Living With Miss G (14 page)

Many years in the future, Miss G and I would often discuss Howard
Hughes and wonder what had happened to him. It was always clear that Mr.
Hughes had enormous power and an enormous amount of money. He was
vibrantly pro-American, violently anti-communist and when immersed in
aviation projects he was a near genius. He also possessed powerful friends in the
armed services, the government and the CIA. We read in the newspapers that in
1974 the CIA and U.S. Navy had spent six hundred and fifty million dollars
from a secret fund for the operation code named “Jennifer.” As it turned out,
Howard had something to do with it.

The U.S. Navy was aware that a Soviet submarine prowling off the coast
of Hawaii had suffered an internal explosion and had sunk with the loss of all
hands in 18,000 feet of water. That was a fantastic depth to even consider
attempting salvage, but they wanted that submarine. They wanted the Soviet
secrets. The drawback was that a diving operation of that nature was bound to
attract media attention from all over the globe, including Soviet attention. How
could they keep it secret?

Someone thought of Howard Hughes. Everyone knew Howard Hughes
was an eccentric billionaire, always attempting outrageous exploits and nearly
getting killed, but most of the time making a large profit. Supposing Mr.
Hughes, apparently of his own volition, formed a company ostensibly devoted to
dredging rich mineral deposits from the ocean bed near Hawaii. There was a
precedent. A great fortune in diamonds had already been scooped off the seabed
near the coast of Namibia. It was just the sort of long-shot operation that would
appeal to this adventurous Texan, and the public would believe it.

The report went on to explain that the whole scientific world and the media
had been completely spoofed by this operation. It was not until the U.S. Navy,
with its polite naval etiquette, sent the bodies of the dead Russian crew to the
Soviets that anyone knew what had really occurred.

No doubt, Mr. Hughes was one of the most puzzling and secretive men in
the whole wide world. Who else on some sort of whim would build the largest
wooden seaplane in the history of aviation and with the comparatively lowpowered engines of those days expect to get it off the water? Mr. Hughes did
just that. Agreed, he only made one maiden flight lifting it off the ocean for a
short distance, and it never flew again.

He took Miss G to see it when it was still under construction. She came
back exclaiming, “God Almighty, Rene! It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever seen.
Each wing is as long as a street. It’s as big as a block of flats!”

She also related how in the very first period of their association (when
certainly Mr. Hughes had her separated out as a possible future bride), he used
to fly her to various meetings he had on the East Coast. At one rendezvous in a
posh house in Washington, D.C., Miss G, Howard, and a high-ranking general
were together and had a first drink.

“Suddenly,” said Miss G, “there’s a loud ring on the doorbell, someone
opened it, and into the room walks Veronica Lake—the real Veronica Lake.
Who could forget during the early war years that lovely, young actress with the
flowing golden hair and the radiant smile? What the hell was she doing in the
general’s house with Howard? Was she there to plan some great war deal, or
was it supposed to be some romantic tryst with me making up the foursome?”

“So what did you do?” I said.
“I just left. I am good at leaving. Washington is full of hotels.”
Whether Howard invented drama like this or just didn’t know he was

Therefore, when in the middle of our leisure period in Lake Tahoe, Mr.
Hughes reappeared and announced it might be a great idea if we all flew down
to Argentina, we were not at all surprised. Miss G had no objections, and where
Miss G went I went. I didn’t have any objections either. Mr. Hughes was
probably arranging a revolution, but what the hell?

Around this period MGM remembered that they had an actress named Ava
Gardner on their books, and keeping her suspended wasn’t doing them a whole
lot of good. They began to make vague mutterings through the agencies about a
novel they had just purchased named
Bhowani Junction
. They were considering
how they should handle this big project.

It was set in the pre-1947 period when India was about to become
independent of the British Empire. Miss G was to be cast as the beautiful, halfEnglish, half-Indian girl torn between those two different cultures.

Miss G was still on her high horse, miffed that MGM rented her out for an
exorbitant sum to United Artists for
The Barefoot Contessa
and then suspended
her. As far as she was concerned, they could go and jump into the Pacific. Her
immediate thought now was Argentina.

According to Mr. Hughes, we had to make one stop in Miami for
undisclosed business reasons. We flew in a huge, empty plane. Howard and his
co-pilot, Glen Odekirk, were up in the cockpit. Traveling with us were a steward
to serve drinks and a clutch of seven young men, all crew-cut and gray-flannelsuited, who were part of Mr. Hughes’ staff. I got along with one called Butch,
who was friendlier than the others.

Miss G settled down to some happy drinking, and the word came back that
if we felt like it we could come up to the cockpit and watch what was going on.
We did. I was fascinated. Indeed Mr. Hughes was very pleasant to me, pointing
out various landmarks and explaining the various weather reports and navigation
details that came in through the receiver. Miss G soon got tired of this and went
back to dry martinis. I stayed on, never dreaming that within the next few hours
I was going to be scared out of my wits.

Flying down over Florida and plainly nearing Miami, Glen said, “Mr.
Hughes, shall I clear our landing with Miami airport?”
“No,” said Mr. Hughes. “We’re landing at the U.S. Army military air base.
You know where that is.”
“Yes, sir,” said Glen, and on we go. Suddenly a suspicious and irritated
voice comes over the speaker. “You are approaching a U.S. Army airfield. Will
you please identify yourselves? Over.”
“Shall I identify, sir?” asks Glen.
“No,” said Mr. Hughes.
Glen’s voice choked a bit, but he replied, “Yes, sir.”
The military voice clips back at him. “Repeat. You are approaching the
landing strip of a U.S. Army air-base. Identify yourself at once. Do you read
me? Identify yourself at once. Over.”
“No,” said Howard Hughes flatly.
Glen said, “Mr. Hughes, sir, we cannot land on a U.S. air base without
identifying ourselves. Sir, we could be shot down.” Mr. Hughes made no reply.
He was perfectly under control.
If you could attach a color to a human voice, you could say that the army
base officer’s voice was now purple, shot with crimson. He was enraged. We
were now obviously losing altitude for our long approach.
The voice snaps. “This is a warning. If you intend to land on this air strip
without identifying yourselves, you are liable to be arrested or shot. Identify
yourselves!”
Glen said quickly, “Mr. Hughes, if we don’t identify ourselves, I am going
to lose my license.”
Mr. Hughes’ sharp retort was unforgettable. “If you do identify yourself,
you will lose your license anyway.”
Glen clenched his teeth, gripped his wheel, and brought us down onto the
runway. We slowed to a halt. The engines were switched off. The door was
opened, steps lowered. Miss G, unaware of any trouble, came forward and
followed Mr. Hughes down. I could see soldiers collected there. A militarylooking car was also there.
When they were out of earshot, Glen said in a tight voice, “The bastard
obviously had it all cleared from higher authority even before we took off. No
one told the control tower. I expect the tower was ringing up to get permission to
open fire with anti-aircraft guns when they got told it was important brass
arriving.”
Big deal–I lost at least ten pounds of weight through sheer apprehension.
Miss G and Mr. Hughes drove off in their car. We all descended and found there
were other cars waiting for us. They drove us to a nearby villa complex Mr.
Hughes had rented. He held his meeting in the lounge of the biggest house and
gave no explanation of what the hell he was up to.
“We shall be here for a few days,” he said in his quick, clipped Texan
accent. “And I don’t want anyone to know about our visit. Got it? We’ll all use
fictional names.”
I thought that sounds like real spooky, international stuff. Any more
landings like that, and I’ll go back to St. Louis. My pseudonym was Miss
Mearene, my first name only. Miss G was Ann Clark, the name Robert Taylor
had adopted for their clandestine association.
Mr. Hughes then gave me the real stern secret agent look. “Rene, you are
allocated one of the guest houses overlooking the swimming pool. Lock yourself
in. If anyone calls, answer no questions. Tomorrow morning lock your door
behind you, and come over here.”
How right he was. Next morning, the door bell rang with loud intensity,
and there was an elderly lady with gray hair outside giving me a steely look
through gold-rimmed spectacles. She sounded irritated.
“Who are you, and who do you work for?”
I lied like a born-again secret agent. “Ma’am, I’ve been recruited by an
agency. Just told to stay here and show up when required.”
“Well, how many people are there in your party?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“How’d you get into this villa?”
“The door was left unlocked for me.”
“Who’s paying for all this?”
“I’ve no idea. The agency settles all that.”
“I want to come in and inspect the house.”
“Sorry, ma’am, that ain’t allowed. I am not allowed to let anybody in this
villa.”
The old bird, who I guessed was some sort of caretaker, looked at me
straight in the eye through her shiny spectacles for a good ten seconds. Then she
said. “You’re either the smartest god-damned nigger I’ve met or the dumbest.”
She walked away.
I smiled and closed the door. I knew which description I preferred. Hell, if
Miss G fired me, I might join the CIA.
I met Miss G by the pool. She was calm and rested. We had coffee and
splashed around. Mr. Hughes seemed to have disappeared. We stayed there for
five days, doing nothing but drinking and splashing in the pool. Food was sent in
from this little restaurant Mr. Hughes liked. Steak, baked potatoes with sour
cream, peas, and salad became our fixed diet. We didn’t even wonder where Mr.
Hughes was.
On the fifth day he reappeared. We had new orders. Apparently Argentina
was out for the time being. A boat was waiting at a nearby harbor to ferry us to a
seaplane which would fly us over to Nassau in the Bahamas. Mr. Hughes had
rented a house there which once belonged to Sir Harry Oakes.
Butch knew something about Sir Harry’s background. He had made his
millions, vast millions, when he discovered a gold mine in Canada. Moving to
England, he made something of a mark in British society, gave extensively to all
the right causes, and was knighted for his charitable works. Eventually he retired
to the Bahamas. There on this little known British colonial possession, he built a
huge, rambling manor house in Nassau and settled down to become master of all
he surveyed. One dark and silent night he was murdered in his bed. The murder
seemed motiveless. There were a couple of suspects and eventually a trial, but
the crime was never really solved.
“You mean to tell me Mr. Hughes has rented that house!” I exclaimed in
shock. “Isn’t it haunted?”
“Probably,“ said Butch. “Mr. Hughes likes mysteries.”
So off to Nassau we flew in the seaplane. After my recent experience of
approaching a U.S. Army air base without being shot down, I was now quite
hardened to Hughes Aviation Travel, Inc. Flying into Nassau, we could see the
island from the air. It was flat, the coastline indented, with beautiful beaches and
palm trees everywhere.
We skimmed above the sea and splashed down not more than a few
hundred yards from Sir Harry Oakes’ manor house which stood in green lawns
amidst shady trees. A motor boat puttered out to take us ashore, and was it hot.
By the time we got to the landing jetty and into the shade of the old fashioned
building we were gasping for drinks. They were served by white-coated waiters
on the wide veranda that provided a breeze from the sea. Mr. Hughes had
certainly pulled strings to rent this corner of the British Empire.
Everything about it was a bit heavy and stuffy. There was an air of quiet
relaxation about the place. The estate was run by a black overseer, a sort of
butler who served first under Sir Harry Oakes and then under the Duke and
Duchess of Windsor. The Duke was the Governor of Nassau at the time. He
seemed to think that his position gave him baronial privilege. A short distance
from the main house was a collection of cottages where the servants lived. The
overseer thought I should stay in one of them. I made it clear that as Miss G’s
maid I was attached to her by threads of gold. I would sleep in the room next to
hers. He came around to my point of view without argument.
I went in to see Miss G, who was fanning herself because it was so hot.
She said, “Well, why don’t you turn on your fan?”
I said, “I haven’t got one.”
“I’ll call Howard,” said Miss G. “He’ll fix that.”
Two minutes later Mr. Hughes called back. Miss G laughed and put down
the phone. “Howard called the overseer. He told Howard that servants were not
allowed fans in their rooms. Howard told him that unless a fan was in your
room within fifteen minutes, he would be seeking another job.” The fan was in
my room in ten minutes.
I did feel sorry for the poor guy. His whole life had been run around
timetables. Both Sir Harry and the Duke and Duchess had insisted upon
breakfast, lunch, and dinner at precise times.
I told him that Miss G’s idea of a precise time was imprecise. She would
wake up shortly after lunch and start on her first large gin and tonic with a twist
of lime. After a few of those and maybe a swim or a walk, we would probably
be ready for dinner. For the whole week we were there, the poor guy was always
running to me saying, “Rene, we must get organized. We simply must get
organized.” He had no hope.
We saw Mr. Hughes from time to time, but mainly he was out doing
business, about which we knew nothing. At the end of the week, without
warning, Mr. Hughes decided he was going to fly the seaplane back to Miami
for more hush-hush business and was taking Miss G with him, but leaving the
rest of us behind. That included Glen Odekirk, the co-pilot, and the posse of
seven guys. We had to pack up and meet them back in Miami by ordinary
airlines.
Packing Miss G’s eighteen suitcases was no problem, as I hadn’t unpacked
more than a couple of them anyway. Some of the others contained only one
beautiful and expensive gown. Miss G loved trailing those around with her.
There was also her jewelry case of which I was the sole custodian.
I had a lot to think about because, so far, I had been flying around America
and the Bahamas under a false name, offering no identification, and I had no
passport. How the hell was I, a black person, going to get back into the land of
my birth? Everybody else had passports. Butch and Glen, who knew their way
around, said we would manage it.
Landing back in Miami, the fun started. Our immigration official could
have passed for public executioner. Who was this black dame with eighteen
suitcases and no passport trying to enter the U.S. of A.? How the hell, on the
spur of the moment, Glen thought up the idea, I’ll never know. I never really
wanted to know.
Glen was standing in line next to me. The immigration officer fixed him
with steel-pointed eyes, “Are you with her?” The “her” sounded as if I were a
female rattlesnake.
“I’m her manager,” said Glen coolly. I mean Glen was an upstanding,
clean-cut American whom everyone could trust.
I thought, “Oh, God, manager of what?”
The customs officer thought the same thing. “Manager of what?”
“This lady is a famous recording star from South America.”
“Yeah?”
“She doesn’t speak any English.” I’m taking her to our recording studio.”
To my total terror, Glen then turned to me and winked. The customs
officer couldn’t see him. Then Glen said, “Gorra-manchku-ch-chatta.”
I got the idea. What a great new invented language. I gulped and answered,
“Gorra-chutta-chatta-me.” I sounded great, I thought. Glen turned back to the
officer without a trace of hesitancy. “The lady wishes to know if you want to
open her cases and examine her–the–er–costumes–she wears for her operatic
performances.”
“Yes,” said the officer.
I thought, “Oh God, if Glen goes on like this, he’ll have me singing an aria
from Tosca before I know it.”
The officer fingered Miss G’s gorgeous dresses. A couple came from the
Fontana collection which she wore in
The Barefoot Contessa
. They were
convincing. He looked suspiciously at my jewelry box but seemed reassured
when Glen said it contained only costume jewelry, all worthless trinkets. The
immigration officer tagged all the baggage and let us through.
Outside, Glen grinned and said, “Only got a couple more hurdles to clear
before we’re through.”
“Tell me,” I said weakly.
“We’ve received a message that Mr. Hughes has booked the whole floor of
a Miami hotel for us. Being Mr. Hughes, he has not revealed where he is, only
that when he’s ready he’ll call us, and we can rejoin him and Miss Gardner.”
I said, “Good, I need a shower.”
“Trouble is,” said Butch, “they don’t allow colored guests in the hotel, so
we’ve got to figure out a way to get you through the foyer, into the elevator and
up to a room.”
“You could pack me in a bag,” I said.
It now became something of a Marx Brothers comedy. I was escorted by
seven big guys. A couple of them signed in and signaled when the coast was
clear. Then, sandwiched between four of them and hidden from view, I was
hustled through the foyer and into the elevator. There was an elevator operator,
and we thought we had fooled him. We hadn’t.
The phone rang, and Glen answered it. The voice on the other end said, “I
understand you’ve got a nigger girl up there in your rooms. Nigger girls are not
allowed in this hotel. She will have to leave at once.”
By this time we were all a bit fed up and harassed by our journey. A little
fed up with childish games.
“Listen bud,” Glen said, “our boss reserved and paid for this entire floor.
The lady you’re talking about is one of our group, and we are waiting for
instructions from our boss. Get it straight. We’ll stand for no more of this
nonsense from the front desk. If we get any more of it, our boss who you may or
may not know, will buy the whole hotel and fire everyone on the staff. Do I
make myself clear?” There were no more phone calls.
Later that afternoon we rejoined Miss G and Mr. Hughes in another villa
complex he had rented. There was a huge modern house surrounded by huge
gardens with swimming pool and guest cottages. It probably cost him a fortune,
but what was a fortune to Mr. Hughes? He was not very amused when we retold
our story of getting through customs. We were rather pleased with ourselves.
We thought we had done rather well. Mr. Hughes didn’t think so at all.
“You mean they bought that story?” he said.
I said, “They sure did.”
“No wonder our country is in such a sad mess,” said Mr. Hughes and
walked out of the room.
Once more we settled down to our sunbathing, swimming pool, and gin
and tonic existence, while Mr. Hughes disappeared on his regular business deals.
By now Miss G was getting rather bored by the lack of excitement. It came to an
end quite abruptly.
I had noticed that another of Mr. Hughes’ bodyguards seemed to have
joined our ranks. We didn’t see much of him, but he would appear around lunch
time. I’d offer him a glass of beer in the kitchen, and we’d chat. One day in the
middle of drinking his beer, I saw him looking at me in a very cold manner. I
said, “Anything up?”