To Kill the Duke (24 page)

“What did he say, boss?” Powell asked. “How did he screw up our language?”

“It wasn’t how he said things. It was how he used words. He actually said Communism was ahead of Capitalism when it came to ‘high-quality learning environments’” Hughes repeated.

“Was he talking about kids going to school?” Powell guessed.

“I think so,” said Hughes.

“Why is the Pentagon having discussions about kids in school in Russia versus kids in school in America? Furthermore, why would they have this topic on their radar?” a bewildered Powell asked.

“I’ll get to that sometime shortly. This asshole even used the word worklessness,” Hughes said with a laugh. “Know what that means?”

Powell shook his head no.

“It means being unemployed,” Hughes said as he laughed again.

“I think that guy should be experiencing worklessness,” Powell chimed in.

“Here was another line that some general said. He started talking about ‘social exclusion.’ I thought he was talking about a class system within the armed forces, which makes sense since all the troops come from various classes in America. Right? Wrong!” Hughes yelled.

Dick Powell shrugged his shoulders. He was interested in making movies, not studying social classes. He also wondered
if Hughes would ever get to ‘the point.’

“That asshole actually meant poverty. That’s what ‘social exclusion’ means,” an exasperated Hughes said. “Furthermore… what am I doing in a room where a general is talking about poverty?”

“Well, boss. What
were
you doing in the room, other than doodling?” Powell asked Hughes.

“I was asking myself the same question when another one of these high-and-mighty know-it-alls says that they have to ‘procure’ my services,” Hughes said.

“I know what that word means!” Dick yelled out like a school boy vying for the teacher’s attention. “It means buy.”

“Very good,” Hughes said. “After all, you’re always trying to ‘procure’ my money when you have budget over-runs.”

“I have a question. How does the military ‘procure’ Howard Hughes?” asked Dick Powell.

Hughes broke out into a huge smile.

“They don’t,” he answered. “The jerk meant it to mean something else. What he meant, I have no idea. But being a big shot I guess he had to show me that he knew some new words,” Hughes added.

“Couldn’t they just have called and asked you whatever they wanted to ask you? I mean… why the meeting and all?” Dick asked Hughes.

“These assholes, and morons, love big meetings. They think it impresses people like me. Actually, I have come to believe that they think
I’m
the one who wants big meetings,” Hughes said with a sigh. “To an extent, Washington and Hollywood have
that
in common.”

“Okay boss, I have to get back to running your studio. What were they trying to sell you?”

“They wanted me to make a large donation to an account that would be used to make sure that our bombs have more bang than ‘theirs,’” Hughes said with a straight face.

Dick Powell knew that ‘theirs’ meant the Communists. “Isn’t that what we all pay taxes for? Isn’t that why they take those taxes and make a budget asking for nuclear bombs that work?”

“Too many ‘fizzles,’ Dick,” replied Hughes.

“Not
this
again,” Powell cried out.

“They ran out of their budget money and need new…err… what was it they called money… oh yes, new ‘revenue streams,’” Hughes said.

“Is that what raising taxes is going to be called from this time forward?” Powell asked his boss.

“Yup,” Hughes warned, “anything to hide what they are really up to.”

“Is there any hope to stop the growth of government?” Dick Powell asked the richest man in the world.

“Revolution… but not until people want to die,” Hughes said matter-of-factly.

“So they want you to give them some money, so they can build more bombs to drop on an enemy that only exists in theory. I suppose no one will know about this but you, me and them?” guessed Powell.

Hughes nodded his head yes.

“I’m glad I’m a movie-maker, but what you told me would make one lousy movie,” Powell said. “By the way, what about Russian kids in school versus American kids in school?”

“Forget that. The discussion was so boring all I did was doodle sheep counting chickens while they tried to get to sleep. Hey, I got something out of it you know. I always do.”

Powell shrugged his shoulders again. He didn’t have a clue as to what Howard Hughes could have extracted from the movers and shakers on the American side of the Cold War that he didn’t already own.

“Dinner trays, my boy! The Pentagon is going to buy a ton of them for the families who live on bases all around the world. I’ll make a killing that will more than make-up for me swimming in their stream,” Hughes said as he broke out laughing.

“That’s why I make movies
for you
,” Powell announced.

“Hey, speaking about movies. Do we have an actress with big tits yet? Also, did the on-site production team take the trays with them?” Hughes asked one of his most trusted employees.

The entire conversation with Hughes — ‘fizzles’ and the killing that Howard was sure to make in selling metal trays to the Pentagon (and eventually other government agencies) — were the last items on Dick Powell’s mind as he drove around Southern Utah, where he was getting ready to begin production of
The Conqueror
. His writer, Oscar Millard, was in the back seat working on yet another rewrite of another scene.

“I wonder if an original screenplay has ever
not
been rewritten.” Millard said sarcastically.

“Never!” Powell said with a laugh. “Look, stop bitching and keep writing. You of all people should know that writers are at the bottom of the food chain.”

“I know. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it,” groaned Millard, who was starting to feel motion sickness coming on from writing on a tablet as he also watched the road. “Slow down to a crawl, will you Dick, or you will see original upchuck all over this original screenplay.”

“Forget the rewrite for now. Tell me about Hughes’ co-pilot,” Powell implored his screenwriter.

“All the details?” Millard asked.

“Well, you are a writer. Aren’t writers into details?” asked Powell.

“I thought you didn’t like locker room talk,” Millard answered.

“I don’t like being on hold. I don’t like being late. I don’t fool around, but once in a while I like hearing how others do it,” Powell said.

“That is why I am the writer and you are the executive,” Millard said.

“Huh?” replied Powell.

“Writers experience life and others have to read about it… or in this case hear about it,” Millard said.

“Well… you want a formal request or something?” Powell asked.

“Someone is real hot for some juicy details,” Millard said with a chuckle. “So anyway, I’m in a little one-room rental cottage in Malibu staring out at the ocean, wondering why I wrote a script for Brando that now has to be retrofitted for Wayne, when there is a slight knock at my door. I yelled out that the door was open and for whomever was knocking to come on in.”

“You leave your door unlocked?” a startled Dick Powell asked his screenwriter.

“Of course I do! I believe in the ‘open door policy’, especially since I live on the beach. You’d be surprised at who comes over to party with me, and at all hours, too,” Millard said with a huge grin.

“My second question is, are you not afraid of some crazed group of people busting in and torturing you? My third question is how do you get things written?” Powell said, still totally bewildered that someone in this day and age would leave his only door unlocked.

“Believe me Dick, there’s a lot of time in the day to find the solitude to write,” Millard said.

“Talk to me about the babe, Oscar,” Powell sighed.

“Yeah… the babe. As I said earlier, she walked right in,” Oscar started to say.

“No, you didn’t. You said there was a slight knock first,” interrupted Dick Powell.

“So I forgot. Sue me,” Oscar said.

“No. You’re a writer. This is why I order rewrites. You’re constantly changing things when you’re not making things up,” Powell said.

“Only because you order me to,” Oscar said.

“Get on with the broad, would you!?” Powell yelled.

“She was carrying a metal tray that had containers on it,” Millard began.

“Did that tray have legs?” Powell asked.

“Yes. How did you know that?”

“Never mind. Sorry that I interrupted you, Oscar.”

“Now this broad was gorgeous. I mean a real stunner. I’m watching her waltz into my bungalow with a metal tray with containers on it, and I’m thinking that since it’s not my birthday it must be one of the Duke’s practical jokes or maybe she’s in the wrong place, so I ask her,” said Millard.

“Her response?” Powell asked.

“She asked if I was Oscar Millard,” Oscar said. “I said I was, and she said that this is where she was supposed to be. She then sets the tray down in front of me and uncovers the dishes on it. The first dish she uncovers has nothing but plain pita bread. The second dish is a perfectly cut, large purple onion. The third dish is a bowl of raw hamburger. The fourth dish is really a bowl of ketchup. So then I ask her if
this
is the practical joke.” Millard said.

“Sure doesn’t sound appetizing,” Powell said.

“It gets better Dick. She asks me if I would like to fuck her all night long. So I say that now I
know
this is a practical joke. She steps back from the tray and unzips the front of her one-piece outfit. It falls to the floor and she is totally naked, except for the worst pair of clodhoppers on her feet. She tells me she likes to have sex with her boots on! Now I know it
isn’t a practical joke. Now, I think I’m dreaming, so I lunge for her, but she is too fast and warns me that she will leave if I try to touch her without eating first and thus there will be no ‘fuckfest’,” Oscar says breathlessly.

“She used the term ‘fuckfest’”? Powell asked his screenwriter.

Oscar nodded.

“My kind of woman if I weren’t married to the greatest wife a guy could have… and was 20 years younger,” Powell remarked.

“I asked if the food was her idea of being kinky. Her response was to ask me if I was familiar with the sex studies that have been going on at Wittenberg University in Springfield, Ohio.” Millard says.

“Hey, I know about Wittenberg!” Powell announced.

“The sex studies?” a surprised Oscar said.

“No. Although I can’t wait to hear. My intern Randy Komara, who is back at the studio, is from Wittenberg. I’ll have to have a very long talk with him now,” Powell said.

“You better, because here is what she told me. She said that the food she had just uncovered is the best natural aphrodisiac for a couple that has never been together. I asked her how one prepares the aphrodisiac. After all, she was turning me on just by standing there stark-raving naked in my bungalow. I didn’t need any aphrodisiac. I was horny without the food. Then, I did something stupid. I asked her what her name was,” Oscar said.

“All writers seem to talk too much,” Powell said.

“Her reply was better. She said she wasn’t there for me to learn her name… just to have sex with me. She then began to prepare my meal. She called it a ‘lover’s sandwich,’ and again stated that the sex studies at Wittenberg had proven that sexual partners who had never been with each other would be in fornication heaven after devouring its contents,” Oscar said.

“So how do you make this ‘lover’s sandwich,” Powell asked Millard.

“Of course you just leave the pita bread after you cut it in half where it is on its plate. You take the raw hamburger and put it in the center of the bread. Put the purple onion slice on top of the hamburger and then pour the ketchup over it all. Put the other piece of pita on top and gently press down,” Millard explained.

“And this is supposed to help you achieve orgasms like you have never ever done in the past?” Powell asked.

“Yes,” replied a giddy Millard. “But that wasn’t all.”