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“But always, you must admit, with good intentions. This, however, is not one of those occasions.”
“This time you have evil intentions?”
“Well, if you’re really curious, Clete . . .”
“I am beside myself with curiosity.”
“The Air Corps canceled a contract with Lockheed for a VIP-outfitted Constellation—the one in which, I understand, you were flown to Berlin to meet the President—
Jesus Christ, how did he hear about that?
“—and Howard let me have it cheap but with caveats.”
“Cheap?”
“As you may have heard, the war is over. There is now what is known as ‘war surplus.’”
“How cheap is war surplus?”
“I’m embarrassed to tell you.”
“And the caveats?”
“I could not resell it for a year, and even then not to a foreign corporation, such as South American Airways. Apparently, Juan Trippe thinks you already have enough Constellations and had a word with his senator.”
“I never even thought of getting some 1049s from war surplus,” Clete said, as much to himself as to his grandfather.
“You should have,” the old man said. “Perhaps you could have gotten to our senators before Trippe got to his. Anyway, there’s a lot of bargains out there. I just put in a bid for six Navy tankers.”
“What are you going to do with six tankers?”
“If you paid just a little attention to the family’s petroleum business, you might have an idea. And I bought the Flying Brothel.”
“Whatever for? Do you have any idea how much it costs to operate one?”
“To the last dime.”
“So why?”
“A number of reasons. For one, I wanted to come down here to see you, and I didn’t want to have to call Juan Trippe and say, ‘Please find me a seat on one of your flying boats.’ I can’t stand that sonofabitch.”
“I thought you were pals.”
“So tell me how goes your war against the godless Communists?”
Where the hell did he hear about that?
As if reading Clete’s mind, the old man went on, “I ran into a mutual acquaintance of ours, purely by coincidence, in the restaurant of the Hay-Adams, and he told me, as he waved a small American flag back and forth, that the reason you can’t come home is that you’re the nation’s last defense against Joe Stalin and all his wicked works.”
Is he talking about Colonel Graham? Allen Dulles?
“You talked to Colonel Graham?”
“I think that’s his name. Fat Mexican. He used to be a friend of mine.”
Used to be? They have been close friends, personally and professionally, for years.
When Howard Hughes caught his uncle with his hand too deep in the Hughes Tool cash box, he turned to them. They provided the lawyers—the expensive lawyers—Howard needed to get himself legally declared to be an adult so he could take over Hughes Tool in his own right.
