Citizen Hughes

by Michael Drosnin

  “We have never editorialized before, and when we do, I expect every word to come to me first.

  “Pull the Paul Harvey show off the air. You have 10 days to try to sell it to someone (try Channel 5 first) before pulling it, but if you can’t sell it then we will pull it anyway and pay for it. Maybe we could give someone the Merv Griffin show if they will take Paul Harvey.”

  And there were equally sudden fears: “I just heard something about an 84 hour telethon,” wrote Hughes, dreading the marathon preemption. “I hope this is not planned for ch 8.”

  Nothing, however, quite so upset the recluse as commercials. In what was probably his one demonstration of populist spirit, Hughes saw himself representing aggrieved TV viewers everywhere as he declared all-out war on offensive ads.

  “What about eliminating the Adjusta-Bed cure-all commercials?” demanded the bed-ridden billionaire, not about to put up with any hucksters. “Also, even after eliminating the undesirable Adjusta-Bed commercials, you want the Adjusta-Bed commercials reduced to about 1/8 of the present number and spotted in occasionally between other commercials.

  “When a hard-sell, constant repetition campaign of this type is used, it may well be all right for the advertiser, but it drives the audience crazy.”

  His lawyers warned that he was “courting disaster by requiring the station manager to delete or ask customers to change commercials that do not violate the television code of ethics,” but Hughes, who had his own code, was relentless.

  In quick order, he banned a slew of “shabby, unworthy, misleading, untrue, distorted and fraudulent” real-estate promotions, then spotted a particularly offensive “onion-slicing machine” commercial that led him to issue a general edict:

  “There should be no more presentations of food in the studio or an announcer trying to talk with food in his mouth. Any commercials including food are to be taped outside of the studio and are to be presented with good taste.”

  The real issue, however, was neither onion slicers nor Adjusta-Bed adjustments, but control. KLAS air time was his time, and Hughes’s greatest wrath was reserved for the hapless station manager’s onetime daring fling with charity.

  It started innocently enough. A series of public-service spots promoting the sale of American flags, with the proceeds going to aid needy children. But the unapproved thirty-second ads drove Hughes into a blind fury:

  “Please get me at once the real true explanation of what caused the manager of KLAS to give gratis the spot announcements on a broadcast station he does not own.

  “I want to know by just what in the hell kind of a right does an employe involve a TV station in a charitable operation of this kind, which may, or may not be on the level.

  “About half these charitable gimmicks turn out to be fraudulent or politically inspired, or motivated by some forces which are not disclosed.

  “Also about half of them turn out to involve people who are left wingers or at least people with whom I dont want my name associated.

  “I dont like this, and I want to know what induced the station manager to do this thing, and, if he wont give you a satisfactory answer, I want to have somebody investigate his activities and background.”

  Told that the suspicious charity was organized by the juvenile judge of the district court and staffed by a who’s who of worthy local ladies, Hughes reluctantly allowed a sharply diminished number of flag ads to run for a short time. But when the commercials continued beyond the cutoff date, Hughes’s anger exploded.

  “TV time is no different from money,” he fumed. “The principle business of the station consists of exchanging time for money.

  “As I view it, the unauthorized giving of TV time (whether to a charitable entity or otherwise) is absolutely the same as reaching in the cash register and taking out a sum of money.

  “Theft is theft—no matter what you do with the money after you steal it.”

  Various aides tried to calm him, to no avail.

  “I do not believe that the station manager intentionally stole any money from you,” wrote Maheu. “He is fully aware of the FCC regulations which provide specifically that certain announcements must be made gratis to support charitable projects.”

  Maheu’s cavalier dismissal of the flag-ad theft was the last straw. Responding with Queeg-like zeal, Hughes ordered a sweeping investigation to find the missing strawberries:

  “I believe he did it because he was pressured by somebody to do it. I am sure he knew he was sticking his neck out a mile, and he surely must have had a much stronger motive, to take a risk like this, than any of the casual, unimportant excuses which have been advanced.…

  “I have been intending to ask you to make one of your usual thorough investigations of this matter before it is put aside.

  “I personally dont think, when you dig into this thing, that you will find this contribution was made for the benefit of the FCC one damn bit.

  “Bob, there are at least one hundred, by actual count, charitable funds, causes, drives, donations, etc., which rank equally high in point of importance, worthiness, validity, etc. So, why does the station manager select this one single entity out of all the others, and place the station in the posture of supporting this one cause so abundantly while neglecting all the other various causes, hospitals, Vietnam War Orphans, etc., etc.

  “Only a careful investigation will disclose all the facts. Will you assume this task?”

  Maheu apparently let the matter drop, and Hughes, forgetting about the flag-ad theft, once more became absorbed in his beloved “Swinging Shift.”

  Yet even into this special enclave of off-hour reverie came disconcerting problems. It was the cruelest of blows. These were Hughes’s prime viewing hours—11:30 P.M. to six A.M.—when he could commune comfortably with his set, secure in the knowledge that he and he alone controlled television.

  While nine floors below, beyond the blacked-out windows of his penthouse retreat, Las Vegas was alive with neon and nonstop action, the only light in his bedroom beamed from the overworked TV. But, like the swingers in the gambling halls, Hughes too was swinging—with his own “Swinging Shift.” Every night, all night, three movies back to back, each his own selection.

  Sometimes it would all be ruined by a tired KLAS announcer who flubbed the carefully phrased introduction. That at least could be corrected. One night, the announcer referred to the “first swinging shift,” and Hughes quickly pounced:

  “There should not be more than one Swinging Shift,” he immediately scrawled on his bedside legal pad. “If it should be necessary to refer for any reason to the first picture, then it should be identified as the ‘first movie on the Swinging Shift’—not the ‘First Swinging Shift.’ ”

  Other problems proved more intractable. Hughes insisted on personally clearing all movies in advance. But often he could not make up his mind until the last minute:

  “Please ask Stoddard if he will be able, without too much difficulty, to substitute Las Vegas Story and Sealed Cargo in place of Gang War and Great Jewel Robbery. Please apologize for it being so late.”

  It became a nightly ritual: “If it will cause no confusion, it will be appreciated if he can substitute either Jeopardy or Inside the Mafia to replace Woman Obsessed at 4:30 AM.”

  “You and Roy failed to remind me in time about the movies for tonight, and now I am faced with the situation at the last minute,” wrote Hughes on yet another occasion, this time blaming his Mormons for the lapse.

  “Please ask Stoddard if, entirely without problems, he can substitute two pictures in place of the last two coming in the AM. Please say you will give him the names as soon as possible, and to assist in this, can he give you the synopsis on:

  “Oklahoma Woman

  “Fast and Furious

  “Malta Story

  “Great Diamond Robbery

  “Also, principle cast, please.”

  The sudden changes caused some complaint. “Obviously, the problems which have arisen have been questio
ns from viewers as to why one movie is listed in TV Guide or the newspapers and a different one is shown,” explained the station manager. “If we continue to make unannounced changes certainly the questions are going to continue and eventually we could have a problem with the advertisers.”

  Hughes was understanding. “Re: the future,” he replied two days later, “since the objectionable aspect of showing a program in conflict with the announcement was first called to my attention, I believe this is the one and only movie substituted at my request.

  “I even permitted the showing of ‘Mudlark’, an absurd whimsy at 4 AM last nite, in preference to changing the program in conflict with the announcement.

  “I will request as few changes as possible from now on.”

  It was a promise, however, that Hughes could not keep. There was a limit to how many Mudlarks he would suffer in silence. The billionaire, on the other hand, had a simple solution—in the future, titles of the late movies would not be given in the published TV listings at all.

  But one recurring problem seemed to have no solution. KLAS could not manage to come up with three films a night that pleased its owner. Even after the station started sending Hughes multipage synopses of available movies a month in advance, the problem persisted.

  “This list of pictures is just simply zero as far as I am concerned,” Hughes complained. “Outside of ‘Hired Gun’ I dont see anything I would watch.”

  A new set of proposed shows was sent, to no avail. “There are simply no pictures on this list that I consider satisfactory,” came the response from the penthouse. “I am familiar with every one of these movies—I even made quite a few of them—and there are not enough to fill out the package of 3 needed for tonight.”

  Still Hughes made plans to upgrade the show. Secret plans, of course. “It is my intention that Hughes Resort Hotels will sponsor the entire Swinging Shift program with no commercial interruptions, but I want this kept very secret for now. My first request is that this matter be held in complete confidence from everybody until I am ready to announce it in a big way.”

  Once ready to reveal his “big secret” to the station manager, Hughes insisted on tight security: “Ask him to go to an office where it is quiet, private, and where he will not be interrupted. You dont have to mention my name—just say at the beginning, ‘I have a message for you and I am sure you will know whom it is from.’ ”

  But before the secret plans could be executed, yet another blow was struck. The TV station, in violation of Hughes’s direct orders, inserted a commercial between two of the movies one night.

  “Now we are 4 min. over because I did not anticipate the commercial between Call of the West and Oregon Trail,” Hughes fretted.

  “Please explain to Stoddard, and ask if he doesn’t think we can drop the 4 + minutes needed from the end of Sunrise Semester instead of cutting one of the movies.”

  The dreaded “Sunrise Semester” once again came full force into Hughes’s consciousness. “I want to discontinue ‘Semester’ completely, anyway,” he added, “as soon as it can be done without repercussions.” The program had been plaguing Hughes for months, and he had already ordered it cut back to half an hour. But his lawyers warned that KLAS would certainly run afoul of the FCC if the educational series was canceled outright.

  “Sunrise Semester” was his nemesis. Hughes never said why he so detested the show. But it came on at 6:30 every morning, just as the “Swinging Shift” ended, and to Hughes it seemed to represent something deeply antipathetic. Nonetheless he watched it—he was probably the only person in Las Vegas who did—as if compelled. At one point KLAS tried to move the show back to six A.M., and Hughes successfully resisted the change. But he could not get it off the air.

  So, alone in his darkened room, Hughes had to face the end of his all-night movies and watch “Sunrise Semester” presage a new dawn on his TV screen. It was a daily agony.

  Just as the perfect television set had eluded him, so now Hughes had come to recognize that owning a TV station was not the answer either. What did it profit him if he couldn’t even get the movies he wanted and had to suffer “Sunrise Semester” as well? The quest must begin anew.

  Locked in a struggle to control television itself—and thus to control his world—Hughes would have to reach still higher. He would need to buy an entire TV network.

  “Do you realize I am going to be faced with making a $200,000,000 decision today?”

  It was 6:30 Sunday morning, June 30, 1968. Howard Hughes squinted uneasily at the long string of zeros he had just scrawled on his yellow legal pad. He had not slept all weekend long, bedeviled by second thoughts and obsessed with last-minute details. The magnitude of the impending deal daunted even him.

  Hughes was about to buy ABC.

  No one had ever owned more than a small fraction of a major television network, but Hughes was determined to get a controlling interest. And to take it by surprise. He had been plotting the move for more than a year. ABC, then foundering in third place, far behind both CBS and NBC in the ratings and desperately short of cash, seemed the perfect target.

  This time it was not late-night movies that interested the billionaire, but raw political power.

  “I want to know confidentially and most accurately just how significant a position in the formulation of U.S. public opinion would be afforded us by the acquisition of ABC,” he wrote to Maheu. “Anyway, my attitude is very simple. My objective is the ABC News Service and what can be done with it.”

  The ABC “Evening News” with Howard Hughes. Behind the scenes, of course. Even as he sought Maheu’s reassurance, the billionaire had no real doubts that one-man control of a national television network—albeit the weakest of the three—could give him tremendous clout.

  “Maybe you remember that the Los Angeles Daily News, when it was still being published, was the most important news media by far, from the political standpoint, in the entire Sou. Calif, region,” wrote Hughes, spelling out his strategy. “This despite the fact that the Times, Examiner, and the Herald were all far larger and better newspapers.

  “The reason for this was explained very carefully to me. I was told it was because the News took a position pro or con on every political issue on the horizon and every candidate seeking office. The other, more conscientious newspapers usually refrained from taking a really strong position in any matter, merely because they did not want to be accused of being partial.

  “Now, it seems logical to me, based upon the very wide public ownership of the two big networks, and the very small holdings of any one stockholder, that it would be almost impossible to obtain any really reliable assurance of strong support from either NBC or CBS. So, although ABC may be the weakest of the 3, if a really strong position could be achieved, permitting a predictable candidate attitude, this network might very likely turn out to be the balance of power.”

  The balance of power. With growing excitement, Hughes watched the price of ABC stock, saw it plummet, waited until it reached a record low. Then he pounced.

  On Monday, July 1, 1968, just before the opening bell of the New York Stock Exchange sounded, Hughes announced his takeover bid, catching both ABC and Wall Street by surprise. That was vital. This was not to be a friendly business transaction but a sudden raid to seize control.

  Hughes gave ABC stockholders two weeks to sell him two million shares at a price well above the market. If they did, he would own 43 percent of the network, more than enough to be in full command.

  Stunned, ABC’s board of directors met in a council of war, determined to block Hughes’s bid. It was like wrestling with a phantom. They knew virtually nothing about the recluse or his intentions, except that he had not been seen for more than a decade. That, they decided, was their trump card. They would force Hughes to appear in public.

  “WILL HUGHES RISK PRIVACY TO WIN ABC?” newspaper headlines asked. It seemed he would have no choice.

  Ordinarily, anyone seeking to buy even a single television station
—let alone an entire network—was required to make a personal appearance before the Federal Communications Commission. Hughes, however, had managed to obtain a license for KLAS while remaining hidden. Now he intended to do the same with ABC.

  His attorneys insisted that would be impossible, but the billionaire disdained such advice. “This is no decision which a lawyer can make merely by looking in a book,” he told Maheu. “It depends upon political strength and ability at your command now, since I am very sure this will be settled long before the new administration comes in.

  “I have to take a business risk of large amount, and I can only make the decision so to do based upon my appraisal of your ability to accomplish a certain result with the FCC.”

  Fortunately, 1968 was an election year, and Hughes figured that he would soon have more than money to offer the candidates then running for president. With their help, he would have ABC.

  “I dont see how I dare launch into [this] campaign unless I have some assurance of the FCC’s support, without my personal appearance,” he explained. “Now, I see only one way such support might be assumed, and that is in case one of the candidates or the white house on behalf of its favorite candidate wants the support of ABC. If such a trade could be made, it seems to me that we have the tools with which to make it. In other words, our present position plus white house or Humphries’ full support would spell certain FCC approval in my book, and with that assurance, I would go full blast ahead. Now,” he cautioned Maheu, “you really have to be careful how you approach this bag of hot potatoes.”

  Even Maheu was uncertain, however, that the plan was feasible. “The primary and election will have come and passed before we would be in a position to use ABC to our advantage,” he replied. “There are other ways of making the candidates thoroughly devoted to us.”

  And, Maheu reassured Hughes, there were other ways of handling the FCC. “We still have time to condition the individual members of the board and at all levels below,” he explained, promising that Washington’s well-connected lawyer Edward Morgan would do the job. “Morgan happens to be an expert in the area of conditioning and will spend his time on this most important detail.”