Dedication
For my wife, Barbara Hyde Pierce.
When she gambled on a writer,
I hit the jackpot.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
A Note to Readers
Prologue: Introducing Kirk Kerkorian
I: The Making of a Man 1: Gambling on the Wind
2: The Kid from Weedpatch
3: Bet of a Lifetime
4: Scraps, Craps, and John Wayne
5: On a Wing and a Spare Tank
6: Bugsy Siegel’s Last Flight
7: Art of the Junk Deal
8: Gambling on Gambling
9: Jack Magic and the Blade
10: A Crapshooter’s Dream
11: His First Million
12: The Armenian Connection
II: The Making of a Billionaire 13: Trouble with Mobsters
14: A Clash of Tycoons
15: A $73 Million Side Bet
16: Hello, World!
17: Cary and Kirk and Barbra and Elvis
18: The Smiling Cobra
19: A Kick in the Ass
20: Making Debbie Reynolds Cry
21: The Rival Vanishes
22: Putting on the Moves
23: A View to the Abyss
24: Extra Risk Factor
25: Punch, Counterpunch
26: MGM Spells Disaster
27: Villain of the Actuaries
28: One Roll of the Dice
29: Ted Turner’s Ticking Time Bomb
30: A Burial at Sea
31: Among the Billionaires
III: The Making of a Legend 32: Babe Ruth at Bat
33: The Iacocca Nuisance
34: She Persisted
35: Rifle Right Takes Iron Mike
36: Genocide and Generosity
37: Wynn and Lose
38: Fateful Attraction
39: A God Among Deal Makers
40: Breaking Bad
41: After “the Fall”
Epilogue: Kirk’s Last Deal
Acknowledgments
Selected Bibliography
Notes
Index
About the Author
Also by William C. Rempel
Copyright
About the Publisher
A Note to Readers
There is an inspiring life story in the ninety-eight years that belonged to Kirk Kerkorian, a boy who ran barefoot in the rich dirt of California’s San Joaquin Valley before family financial chaos made him a city boy fighting for his place on the dirty sidewalks of Los Angeles. He was a tough guy who wept at funerals, a humble man privately proud of his accomplishments, a business genius who ignored his MBA advisers, a daring aviator and movie mogul, a gambler at the casinos and on Wall Street who played the odds in both houses with uncanny skill. But I was already sold on this project the moment I discovered that he started with nothing and inherited nothing, yet he parlayed that nothing into billions of dollars.
I never planned to write a biography of Kirk Kerkorian. We had never met. When I started, I knew no one among his advisers and friends. He was little more than a familiar name on the pages of the Los Angeles Times, my professional home for more than thirty-six years. Shortly after Kirk died I received a call from HarperCollins editor Julia Cheiffetz. She didn’t know Kirk, either, but she had just read his obituary in the New York Times. She, too, wanted to know more. This book is a tribute to her foresight, curiosity, and instinct for a good tale.
We both underestimated the challenge. Kirk was also a very private man. He rarely did press interviews, never gave speeches, and treasured his privacy above all else. Many of his business aides and associates still believe that his privacy should be protected even beyond the grave. Consider my first contact with Kirk’s chief legal adviser, Patty Glaser. She responded by phone to my request for an introductory interview, catching me driving up Vermont Avenue on a sunny day near Griffith Park. I said “Hello” and she got straight to the point, “No one is going to help you. No one from his inner circle will be available. We will not cooperate.”
I regret that adamant decision. Fortunately, there would be major exceptions to the official stonewall. Fortunately, too, Kirk’s extraordinarily thin public record of interviews and personal insights would be offset by equally extraordinary discoveries. A collection of oral histories filed away in the Special Collections library at the University of Nevada Las Vegas was a gold mine—gaming pioneers, early Kerkorian partners, and then a ninety-minute tape of Kirk himself telling stories about the early days of Vegas and his personal adventures.
An excellent documentary for PBS called Flying the Secret Sky included excerpts from an on-camera interview with Kirk talking about his experiences with the Royal Air Force Ferry Command during World War II. Producer William VanDerKloot generously shared a full transcript of Kirk’s interview.
One other notable gem made available to the author was a wonderful family video with relatives and boyhood friends talking about growing up with Kirk. It was professionally produced and edited but had never been released to the public.
Kirk’s thirty-day wife, the former professional tennis star Lisa Bonder, was among those who declined to be interviewed for this book. She canceled our only scheduled interview saying that she’d decided to tell her own story, “to tell it myself,” presumably in her own words and in her own book or article.
However, details of Kirk’s fraught relationship with Lisa can be found in the underground vaults of the Los Angeles Superior Court. That’s where I read through reams of Kirk’s and Lisa’s sworn statements, correspondence, and deposition transcripts—all part of case archives filling tens of thousands of pages. Their court battles spanned more than a decade and covered issues ranging from paternity and child support disputes to breeches of contract and invasion of privacy allegations. Tens of millions of dollars went to attorneys’ fees. Media coverage was sometimes sensational.
Unless otherwise noted, this narrative relies on that voluminous archival record and those factually undisputed details submitted in court filings by the estranged couple, as well as numerous expert witnesses and the sworn declarations of friends and family.
Thanking the long list of individuals who helped tell the story of Kirk Kerkorian for this book cannot include everyone. And a number of Kirk’s “inner circle” asked to remain anonymous. But very special thanks go to:
Terry Christensen, one of Southern California’s top lawyers and for decades Kirk’s closest confidant. He hired a private eye to help investigate false paternity claims against Kirk and ended up indicted on federal wiretap charges.
Alex Yemenidjian, who headed MGM studios when Kirk sold it for the last time. The former accountant, who became one of Kirk’s top negotiators, also ran the MGM Grand and was, some said, the son Kirk never had.
Don King, the boxing promoter and a good friend of Kirk’s. They worked together to get a multifight deal at Kirk’s MGM Grand Garden for King’s client Iron Mike Tyson.
Harut Sassounian, publisher of the California Courier, an English-language Armenian weekly based in Glendale, California, was also president of the United Armenian Fund and the driving force behind Kirk’s Armenian charity efforts.
Michael Milken, the billionaire philanthropist and investment banker who helped finance many of Kirk’s casino and movie studio deals. Kirk often encouraged Mike to write a book about some of the many deals they did together.
Ron Falahi, Kirk’s fitness guru, flight steward, and personal assistant spanning thirty-three years. The gentle muscleman and his warmhearted wife, the late Wendy Falahi, were among Kirk’s most loyal aides. Kirk encouraged Ron to write a book about their adventures.
Una Davis, wh
o remained a loyal friend and advocate through Kirk’s serial romantic adventures spanning fifteen years. And she was his wife on the day he died.
Jerry Perenchio, the Hollywood deal maker and former CEO of Univision, was a close friend of Kirk’s for decades. He broke his own anti-interview pledge to pay tribute to Kirk’s life and legacy shortly before he followed his friend in death.
Former U.S. senator Bob Dole (R-Kansas), who, along with his wife, Elizabeth Dole, befriended Kirk and supported many Armenian causes. Kirk became a major supporter of the American Red Cross when Elizabeth Dole was its president.
Jack Holder, a Pearl Harbor survivor and former U.S. Navy flight engineer who worked for Kirk at Los Angeles Air Service after the war. They were lifelong friends.
Darryl Goldman, tennis coach to the stars. He was a regular at Kirk’s weekend games called “the grudge match” played on Kirk’s private courts. He coached the billionaire to national ranking on the seniors’ tennis circuit when Kirk was in his mideighties.
Manny (Mike) Agassi, one of Kirk’s oldest pals in Las Vegas. He was one of Kirk’s earliest tennis teachers. Mike is more widely known as the father of U.S. tennis legend Andre Kirk Agassi.
Gene Kilroy, a straight-talking former marketing executive and boxing aficionado, seemed to know just about everyone in Las Vegas, and opened many doors for the author. Gene once worked for Kirk and was for many years the business manager of boxing great Muhammad Ali. He was also one of Kirk’s inner circle of Vegas friends, a pal of sister Rose and a familiar figure to most of the extended Kerkorian family and staff.
Bobby Morris, the former musical director at the International Hotel whose band backed up Elvis at the pop star’s Las Vegas comeback in Kirk’s first hotel.
Daniel M. Wade, a former co-CEO and chief operating officer of MGM Mirage. He explained why Kirk’s people were so loyal: “He always took the risks. He never took the credit.” The devout Mormon says he still prays for Kirk every night.
This book is nonfiction. All direct quotes and descriptive scenes are based on the recollections of eyewitnesses or on previously published accounts. Many books, news accounts, and magazine articles informed this story, but one book in particular requires special mention—Kerkorian: An American Success Story by Dial Torgerson. It was published in 1974 and is, to my knowledge, the only other Kerkorian biography ever attempted. It was a tremendous resource for details about Kirk’s youth, his war experience, and early business history. Dial had the good fortune to receive considerable assistance from Kirk himself, opening doors to his family and friends who shared great insights, many of which have been gratefully resurrected in this version. Most of Dial’s sources would precede Kirk in death.
Dial was my colleague at the Los Angeles Times, a senior foreign correspondent during my tenure at the paper. He was killed in 1983 doing the job of reporting in a Central American war zone. He was an admired and heroic figure to many of us at The Times long before we lost him. Press critics in high and low places sometimes fail to appreciate the daring and dedication of real men and women in the serious business of protecting our right to know.
So, thanks to Dial. Thanks to William VanDerKloot, producer of Flying the Secret Sky. Thanks, also, to every source who shared an insight, whether for attribution or not.
And especially thanks to Barbara Hyde Pierce, my wife and two-time Emmy Award–winning television news producer, whose research skills, editing finesse, and story advice are all part of every page that follows.
Bill Rempel
Los Angeles
July 2017
Prologue: Introducing Kirk Kerkorian
“Life is a big craps game.”
—Kirk Kerkorian
It’s a spring night in Las Vegas, 1972. An elegantly attired Cary Grant shares an outdoor podium with movie bombshell Raquel Welch. They are about to signal an explosion of fireworks, a gaudy spectacle to mark another milestone in the gambling mecca’s colorful history. Already the black desert sky is alive with dancing klieg lights, the surrounding boulevards ablaze with neon and jammed with limousine traffic. The biggest hotel in the world is about to break ground, and the elites of Hollywood and the gaming world have thronged to the intersection of Flamingo Road and the Strip to salute its daring entrepreneur.
But where is he?
The actors scan the crowd. The man of the hour is one of Cary Grant’s best friends, a publicity-shy financier who never met a million dollars he wasn’t willing to risk on a roll of the dice, a scrappy former boxer who never backed away from a fight, an eighth-grade dropout who was now schooling the entire U.S. business community.
Somewhere out in the shadows among fellow movie moguls and casino tycoons was the fifty-five-year-old son of Armenian immigrants living the American dream, the Mean-Street-to-Main-Street success story, a thrill-seeking gambler with a knack for blockbuster investments.1
“Kirk, are you out there?” Grant’s famous English accent drifts across the crowd. Heads turn. Where’s Kirk? No one responds.
The film idol knows that his friend isn’t likely to be coaxed into the spotlight. He knows that Kirk Kerkorian—the head of MGM Studios and the man behind the massive, soon-to-rise MGM Grand Hotel—is out in that throng purposely keeping a low profile, likely nursing a scotch, and pretending to be the most average Joe in Nevada.
Kirk was uncomfortable in crowds and dreaded the attention of strangers.
Raquel Welch moves to center stage, stepping up to a plunger device—something like a cartoon dynamite igniter. With dramatic flair—and a provocatively exaggerated pose—she plunges the plunger handles. The move sets off an eruption of whistling rockets, flashing starbursts, and a thundering avalanche of sparks.2 Leo the MGM Lion lights up the sky, roaring in pyrotechnic glory.
Kirk no doubt welcomed the noisy diversion. He had dodged another public appearance. And his lifelong aversion to the trappings of celebrity would make him what he remains years after his death: one of the least known of America’s richest men.
He seemed to burst out of nowhere onto the American business scene in the late 1960s, a small businessman with a gambling habit and a junior high school education who struck it rich at the mature age of fifty. He was a heroic wartime aviator who ferried factory-fresh bombers and fighter planes for the Royal Air Force over the treacherous North Atlantic in an era before navigational aids. He nursed a small charter air service through cycles of hard times after the war, until selling his company for a windfall fortune.
But the gambler decided to bet it all on some kind of capitalist trifecta. Suddenly, he was on business news pages across the country risking huge sums in a puzzling range of eclectic markets. He called it “the leisure industry.”
On the West Coast he moved to control America’s oldest commercial airline. In New York and Hollywood he waged a takeover battle for the faltering but fabled MGM Studios. In Las Vegas he built the world’s biggest hotel—despite a secret campaign to stop him by rival Howard Hughes, the country’s richest man. At the same time, Kirk snatched Bugsy Siegel’s Flamingo casino out from under decades of mob control. He made Elvis Presley a Vegas icon.
Overnight he was a major player in the movie, resorts, and gaming industries. Friends would call him a “deal junkie,”3 addicted to financial thrills—whether at a craps table or at the negotiating table. Two more times he would build the world’s biggest hotel. In business, as in gambling, Kirk believed there was no point in placing small bets.
In later years he would shake up the automobile industry with separate takeover bids for each of the Big Three carmakers.
There were no tycoons in Kirk’s family tree. His immigrant father, an illiterate farmer and fruit peddler, was in constant financial trouble. Kirk learned English and how to brawl growing up in Los Angeles. Eviction was a recurring family predicament. He said he studied in the school of hard knocks.4 It turned out to be an advanced course in survival and the value of trust, loyalty, and hard work.5
He avoided pre
ss interviews most of his life, making him appear reclusive. He hated being compared to the hermitlike Howard Hughes, whom he otherwise admired. Kirk had a thriving social life with celebrity friends and business associates—among them Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Tony Curtis. He was often noted in news and gossip columns attending charity and other public events. He double-dated with Cary Grant, and their families vacationed together.
Fellow casino owner Donald Trump called Kirk “the king” and told friends: “I love that guy.”6 Kirk was, however, Trump’s polar opposite in style and temperament. Kirk was soft-spoken and understated with a paralyzing fear of public speaking. He wished, he said, that he “could talk like Trump.”7 Kirk also wanted his name on nothing—not on buildings, not on street signs, not even on his personal parking spot at MGM Studios. And Kirk never defaulted on a loan and always regarded his handshake as a binding contract.
Kirk traveled without an entourage. He carried his own bags and drove his own car, typically a Ford Taurus or Jeep Cherokee. He jogged the streets of Beverly Hills and walked to lunches without a bodyguard. He refused comps, personally paying for meals and rooms even at his own hotels. Once after a business trip to New York, Kirk was halfway to La Guardia Airport when he ordered his driver back into the city. He had forgotten to tip the maids at The Pierre hotel.8
He gave away millions to charity and to people in need on the strict condition that his gifts were kept secret. When his donations grew into the tens of millions, he formed a charitable foundation. It gave away more than a billion dollars, much of it to his ancestral homeland after a deadly earthquake. In Armenia, Kirk Kerkorian is regarded as one of the saints, but at his insistence there are no monuments to his lavish generosity.
The master deal maker would finally meet his match in his mid-eighties. A charming former tennis pro would trick him into believing he was the father of her baby, force him into a courtroom, and strip him of his most cherished asset—his privacy.
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