Citizen Hughes - Michael Drosnin [203]
And there sat Richard Nixon, reading that in the Oval Office—having just bombed his benefactor in Las Vegas and gassed him in the Bahamas—and now holding another $100,000 in secret cash from Howard Hughes.
Friday, January 7, 1972. A day like any other day in the Paradise Island penthouse. Except that on this day Howard Hughes would break more than fifteen years of public silence and speak to the world.
He had been awake since 11:30 the night before, not preparing for his big debut, but sitting in his Barcalounger and watching a spy movie, Funeral in Berlin. He watched it twice in a row, meanwhile picking at a piece of chicken, interrupting his meal and his movie for frequent but futile trips to the bathroom.
At 12:45 P.M., the double feature finally over, Hughes reached down to his black metal box, pulled out a drug bottle, and counted his codeine tablets. He had fifty left. He took eight of the precious white pills, dissolved them in pure bottled spring water, and shot the big fix into his long spindly arm.
He then eased back into his lounge chair, feeling again that wonderful warm rush, and called for a third showing of Funeral in Berlin.
It was 6:45 P.M. when the hopped-up recluse finally reached for his telephone and prepared to meet the press. A month had passed since Clifford Irving made him the unseen center of global attention, and now the mystery man himself was about to speak. Three thousand miles away, at the other end of the line, seven carefully selected reporters waited expectantly in a Hollywood hotel.
The disembodied voice quickly disposed of Irving: “I don’t know him. I never saw him. I never even heard of him until a matter of a few days ago when this thing first came to my attention.”
A few days ago? Where had he been? And by now there was another big question. Was Hughes still alive, did the phantom exist, or was this voice on the phone some imposter?
Most of the press conference was devoted to “identification questions.” At first hesitant, ill at ease, Hughes soon began to enjoy the big quiz game. Off in his isolation booth, not quite sure what these reporters were after, asking all these arcane questions about his past exploits, Hughes nonetheless didn’t wish to be stumped. He did very well on the airplane questions, but missed a lot of easy ones about people.
Sitting there naked, with his hair halfway down his back, and his fingernails protruding, Hughes casually dismissed tales of his bizarre appearance.
“I keep in fair shape,” he replied when asked about his physical condition, and then launched into a lengthy discussion of his daily manicures. “I have always kept my fingernails at a reasonable length,” he said. “I take care of them the same way I always have, the same way I did when I went around the world and at the time of the flight of the flying boat. I cut them with clippers, not with scissors and a nail file the way some people do.”
To the press he promised photos, but when his aides later suggested he actually do it—“you should make every effort to get your hair and nails attended to as soon as possible, and if you can bring yourself to do it, have a photograph taken”—Hughes recoiled in horror.
“This is not a beauty contest,” he scribbled. “I am only required to demonstrate that I am alive and competent.”
But at the press conference, only once did Hughes display any real anger. It was directed not at Clifford Irving, but Robert Maheu. Asked why he had fired his regent, Hughes flew into a rage. “Because he’s a no-good, dishonest son of a bitch, and he stole me blind,” he shouted. “The money’s gone, and he’s got it.”
Almost in passing, toward the end of the three-hour interview, there was a question about his reported dealings with Nixon and Rebozo.
“Certainly none with Rebozo,” replied Hughes, handling this as calmly as the inquiry about his fingernails. “Now, regarding Mr. Nixon, I have tried not to bother him since he’s been in office,