Citizen Hughes - Michael Drosnin [194]
“In sincere friendship, Bob.”
Hughes was not mollified. That threatened trip to Europe—he couldn’t let go of it.
“In view of the numerous expressions of loyalty and undying friendship, that the remainder of your business career will be with me and that if we did come to a parting of the ways, I would not have to worry about another Dietrich, or another Ramo or Wooldridge,” the billionaire replied through his Mormons, “it is very difficult for me to reconcile these expressions with the fact that whenever we have some little misunderstanding—the next thing I receive is a threat to take an extended vacation.
“When displeased, your reaction is to desert the ship and let it go to hell. You tell me that my affairs are in a dangerous condition, which I don’t seem to realize—instead of telling me how to correct them. I get nothing but a goodbye note on your way to Europe.”
And so it came down to that. The “Dear John” letter. With all of his dark suspicions that Maheu was seizing power, stealing his money, plotting a coup, it was instead the pain of rejection, the terrible fear that Maheu would leave him before he could leave Maheu, that at the end gripped Hughes.
“Howard, I am sure that you have a life-size picture of my trouncing off to Europe at a time like this,” Maheu quickly responded, desperately trying to reassure his boss. “I would like for you to give me one example of when I have left you in a moment of need.
“I also think it would be difficult for you to say that I have never been prepared to take, personally, all the calculated risks in order to accomplish what it is that you wanted. Hell Howard, if some of the things which I did in order to extricate us from the ABC matter, or to accomplish what we wanted done in the AEC situation, ever surfaced I could never go to Europe because I would be spending the rest of my life in jail.”
But it was too late. There was no reply. Once more, just silence from the penthouse.
Hughes was, in fact, ill. Not quite so ill as he claimed to Maheu and not silent because of his sickness, but he did have a mild case of pneumonia and a slight touch of anemia, enough to add an eerie wheeze and an extra pallor to his already extreme condition, enough to prevent his planned escape.
He was in no shape to travel. He needed a quick cure. He called in his local physician but would not allow the doctor to perform any examination, to run any tests, even to touch him. Several months earlier, experiencing an irregular heartbeat, Hughes had reluctantly submitted to an EKG and the doctor got some electrode paste on his beard. Hughes was so shocked by the contamination that he snapped right back into his regular rhythm.
This time, he was taking no chances. Besides, he had already diagnosed his problem and decided on the remedy. What the billionaire wanted was blood—more of that same pure Mormon blood he had received two years earlier.
The transfusions were completely unnecessary. His blood count was close to normal. But Hughes was insistent. “It made me feel so much better last time,” he told his doctor. “I want some more.”
And sure enough, that last shot of pure Mormon blood did the trick. Right after the transfusion, Hughes finally made good his escape. For the first time in four years, he left his blacked-out bedroom—and moved into a second, identical bedroom in the same suite.
He might have stayed there forever had events outside the penthouse not forced him to flee.
Maheu, suddenly realizing that his rivals were conspiring against him, launched a bold counterattack that brought the hidden power struggle to a head. Early in November, he fired off a telegram to Chester Davis, discharging the billionaire’s chief counsel from the TWA case.
Hughes himself had granted Maheu full authority over that litigation shortly after he was hit with the default judgment.
“You have the ball on the TWA situation,” he had written, eager to be rid of the hot potato. “It is my understanding that I turned the entire TWA matter over