by Sam Moffie
But what the hell, he had thought before he passed out. The shoot was going better than he had anticipated.
He had found himself not falling asleep, but passing out way too much lately.
“The side effects of working with Wayne, Hayward, Armendáriz, Moorhead, Conrad, de Corsia, Van Cleef, Gordon and all the other members of that cast,” his wife had told him when they had talked a few days earlier.
“Luckily, the crew isn’t into drinking like the cast,” he lied with his reply (they were just as bad, if not a tad bit worse).
“Just make sure you get it all out of your system before you return,” she warned.
“I have to. The breakfasts that I have to eat to cure my hangovers are causing me to gain weight where I hate it the most,” Powell said.
“I’ll take all your pants to the tailor and have them widened,” she said sarcastically.
But Dick Powell knew that he was going to have to change some of the bad habits he had grown way too easily into while filming this movie. He blamed it on everything but his own will power.
Things are going well. We’re on schedule. The budget isn’t out of whack. Duke is pulling it off. Big O is off my back. Susan has been terrific. There have been no accidents. Sand skiing is fun, were all thoughts that helped him to relax after a day of filming, by partying at night.
And of course Howard hasn’t harassed me or anyone else, he would say to himself after a day’s shooting, which really made it easy to knock back a few of those famous ‘Hayward cocktails’ that were all the rage on the set after a day’s shoot was over.
Suddenly there was a pounding at the door and Dick awoke to the voice of Ed Killy.
“Dick! Wake up! Howard is on the phone. He wants to talk to you now,” Ed said.
So much for pleasant dreaming, Dick said to himself as he threw on some clothes and let Ed in.
“I have that deputy all set to take you to the store,” Ed said.
“Oh brother,” Powell moaned.
“It will be better this time. One, the deputy had made a few extra dollars moonlighting on the set. Two, he doesn’t want to talk to Howard Hughes,” Ed said.
“Tell you what. You go talk to Howard and I’ll go back to sleep,” Powell said.
Ed Killy laughed and motioned for the deputy to pull up to Dick’s trailer.
“Just what is your name, deputy?” Powell found himself asking. He was mad at himself for not remembering. After all, Dick Powell was no prima donna on any movie set he was involved with. He prided himself on being on a first-name basis with all in his orbit.
“Dan Murphy,” said the deputy.
“Deputy Dan Murphy, I apologize for not asking you what your name was when we first met,” Dick said.
“You do? I think you had other more important issues to deal with,” a very shy Dan responded.
“What is your excuse for me for not asking you the numerous times I have seen you on the set doing your job?” Powell asked.
“You’re very busy filming a movie?” Dan asked.
“Great answer. I knew I was going to like you the first time I saw you pass out. Now, take me to the phone,” Powell ordered.
And Dan Murphy, the deputy, drove at breakneck speed to take Dick Powell to the only phone that was close by. This time there were no incidents that caused anyone any problems.
“Oh no, not you two again,” the shopkeeper said sarcastically, remembering his first late-night encounter with Dan the deputy and Dick the director.
“Very funny. Did I tell you I have an opening for a gag writer?” Powell said sarcastically.
“What’s a ‘gag writer,’ someone who chokes after doodling?” the shopkeeper asked Dick.
Dan shrugged. Dick rolled his eyes and went to the phone.
“Hello Howard,” Dick said.
There was silence.
“Is this phone dead?” Powell asked the shopkeeper.
“I didn’t know it was alive.”
What did I do in my first life, Powell pondered as he listened for static or anything else that would help him.
“Hello! Hello!” he screamed into the phone.
“Please hold the line for a few more minutes,” said the voice from the other end of the phone line.
Damn it, I’m on hold again! It never stops, he thought as he waited and looked around the store (hopefully for the last time), when he spied the shopkeeper grinning at him.
“That does it. I’m making a movie about you and I’m hiring Walter Brennan to play you and he won’t wear his teeth,” Powell found himself fuming at the shopkeeper.
“Why in God’s name would I allow you to do that?” said the familiar voice of Howard Hughes from the other end of the phone line, because Dick had kept the phone tucked between his shoulder and jaw.
“Sorry boss… I’ll tell you when I see you,” Powell apologized to Hughes as the shopkeeper kept on grinning.
What should I expect from someone who thinks I could be a doctor, because I played one once, Powell mused as he perked up his ear to talk to Howard Hughes. Because I told him, and he fell for it… that’s why, Dick thought.
“Dick, how are things going with my western?” Hughes asked.
“Before I answer that, I have a question for you, boss.” Powell said.
“I’m listening,” Hughes egged on.
“What has taken you so long to ask me that question?” Powell said.
“I get anything I need to know from that kid you have working for you at the studio,” Hughes answered.
“The intern? I thought you would be getting everything from my secretary,” Powell said with a chuckle.
“I don’t talk to her about movies,” Hughes said.
“You’re sleeping with Burchett?” Powell asked.
“We don’t sleep much,” Hughes said with a chuckle. “By the way that kid is good. What school is he from again?” Hughes said.
“Wittenberg University,” Powell said.
“No wonder he’s good. Wittenberg is one of the leading institutions on sexual-behavior studies in the world. Not an Ivy League bone in his body. Did I ever tell you what happened to me when I was visiting Harvard as a young kid?” Hughes said.
“No,” Powell answered, ignoring Howard’s comment about sexual behavior studies at Wittenberg University.
“I was at some business seminar and finally a break came from those eggheads talking about their theory of making money. Funniest stuff I had ever heard, but all that laughing to myself made me have to piss very badly; I sprinted to the men’s room. All those Easterners were making comments about my cowboy boots when I ran out of the room. I thought my bladder was going to explode when I burst through the doors and emptied it into the urinal. It was the longest piss of my life and I knew I was going to miss the start of the next lecture when this very distinguished-looking gentleman came in and pissed into the urinal next to mine. I finished and was on my way back to my seat to get some more laughs. I was almost out the door when the distinguished looking man yelled out to me, ‘Sonny, at Harvard we wash our hands after we take a piss.’ I yelled back at him that at Hughes Tool we don’t piss on our hands.’”
“You did? And then said that?” a very surprised Dick Powell said to his germ-fearing boss.
“I was young once, too, you know,” Hughes responded. “Things are different when you’re younger.”
“So how come you didn’t become a comedy writer? Why did you decide to become the richest man in the world? With timing like that, you could have gone places in Hollywood,” Powell said sarcastically.
“Something got in the way.”
“What was that?”
“Money,” Hughes answered matter-of-factly.
“So if you have that kid Komara telling and showing you everything, why are you calling me?” Powell asked his boss.
“Everything was in order until now,” Hughes said.
“I’m making a movie. There is no such thing as order,” Powell said.
&nb
sp; “Unless it is an order from me!” Hughes yelled as he laughed.
“See I was right. You could have gone far as a comedy writer,” Powell said. “So what gives?”
“Is the filming going okay?” Hughes suddenly asked, which made Dick cringe.
“Why do you ask that? You know it’s going fine or I would have heard from you before now,” Powell said.
“I just like making my employees cringe,” Hughes said with a chuckle. “Tell me about my metal dinner trays, Dick.”
Oh, oh Powell thought. I’m in trouble, because I know that he knows that I know. Dick Powell cleared his throat before he began. “They are coming in very handy.”
“You mean feety,” corrected Hughes.
“So you know. I should have figured. But once again, you show a brilliant sense of humor boss,” Powell said.
“Flatter me all the time. Tell me about the trays. Is everyone having a good time sand skiing?”
“Except for Susan,” Powell said.
“Her tits giving her balance problems?” Hughes asked.
Not this again, Powell thought. “No, she’s too busy entertaining the people that don’t sand ski with her voice and cocktails.”
“Her voice is a direct correlation of her breast size you know. I hope she’s making it to the set even with the drinking,” cautioned Hughes.
“She isn’t drinking that much. Her raspberry lime rickeys are a big hit and she’s teaching everyone the art of making them,” Powell white-lied, because Hayward and the others were getting sloshed with Susan’s vodka-laced raspberry lime rickeys. But, every day when her shooting schedule began, she was on time, on queue and never missed a line or her mark. Powell, John Wayne and all the other men were amazed at how much booze she could handle, and Dick laughed to himself knowing that if he told Howard this, Howard would say it was because of the size of her breasts.
“Do you like the location? Would it be a good place to film real westerns, sand-and-tits epics and war movies?” Howard asked his director.
Dick thought a few seconds before he answered. He usually loved being on location as an actor, director or producer. And though this shoot was going well — despite the crazy shopkeeper and the one phone — there were a lot of natural occurrences that he heard people on the set complain about. Complaints that he, too, had thought about.
“It’s the weather or the climate that is hard to deal with as a director, boss,” Powell said.
“Isn’t that a part of any film being shot on location?” asked Hughes.
“Of course… but it’s just different here,” Powell said.
“What, the wind?” Hughes asked.
“It’s windy and that blows all sorts of things around,” Powell said.
“Gee, no kidding? Maybe you should be the comedy writer!” Hughes said with a chuckle.
Powell blushed. He knew he sounded silly. But he hated to whine about anything, because he believed that whining was not just below him, but also a sign of weakness. Furthermore, everything seemed to be going A-Okay — why jinx it?
“I don’t have any legitimate gripes, boss. It was silly of me to suggest that it is too windy around here. Any director with the help of all his support staff can film in this area,” Powell said.
“You sure that there is nothing wrong in that area?” a suddenly very stern Howard Hughes asked Dick Powell.
“What do you know that I don’t know, Howard?” Powell asked.
For two years I have wanted to tell you, after I received and verified a report I had commissioned on why I got the land on the cheap, and I still can’t, Hughes thought. “Are you sure we have to take a truckload or two of sand from that area back to the home studios Dick?” Hughes asked quietly.
“For post-production,” Powell answered.
“I know that, I read the memo you sent Komara. Do you know how much sand we have left at the home studio from all the sand-and-tit movies we have made? Furthermore, the main lot is a few blocks from the beach and the beach is all sand, right?” Howard said.
“It’s the sand that is here,” Powell said.
“Describe the sand,” said Hughes.
“First of all, it tastes like metal,” Powell said.
“Don’t eat that sand!” Hughes bellowed.
“There you go again boss, gag writer extraordinaire,” Powell said. “And no, I don’t eat sand; that is where the wind comes into play. It’s too bad we couldn’t just paint the sand that we already have at RKO to match the color here in Southern Utah.”
“That’s not such a bad idea — painting the sand we already have. Before that Komara kid hires out to move the sand from Utah to Hollywood, let me see what I can have conjured up. Tell me about the wind,” Hughes urged Dick, hoping that the people he paid oodles of money to would be able to paint the sand RKO already owned the same color where the movie The Conqueror was being filmed.
“The wind comes out of nowhere, knocks things over if they haven’t been properly secured and kicks up clouds of dust that get into your ears, eyes, nose and throat. Sometimes it’s so bad, we choke on it. Luckily we have Susan Hayward’s raspberry lime rickeys to clean our throats,” Powell said.
“Do you want me to get a doctor up there until everything is finished?” a concerned Hughes asked.
“No one is sick to my knowledge. It doesn’t happen all day and all night. Just when the wind kicks up. We have a great outdoor shower set up — so people get all that sand off and out of them when they have to,” Powell said.
“Don’t you just love taking showers outdoors?” Hughes asked, glad to be changing the subject, even though Dick had no idea why.
“Yes. Never thought I would. I probably have been pampered by living in Hollywood and all the incredible bathrooms I have entered into. There is nothing like taking a hot shower during the sunset in the great outdoors. How did you find this place?” asked Powell.
“Any problems with the men and women spying on each other?” Hughes asked.
“Not one problem, Howard. Sorry to report,” Powell answered.
“I thought about buzzing real low in one of my planes to get some cheap looks at Hayward and the others,” Hughes said.
“That would be real cheap. The extras would have thrown a lot of spears at your plane and probably knocked it down; and then where would you be?” Powell said.
“With you my boy!” Hughes said with his chuckle. “So, tell me about sand skiing.”
“It’s been one of the greatest on-location items I have ever seen,” Dick said.
“When I was on location, all I did was see a couch or a bed,” Hughes said.
“Get sick a lot or something boss?” Powell asked.
“No. All I did was screw the actresses that had the biggest tits,” Hughes said.
“Of course. How stupid of me. Well sand skiing isn’t sexual, but it sure is fun. I was nervous when I did it. But this crew of ours is fabulous at letting the first timers go slow on the more tame horses. Duke is fearless. He is always challenging the crew and making bets with them. I think he loses on purpose,” Powell said.
“If John Wayne wasn’t an actor he would be a great stuntman. I wish I could get into horses, but I like planes. Anyway, when I said that my metal dinner trays were going to be the next great thing, I didn’t envision that they would be on the bottom of people’s feet,” Hughes said. “Maybe I can patent it? Maybe sell three trays to people. One tray for eating and two for sand skiing.”
“One problem boss,” Powel said.
“What’s that kid?”
“Not everyone owns a horse,” Powell pointed out.
“Sometimes you really depress me,” Hughes pointed out. “See you soon.”
Howard Hughes was livid. He was mad. He was pissed… and all this anger was directed at himself, because of the question that Dick Powell had asked him during their phone conversation. “How did you find this place?” That question stuck in his throat like too much of that red sand on location in South Utah whe
re the windblown filming of The Conqueror was finishing up.
Howard rarely got mad at himself, because when Hughes got mad, it was usually directed at someone or something else.
Damn, I wish what he told me about that sand was the complete opposite of what he did tell me, Hughes thought as looked at the thick file on his desk that had two words written in red on it: The Conqueror.
As a matter of fact, the last time Howard had been this mad at himself was when he awoke in the hospital after he had crashed his test plane — the XF-11 — in a neighborhood of Beverly Hills in July of 1946.
When he awoke in the hospital bed and was told the extent of his injuries, which included a crushed collar bone, multiple cracked ribs, a crushed chest, a collapsed left lung that actually moved his heart, and 3rd-degree burns. Being the daredevil that he was, he wasn’t mad at himself for the injuries. Rather, he was mad at himself because he never thought he would be bed-ridden for such a long time while he recovered. Time was everything to the richest man in the world, and he didn’t like that he would be spending so much time not being able to do things. He started yelling at himself and then he realized he was alone in the room. He decided right away that his attitude had to change. His first stab on the road to recovery to cure his anger was to custom design a better hospital bed. With the help of his engineers, he made a hospital bed that actually provided him with running hot and cold water.
But that was a long time ago. Now, he was angry with himself for being taken for a ride by the United States Federal Government.
A big ride.
A ride that the United States Federal Government gladly strapped the richest man in the world into for the measly sum of one lousy dollar.
Hughes realized he had been had and couldn’t believe it. After all, one of his favorite quotes was “Play off every one against each other so that you have main avenues of action open to you.”
Now as stared at the report in front of him that he had already read four times, he felt his blood boil.
Howard didn’t get to be the richest man in the world by being a pussy cat. Sure, he had been mad at Joe Kennedy, the critics of his movies, competition in business as well as women, women who didn’t fawn over him, employees who didn’t perform and of course the media — especially after they heaped abuse on him after the one-and-only flight of the Hughes H-4 Hercules on November 2nd, 1947.