To Kill the Duke

by Sam Moffie

  “Burchett!” Powell suddenly called out.

  “Why are you thinking about her? You’re happily married! Don’t tell me you’re pissed that the kid is sleeping with her,” Wayne said.

  “No… she had found this place way back when we were planning on filming out here. But something weird had to have happened to it and that’s why we live on trailers on the set,” Powell told Wayne and Millard.

  “Then let’s go have a look-see about what happened,” Wayne said as he spurred his horse on down the driveway.

  “Dick, will that Komara kid get into trouble if Hughes finds out that he is screwing one of his employees?” asked Millard.

  “Not at all. He likes hearing about those types of things,” Powell said with a laugh.

  “Let’s let the horses rest, water and feed while we explore,” Wayne said.

  “Good idea,” Powell said.

  “Yes. My ass could use a breather,” Millard agreed.

  “I could use some snacks, too,” Wayne said. “Did you pack it up Dick?”

  “Had my saddle bags filled with our favorite treats,” Powell said with a smile as he stepped down from his horse, tied the reins to a tree branch and went to the saddle bags.

  “Better be something stronger in the canteens than water,” Millard said.

  “There isn’t. Canteens are filled with water — saddle bags filled with the good stuff,” Wayne noted.

  Powell took out a bottle of whiskey, opened it, took a swig and tossed it to Wayne. Wayne took a short chug and tossed it to Millard who caught the bottle flawlessly.

  “Oscar, first you ride a horse like a pro and then you catch the bottle through the air like a true barfly. I am impressed,” Duke said.

  “I write scenes like this, so I better know how to do what I write,” Millard said.

  “I’m going to take a leak,” Powell announced.

  Wayne winked at Powell.

  Dick Powell walked a few yards into the woods and then stumbled upon what had to have been the main compound for the Enchanted Cottages. He quickly emptied his bladder behind a big rock and called back to his two friends to come and see what he had found.

  “Looks like someone was in a hurry,” Wayne noted as he shook his head at seeing cement slabs and various debris flung all around the immediate area.

  “Maybe a tornado wiped it out,” Millard said.

  “Worse,” Powell said.

  “Earthquake?” guessed Millard.

  “Worse than all that,” Powell said.

  Both Wayne and Millard looked at Powell like Powell had no idea what he was talking about.

  “I think a bank… the biggest bank of all took this place apart. Don’t you remember what I told you, John?” Powell said.

  “You’re right,” Wayne said.

  “Who or what is the ‘biggest bank of all?” Millard asked them.

  “The federal government. I see a few chairs and a small table over on that one slab. Go and tidy it up and I’ll return with the snacks and the bottle from the saddlebags,” Powell said.

  Wayne and Millard went to one of the cement slabs that used to be the floor of one of the cottages and tidied up. They found three chairs and a small table. Duke cleaned the red sand off the chairs by using his bare hands. Millard blew the red dust off the table. Wayne found a beat up ledger book that was marked: Reservations. The Duke leafed through the pages looking at the various names and dates of people who had stayed or made plans to stay where the three of them were hosting their little picnic. He came across the names that Miss Burchett had reserved for their party way back when and immediately knew it was Dick Powell, because Powell always used the nome de plume of the ‘Frost family.’

  “I use the name Bernie Schwartz to register under,” as he waved the reservation book at Oscar Millard.

  “Hey, that’s Tony Curtis’ real name,” Oscar pointed out.

  “I know. But it’s a great name to hide under. What name do you use, Oscar?”

  “Oscar Millard. I am a writer and no one cares about us.”

  Powell returned and nodded at their achievement, put the small smorgasbord of food down and poured three large glasses from the bottle that they had already drunk from.

  “This is eerie,” Wayne noted.

  “Why would the government take all the buildings and not leave everything alone and try to resell it as it was?” Millard asked.

  “You know how the government is — probably forced everybody out on a moment’s notice and had something better to do with the buildings. Howard told me it had to do with some bombing experiments. Once the government took what they wanted the place probably fell into disrepair, and scavengers picked the place clean,” Powell said.

  “A very different kind of foreclosure, Dick,” Wayne offered up.

  “Who do I work for?”

  “Good point,” both Wayne and Millard said at the same time.

  “But here’s the catch with Howard, gentlemen — he doesn’t foreclose, he helps people from being foreclosed on!” Powell said loudly.

  “Howard Hughes helps the less fortunate?” Millard said incredulously. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I must confess that it sounds too good to be true, Dick,” Wayne added.

  “Why don’t you believe me?” Powell said as he passed around a plate full of cheese, fruit and nuts. “You guys do a lot of good things for the less fortunate.”

  Wayne and Millard at first frowned and then both smiled, because they both were extraordinarily generous men in their spare time.

  It was a lot easier for Oscar Millard to be generous. He wasn’t as rich or as famous as John Wayne, but still managed to hold out a helping hand.

  Oscar gave screenplay-writing tips at no charge to anyone who was trying to produce a script. It started out as a way to help a friend who then told someone else, who then told someone else.

  “The epitome of word-of-mouth,” Millard told his two riding companions.

  “You mean ‘word-of-mouth-to-be-put-down-on-paper,’” Duke deadpanned.

  “Funny, John. You ever think of doing any comedy work?” Oscar shot back sarcastically.

  “Easy fella. Just kidding. I admire what you’re doing for your craft,” Wayne said.

  “That’s not all he does,” Powell said.

  “What else do you do… but only as it applies to generosity,” Duke said with a grin.

  “I read stories to children in orphanages,” Millard said somberly.

  John Wayne got up and walked over to Oscar Millard and held out his big hand. Millard stood up and they shook hands.

  “Now that’s what I call class,” Wayne said as he returned to his seat.

  “Okay Duke, your turn to share,” Powell said.

  “I used to be one of those guys who thought he was being generous because I would write a check to a tax deductible charity organization because my accountant said it was a sound financial move and my publicist said it would make me look good with the public,” Wayne said.

  “You sound like that’s a bad thing or you don’t do that anymore,” Powell said.

  “It’s not a bad thing, but it’s not the right thing,” Wayne replied.

  “So what do you do, if anything at all?” Millard asked.

  Wayne shot him a look that told Millard he could kill him with one punch.

  “I made a western with Ford and met real American Indians who were suffering, and I had some long talks with their chiefs and medicine men,” Wayne said.

  “Go on,” Powell egged.

  “Yes,” agreed Millard, not ever going to say something to the Duke that might get him decked.

  “During our downtime on the westerns that I made with the admiral — I loved talking to Indians about their culture. I also found out some disturbing news,” Wayne began.

  “Who is the admiral?” Millard asked.

  “John Ford’s nickname is ‘the admiral,’” Powell said.

  “Why, he doesn’t make that many naval picture
s,” Millard said.

  And Wayne broke out into a huge laugh.

  “I am the butt of another practical joke,” Millard sighed (glad that Wayne was laughing).

  “Heck Oscar, I thought everyone in Hollywood knew that Ford’s nickname was ‘admiral,’” Wayne said. “He did a great job filming the war in the Pacific. You should see some of the footage. As a matter of fact at the next party he has, when all of us are not out making a movie, I am having you invited to watch it.”

  “Powerful stuff Oscar,” Powell agreed. “But back to the bad news you learned from the Indians, Duke,” Powell said.

  “I asked the big chief what they did with all the money they must have been receiving from me and others who were making tax donations to their reservations and other related Indian causes,” Wayne said. “The chief translated what I said to the others in his inner circle and they all broke out laughing.”

  “What did they say was happening to the outside money that they were getting?” Millard asked.

  “The same thing they were getting from the government — nothing,” Wayne said sadly.

  “We sure made a bundle off them,” Millard said.

  “Still do,” added Wayne.

  “So what did you do?” Powell asked.

  “Naturally I thought I was being ripped off by my accountant and others, but that wasn’t the case. They were sending the money, but the organizations in charge of distributing the money were very top heavy in salary and expenses,” Wayne said.

  “Almost like all those crooked Indian agents we have in our westerns,” Millard said.

  “What do you mean ‘almost?’” Wayne said.

  “Truth is always stranger than fiction,” Millard added as he poured another drink for the three men (after all, Millard was the writer).

  “So now I just take cash or have someone I trust take cash to the chief, if I am filming a western. If I am in a city that has ghettos, I look for someone who needs the money and I just give it to them. The hell with tax write offs,” Wayne said.

  “How the hell don’t you get noticed going around in public?” Millard asked.

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Powell added.

  “Easy. I take off my toupee and walk around, and I mean no one recognizes me,” Wayne said with a laugh.

  “That’s some story,” Millard said.

  “I think the story about what happened to the place we are hanging around right now must be a helluva better story than what I just said,” Wayne said. “You ought to make a script out of this, Oscar.

  “Now I feel a story coming on,” Millard said. “One more for the road,” he added as he poured the last of the bottle and they finished eating the snacks and drinking the booze.

  “That’s it for me fellas. It’s my turn to tell the ghost story tonight,” Wayne said.

  As much as Dick Powell had worried about downtime on the set and the boredom that could come with it — nothing could have been further than the truth when it came to the cast and crew and filming of The Conqueror.

  If it wasn’t sand-skiing exhibitions, it was drinking games with raspberry lime rickeys — the main drink-of-choice at Susan Hayward’s trailer. Or, it was just people taking off and wandering around the vast lands nearby. But lately, two things started to dominate after hours when the filming was over and everyone had free time. The first was a talent show where three judges came up with a subject and everyone who wanted to participate in the contest did so in order to win $250. The second event was the nightly ghost storytelling extravaganza that was just about trying to scare people to death, as a good ghost story does. None of the stories had been really scary. Some had been corny. Most had been bad. John Wayne hadn’t gone yet and it now was his turn. He had promised everyone a good one and the cast and crew and built a big bonfire and drank a fair share of alcohol to be ready.

  “Everybody gather in close and get ready for a story that will scare you to death,” Wayne said as he sat ‘Indian-style’ on the ground near enough to the fire to stay warm and for the flames to give off an ominous shadow from his large frame. Wayne knew about settings — he had been in the movie business a long time. He really wanted to entertain everyone with the ghost story and the horseback ride with Dick and Oscar earlier in the day had given him what he needed — a setting.

  “The story takes place at a small, out-of-the way motel that all of you are familiar with after driving for long stretches on a highway between one job and the next. There is nothing but darkness. Even the headlights from your car don’t seem to be lighting up the road in front of the car. Anyways… our man of the hour was always aware that travelling at night on the dark open road wasn’t a smart thing to do. He bought a dog — a German Shepard to be exact — because he had learned from a pet store owner that German Shepards are the smartest breed of dogs in the world and easy to train. Furthermore, their loyalty is second to none,” Wayne began. “Can I get a taste of water? My throat’s gone bone dry.”

  Someone handed him a canteen and Wayne took a long swig. “Now I need one of them cold raspberry lime rickeys. Susan, would you do the honors?” Wayne asked of his leading lady Susan Hayward, who got up from her seat on the ground, walked over to a table and poured the Duke a tall glass of her wonder drink.

  “Tanks,” Wayne said, and started again on his ghost story.

  “Jack Frost loved his dog and the dog loved him right back. Jack was a traveling salesman and did very well for himself. His bosses couldn’t believe that Jack was always volunteering to drive out to the most remote parts of their state to not only cold call, but to actually sell a lot of their widgets. Jack didn’t mind it. He was good at what he did and never felt unsafe because of his dog, Baron. Baron was unique and Jack knew it. Whenever Jack was worried about anything he would hold his right hand out to the dog and the dog would lick his hand if everything was alright. If there was any danger — Baron wouldn’t lick Jack’s hand but would growl at a low pitch. This made it extremely easy for Jack to pull into those dark, cheap roadside motels I mentioned earlier. And tonight was no different for Jack and Baron,” Wayne said as he took a sip of his drink.

  “Jack had been driving a long time and he knew Baron was getting antsy. He saw a sign that read ‘motel next right’ and so Jack turned off and soon found himself pulling up to the only structures he had seen and probably existed for miles. The name of the place was ‘The Enchanted Cottages,’” Wayne said as he slyly grinned at both Powell and Millard.

  Both Powell and Millard winked at each other and grew even more interested in Wayne’s ghost story.

  “Kind of an odd name, eh Baron?” Jack asked the dog as he watched the dog bound out of the car and trot over to the nearest tree to relieve himself. “Good boy,” Jack called out to the dog as he made his way to the office. Baron trotted back to their car and hopped in as Jack rang the doorbell under the sign marked ‘office.’ Wayne took another sip of his drink and started back up.

  “After a few minutes a man answered the door and beckoned Jack to enter. The man slowly walked to the small counter in the office and pointed to the registration paper on the desk. Jack was used to this and filled in the appropriate information. The man who ran the office, and whom Jack assumed was the owner, glanced at the paper and then at Jack. “So, you have a dog?” the man asked. Jack nodded. “I love animals. The dog is welcome,” the man said. Jack thanked the man, asked him about the weather and if others were staying at the Enchanted Cottages. “Just three others, all in separate rooms. If there is a complaint about the dog — out you go. I don’t care what time it is,” the man said. “My dog will not bother anyone,” Jack replied. “Fifteen bucks for the night,” the man said. Jack paid him, got his key and went to his room.

  Jack entered the room and noted that it was no different than the many others he had stayed at over the years. He saw the bed and quickly undressed and started to fall asleep as soon as Baron crawled under the bed leaving his head peeking out so Jack could drop his hand d
own and Baron could either lick it — signaling everything was okay, or not lick it — signaling trouble. Jack thought he had been asleep for days when he heard the screams. He put his hand down and there was no lick, just Baron’s low growl. Jack got up quickly and threw on his pants and shoes and cautiously opened the door and peered out. He heard silence and the silence was very loud after the blood-curdling screams he had just heard. He motioned for Baron to follow him to the office of The Enchanted Cottages and rapped very loudly on the door. Within a few minutes the man who had signed him in earlier appeared and asked him what the hell he was doing. Jack explained about the screams and the man told him that he had heard nothing, and that maybe it was one of the other guests either humping another one of the guests or that one of the other three guests had a visitor and it was their sex screams. Jack didn’t like the man’s suggestions and told him that Baron wouldn’t have growled unless it was something severe. The man then noticed Baron and petted him. “Nice dog,” he added.

  Jack thanked him and again told him that if there’d been nothing wrong Baron would have licked his hand and not growled. The man agreed to check on all the other rooms that were rented or vacant and would report to Jack once he had done so. Jack offered to go with the man, but the man mumbled something about liability. Jack and Baron returned to their room where Jack patiently waited for the report of the office manager or owner or both. Jack killed some time by working on his expense report. After an hour of waiting there was a knock at the door and Baron didn’t growl. Jack knew it was the man and let him in. “All three of my other guests heard nothing and everything is all right with them except they might yell at you for making me knock on their doors when they all wanted a good night’s sleep. You must have been dreaming and if that dog of yours is as smart as you say… and I don’t doubt it…maybe it was reacting to your dream,” the man offered up and then bid a good night to Jack and patted Baron on his head.

  Jack knew that had never happened before, but hadn’t he been taught in his line of business that there was always the ‘first time?’ He took off his pants and shoes and lay on the bed. Baron resumed his position. Jack put his hand down and Baron licked it. Soon Jack was asleep,” Wayne said. The Duke then got up and stretched his legs, took another sip from his drink and started his story from where he had left off. Everyone was listening and John Wayne loved it.