in touch with many of his wartime buddies through the V.A. His health was good, but he was a regular for checkups at Wadsworth and always walked the grounds looking for the few guys left who’d flown with him in the Pacific.
The chapel is a white shingle Victorian from the turn of the century, one side for Protestants, one for Catholics. Other denominations get to choose. Terry wouldn’t have cared. The grounds are neat and verdant, and it’s as good a place as
any to spend your last hours above ground, dead or alive. Lizzie and Joe could walk over. Robby’s old pre-school co-op was just over the hill. Burial was to be down Wilshire in Westwood Village Cemetery; it was pricier than the V.A., but Maggie thought Terry deserved more than a white stone.
Arriving home alone in Playa del Rey after flying in from Tucson with the casket, she’d finally let go. She’d held it in for three days, showing no weakness in public. But stepping into the house—his house—was too much. She mixed a drink and went out into the patio as they’d done so often. The marine layer was in early that evening, spreading sea air and stillness like a blanket over the hill. Looking out over the calm Pacific, the center of Terry’s life, suddenly the tears came, psychic tears, the kind that start when the plug is finally pulled. They’d been building for days, couldn’t get out, and suddenly burst the dam. They tumbled down her face onto her blouse like the horrible days in Paris. She was the crier, had always been the crier, and she’d wondered at it. Her stoical sister could get through anything with dry eyes, but Maggie held them in until she couldn’t bear it anymore.
♦ ♦ ♦
He was a popular guy, and with friends from Hughes and the beach club and his V.A. war buddies they would fill the Protestant side. The pastor, the Rev. Browne, did not know Terry or Maggie, but that’s the way it is at the V.A. She’d given the pastor a few pages of notes, and he had a kindly, preacherly way about him when they met that made her feel better and think maybe a little more church would do her good. She’d talk to Nelly and Didi about that. It couldn’t hurt them either.
Arriving early, she walked the chapel, grateful for the solitude. The casket was closed. She knew how little was in it. She’d been with them when they reached the plane. The flowers were at least half from Hughes, who was not coming, to her great relief. Hymnals and prayer books in place, the organ ready, nothing to do, she went outside to wait. The sweet fragrance of flowers, mostly gardenias, came out the door to mix with the fresh smell of grass and touch of sea air drifting in from the bay. Cal, coming up the steps, gave her a big hug, and they stood alone for a minute, each one alone with memories. She was crying again. How many tears for how many warriors from how many battles had been shed on these chapel steps?
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