by Sam Moffie
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Why should you?” the man answered back.
“Because if you were not who you said you were… I would be dead,” Boris said.
“You’re not only smart, but you think on your feet and you follow orders very well. I also hear that you can cook as well as you can kill,” the man said.
“I’m a better cook,” Boris said with a smile and that remark made all nine men sitting in front of him laugh. The four men who had hustled him into the room stood in the back and didn’t show any emotion to Gila’s comment. Boris was used to men like that.
“It’s all in your file. We have a very important job for you to do. We also have a report we want you to look at after you leave. It’s not very long, but you will find it relevant,” the man said.
“What is it you want me to do?”
The man who had been doing all the talking got up from his chair and walked over to Boris. He handed him the file and then sat on top of the half-moon shaped desk made out of stainless steel.
“You have to kill Zavert and get his files on this John Wayne nonsense,” the man said. “Can you do that?”
“But of course comrade,” Boris said, as he thought these guys are powerful they don’t use ‘Mr.’ before Zavert.
“Someone has to pay for this mistake and we decided it was Zavert,” the man said. “After you kill him you are to get in touch with the four men who brought you here and they will explain to you how to get in touch with them. Read the report after they drop you off. The summary will startle you,” the man said. He then climbed down from the table and patted Boris on his left shoulder. Then he and the other eight men left the room. One of the men who had brought Boris to the room then motioned for Boris to follow him. And Boris did.
Boris not only found Zavert’s file on the John Wayne fiasco, he made sure that he found the files on himself, Alexei and Ivan. Boris Gila was going to do his best to make sure that those nine men had to work really hard to kill Alexei and Ivan if they decided to do it. After all, Alexei was his best friend, and Ivan had saved him from starvation. Boris contacted the four men he was told to, and handed them Zavert’s file on John Wayne. He then went back to his apartment to cook himself a terrific meal. He started by sautéing onions. Sometimes he wondered what he liked more — the smell of the onions sautéing or the taste. He decided it was both.
While the food was cooking in the oven and simmering over the stove, Boris poured himself a very large glass of vodka. He took out the reports that Zavert had kept on himself, Alexei and Ivan. He went underneath his sink and brought out a glass bottle of highly flammable liquid that he had always kept in case he had to burn some documents. He took a gulp of his vodka and put the glass down. He went to his bathroom and opened up the window. He took out a very large pot from his kitchen cabinet and poured some petro into it and then started to tear the pages from the three reports into small pieces. He threw a match into the pot and watched all of Zavert’s information on the trio go up in smoke, which made him think of something Ivan used to say:
“Toughski shitski,” Gila said as he went and checked on his dinner. It was going to be a few more minutes before it was ready and he went to get his glass of vodka and the report that the man had given him about ‘… this John Wayne nonsense.’
It was more of a summary about the entire incident. What had kept Boris Gila’s mind going around and around until right now was that whomever the nine men had in America was very good.
The summary showed that Wayne was going to be killed by the very government he admired and the system that he believed in. It wasn’t going to be quick. It wasn’t going to be admitted to. It was going to take a few years for the radiation sicknesses, which Wayne and many others had been exposed to, kicked in. Then, Communist Russia could capitalize on the propaganda bonanza that this would stir all around the world — that the powers that be in America willingly exposed their own people to nuclear fallout in order to maintain their obsession with equal footing. The report ended with this question: “What wouldn’t the American government do if it would do this?”
Boris Gila couldn’t answer that question, because he knew what his own government was capable of doing. What had interested him the most was that Uncle Joe wanted Wayne dead for his own reasons, but it was actually going to be John Wayne’s America that would ultimately do him in.
“And now I am bored with this irony,” Boris said as he took the summary report and burned that, too.
He went back to the kitchen to check on his dinner and noticed that he had one wooden spoon in each hand.
chapter three
DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME
“Whatever limits us, we call fate.”
— Emerson
Howard Hughes couldn’t sleep. He was tossing and turning so much, it reminded him of how uncomfortable he had been that first morning, awakening in the hospital after his near-fatal crash.
“Maybe some of those pills I have will help me sleep,” he said to his empty bedroom as he groaned from the sudden dagger of pain that stabbed his lumbar region when he sat up. “Then again, maybe I need some drugs to ease the pain,” he moaned as he fell back onto his bed and sighed.
I am way too rich for this to be happening he thought. “I know, after downing some of my medicine, I’ll read my bank statements. That’s like counting sheep and I will get the sleep that I need,” Hughes said as he gritted his teeth through the pain, tensed his muscles and bolted up from the bed quickly making his way to the medicine cabinet where all the little bottles of his prescribed (and un-prescribed) drugs where neatly arranged for quick identification.
He opened up the cabinet door and smiled when his eyes came into contact with all the bottles of assorted pills that were perfectly lined up with the labels facing him,
What should I take? he asked himself. I know. How about a little old — fashioned mix and match?
And Hughes proceeded to take one pill from each of the bottles that were sitting on the bottom shelf of his medicine cabinet.
He swallowed one pill at a time and washed them down with his favorite ice-cold water from his favorite mountain stream. He was surprised at how quickly he started to feel no pain… better than he had felt in weeks,
Must have been the perfect mixture of the pills, he mused. How come the doctors couldn’t give me instructions on what I just happened to discover myself? I’m going to go my own way from this point forward about what medicines I put in my body.
He went to the bedroom desk and grabbed the bank statements that he hoped would help put him to sleep as he read the staggering amounts of money that was all his own.
He went to his bed and fluffed up the pillows. He laid back and started marveling over the amounts of money in each account, all the while hoping these bank balances would put him to sleep.
He was wrong. Not only did the vast amount of wealth he had rev him up, the mixture of drugs he had taken was starting to make him jumpy.
But he wasn’t in pain, and that made him happy.
But he couldn’t sleep, and that made him mad.
He returned the bank statements to his desk and was just about to grab his little black book of women, which he could call at a late hour for some sexcapades, when his eyes spied the report.
“That fucking report!” Hughes yelled. “That fucking red sand, and it is all on my lot at RKO. I have to see it for myself.”
He briskly walked to his large closet and opened the left door. He grabbed the first thing he saw and walked over to the right side of the closet where he opened that door and brought forth a pair of boots that were exactly what all his hand-picked loyal employees wore on their feet. He was already in his undershirt, underwear and socks (yes, Howard Hughes always kept his socks on when not getting wet). He grabbed the report and ran downstairs to call his personal security detail.
Howard Hughes was never put on hold; even if it was in the late hours of night. He told his security people to clea
r the RKO lot except for them, and when he showed up they were to leave the interior of the studio and guard the outside walls so no one could get in or see him.
None of Hughes’ security team questioned this order. They were all under his command, and had pledged allegiance to him by holding their left hand over a burning $100 bill until the skin burned.
Hughes jumped into his roadster and sped off towards his studio.
Howard Hughes always drove over the speed limit, not just because he loved to go very fast in anything that had an engine, but also because he never would receive a speeding ticket.
Ever!
Why?
“Because I’m rich, damn it!” he once told Dick Powell, when Dick had gone to pick up his boss at Hughes’ home. Hughes had a doctor’s appointment and was under orders from the doctors not to drive, because of the medication he was taking.
“Well, I know a lot of well-to-do-people who get tickets,” Powell replied as he waited for the policeman who had just pulled him over to write him up for a speeding ticket.
“Watch this, kid,” Hughes said to Powell. “Excuse me officer, do you like money or sex?”
“Is that a trick question, sir?” the cop replied sarcastically.
“No, it is not. Please answer,” urged Hughes.
“Look buddy, I am not in the mood for this,” the cop said angrily.
Oh oh, Powell thought.
“Name is Hughes officer, not ‘buddy,’” Hughes said very sarcastically.
“Hughes as in… Howard?” the cop said hoping his guess was wrong.
“Why, yes,” replied Howard with a smile, knowing that he had the policeman and Powell right where he wanted both.
“What can I do for you Mr. Hughes?” the cop asked Howard.
“Answer the question!”
“Money,” said the cop.
“Now a speeding ticket is going to cost my good friend Dick Powell about $15, right?” guessed Hughes.
Hearing his name, Powell turned to the officer and smiled, figuring his name would be recognized, too.
The cop looked at Dick and asked him if he was also in the airplane business?
Powell slumped. Boy when off the big screen you’re really off the big screen, he thought.
“Dick Powell is one of the greatest actors Hollywood ever had officer. And now he is one great producer and director at my studio, RKO,” Hughes concluded.
“I am sorry, Mr. Powell. I am sorry, Mr. Hughes,” the cop said as he looked downward and kicked at the gravel that Powell’s car had come to rest on when the cop pulled it over for speeding.
“Money being your answer, here is a $100 bill. I don’t want to be stopped for speeding again whether I am by myself or being driven by someone else,” Hughes announced to the cop as he pressed the crisp $100 bill into the hand of the officer.
“Speeding… oh no sir. I pulled Mr. Powell over to warn the both of you that the road up ahead is very narrow and that you should proceed with caution,” the cop lied.
“Officer, I see that your badge number is 714. I’m going to call your superiors and tell them what a great protector of the public you are,” Hughes said as he motioned to Dick to drive on… and fast.
“I can’t do what you just did, boss,” pointed out Powell.
“Of course you can’t. I am Howard Hughes.”
Hughes smiled, as he recalled that incident and the other previous incidents that had involved him, the local cops, his speeding, his lack of getting a ticket and he floored the gas pedal of his roadster.
Hughes had ordered his private security team to clear the entire lot of RKO Studios and to stand outside the front gate to await his arrival.
When a few of the minor RKO employees grumbled or questioned what was going on with the evacuation of the place, Hughes’ team gave them such menacing glances that the employees moved out of the lot faster than they had ever moved in their lives.
“Gentlemen, are we alone?” Howard asked his crack, private security team.
The men all nodded yes.
“Very good. I want you to lock the gates after I enter, and continually walk around the outside of the gates, fences and walls that surround my studio making sure no one enters anywhere until I come back out. Is that clear, gentlemen?” Hughes asked his team.
Again, all the men nodded yes and followed Hughes’ orders, as Howard walked back onto the studio lot.
Howard’s back wasn’t bothering him (thanks to his pills) and he jogged to the giant costume and prop warehouse located in the center of the RKO Studio lot. His mind was racing as fast as his pulse as he went inside the giant building and turned on the lights.
Where the hell are the costumes and props from all my naval movies, he wondered as he ran from aisle to aisle searching for what he had come to find.
“Everything is a blur!” he yelled out to the huge building, full of every imaginable piece of clothing and prop item that had ever had been in a RKO motion picture. “Nothing is in order,” he said as he began tossing all sorts of items into the isles in search for what he had come for.
He did find a regulation U.S. Army canteen. He swished it around and was surprised that there was some liquid in it. He removed the cap and took a whiff. It smelled like vinegar. Hughes noticed that the pills had given him cotton mouth and he had a mini debate with himself to drink what was inside the canteen.
“What the hell,” he said as he downed what was in the canteen. “Not bad, not bad at all.”
At least his cotton mouth was cured for the moment.
He frantically ran around looking for what he knew was inside this vast museum of movie artifacts, when he slipped on something he had already tossed into the aisle and crashed into some shelves. A lot of clothes and miscellaneous props fell on and around him.
“Fuck!” Hughes screamed… and then he started laughing, for right next to him was the very costume he had been trying so hard to locate.
It was an outfit from the 1948 Republic Studios’ film The Wake of the Red Witch. Howard had bought this suit, along with other costumes and props, from the founder and president of Republic Studios, Herbert J. Yates.
Yates was the epitome of a cheap Hollywood studio head. He had formed Republic Studios by merging other studios that operated on shoe-string budgets. The nickname for those studios in and around Hollywood was ‘Poverty Row.’
Yates always needed quick operating capital. Hughes was always looking for a deal.
“Yates makes ‘B’ movies,” Hughes told Powell after Howard had purchased what he wanted from Yates. “However he is always running out of ‘A’ money.”
One of Howard’s favorite movies was The Wake of the Red Witch; coincidentally; it starred John Wayne.
Hughes had been hearing the critics harping about RKO’s lack of ‘water pictures,’ so he had made plans to develop some screenplays and see if any good ‘water pictures’ could be put together by his staff.
“After all, the 50s haven’t been very good to ‘water pictures’ other than war ones,” Hughes told Dick Powell, who silently groaned.
And with good reason, Powell thought.
Howard Hughes wanted to remake Red Witch which itself was essentially a partial remake of the 1942 Paramount Pictures’ Reap the Wild Wind.
This was one of the reasons that Howard bought as much as he could from Herbert. Hughes knew that he could outfit his remake on the cheap from the killing he would make on giving Yates ten cents on the dollar for the many costumes and props he owned, and that included a lot of items from Red Witch.
Hughes looked at the helmet that went with the armored diving suit that Wayne had worn during the filming of Red Witch; it was the object of his desire for the night.
An armored diving suit comprised of helmet with glass viewing ports, waterproof cloth, waterproof gloves and waterproofed, weighted boots.
Being an inventor, an engineer and a daredevil (but not much of a scientist), Howard believed that by wearing this suit, he could wa
lk on the red sand he had trucked in to finish the post-production work on The Conqueror and be protected from any radioactivity. He quickly found the rest of the armored diving suit and put it on.
“Now all I need is a Geiger counter, and I know where that must be,” he said gleefully.
He went back to the isle where he had found the official U.S. Army canteen. He found the canteen and shook it, hoping there might be some of that liquid in it. It was empty, but he quickly found a Geiger counter amongst the other official U.S. Army items that were near each other, and walked as fast as he could in the heavy suit holding the helmet in his right hand and the Geiger counter in his left hand.
“Well, at least someone must have liked the army and put army stuff together,” he remarked as he exited the costume and prop warehouse and headed for building number seven, where The Conqueror was wrapping up post-production work.
It took Hughes a lot longer to get to building number seven, but he made it and was quite proud of himself for not only doing that, but for also coming up with the idea of protecting himself while he found out for himself about the red sand.
“Should have done something like this way back when I found out about it years ago, you dummy,” Hughes accused himself.
“Yeah, but I am a rich dummy!” he shouted back to himself as he put on the helmet and went into the building.
He turned on the lights and was amazed at what he saw.
“It’s like being in a time machine, except that I’m alone, which is how I like it to be,” Hughes said as he started walking, or staggering, towards the part of building number seven that had the most red sand spread around. He clicked on the Geiger account and it registered nothing. Hughes sighed, but then stopped dead in his tracks.
“What if it’s broken?” he asked himself out loud, after all he had bought it from that cheap bastard Yates. He then did something that one of his most trusted and respected engineers had taught him about mechanical devices.