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The old man then sipped his scotch and said, “I understand. The war’s over. Hitler and Hirohito are gone, but Uncle Joe Stalin’s still around. And I’m a well-known Communist sympathizer and obviously can’t be trusted. Right?”
Graham didn’t answer.
“Consider this, Alex. All it would have taken when you were recruiting Clete for the OSS so that he could go to Argentina and make a Christian out of his goddamn father was a telephone call to Clete from me. Following which, he would have told you to go piss up a rope.”
Graham met Howell’s eyes for a moment. He shrugged.
“Okay, Marcus. A moment ago, you said Stalin’s still around. That situation is going from bad to worse. What Clete is doing—”
“Goddamn it, Alex! Wouldn’t you say he’s done enough already? Get someone else to do what you think has to be done.”
Graham didn’t reply.
“I need him, Alex. My son Jim’s gone. I’m seventy-seven goddamn years old. Someone has to take over Howell Petroleum, take over the family.”
“Marcus, if I could send Clete home, if I could even tell you what he’s doing, I would. I just can’t. I just can’t.”
“Fuck you, Alex!” the old man said, furiously.
He stood up, looked down at Graham for a moment, and then walked out of the Lafayette Room.
In the lobby, he looked at the doorman and mimed steering a car.
The doorman gave him a thumbs-up gesture and signaled his car was outside.
Howell started for the door, and then changed his mind.
He walked to the bank of elevators and took one to his penthouse apartment. There, he sat down angrily in a red leather armchair and picked up the telephone.
“Person-to-person, Mr. Howard Hughes, the Lockheed Aircraft Corporation in Los Angeles, California.”
There was a response, to which he responded: “If I had the goddamned number, I would have given it to you. I’m old but not completely senile.”
He slammed the receiver into its cradle and looked out the window that provided a marvelous view across Pennsylvania Avenue of the White House.
Ninety seconds later, the telephone rang. He picked it up before it could ring a second time.
“Howard?” he said. “In which movie star’s boudoir did they find you?”
“How are you, Mr. Howell?” Howard Hughes said sincerely.
“A fat Mexican half-breed of our mutual acquaintance just told me you have a flying brothel for sale, cheap. True?”
“I understand that’s what Truman called it,” Hughes chuckled.
“Yes or no?”
“Yeah. You’re interested?”
“That depends on how much you want for this piece of fire sale merchandise.”
Hughes told him.
“Is that your best price, Howard? Or are you trying to take advantage of someone in his dotage?”
“For you— God, I think you’re serious. What the hell would you do with it?”
“What does anyone do with a flying brothel? Take fifty thousand off that price and you’ve got a deal. I’ll need somebody to fly it. I presume you can handle that?”
