To Kill the Duke (58 page)

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

“Whatever limits us, we call fate.”
— Emerson

H
oward 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 clear 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.