Citizen Hughes - Michael Drosnin [55]
But even when Laxalt became one of the most powerful men in the country, Howard Hughes would still be there to haunt him, as he haunted Laxalt now.
Visions of the White House could not still his fears. The governor could not forget that he was dealing with a phantom, that he had never seen Hughes, had not even spoken to him. That nobody had. Not since he supposedly arrived in Las Vegas, indeed not for an entire decade.
Dread thoughts, which the governor might have repressed forever if no one had discovered the strange midnight meeting of his Gaming Control Board. In late November 1967, several of the state’s top regulatory officials gathered like a secret coven at the witching hour, roused sleeping colleagues with a conference call, and by 1:30 A.M. had formally approved the impatient billionaire’s fourth casino license. When the incredible story leaked, a few legislators were sufficiently shocked to demand a full investigation.
Laxalt could no longer suppress his fears. They came tumbling out, one chilling thought after another. What if Hughes was not really up in the penthouse? What if Hughes had been replaced by an imposter? What if Hughes did not in fact exist?
The governor was frantic. On December 11, 1967, Laxalt secretly summoned his gambling czars to the state capitol in Carson City. All agreed that something must be done.
This was a job for the FBI.
“It was the unanimous consensus of this entire group,” the chief agent in Las Vegas reported to J. Edgar Hoover, “that some effort should be made to enable the Nevada state authorities to know for certain that HOWARD HUGHES actually is alive and that they are actually licensing a ‘live individual.’
“Even though everything appears to be 100% above board,” continued the FBI memo, “no one, including the Governor of the State of Nevada, has ever personally seen, talked with, or discussed any licensing matters with HOWARD HUGHES. There is grave concern among the Nevada gaming authorities and Governor LAXALT that a great ‘hoax’ could be being perpetrated.…”
Still, it was inconceivable to actually confront the phantom financier. Early on, the gaming board had timidly asked his lawyer, Richard Gray, if just one member might see the billionaire. His reaction was troubling, in retrospect.
“Mr. GRAY lost his composure and indicated that if the authorities would require this then Mr. HUGHES would probably withdraw from the State of Nevada,” the FBI report recounted. “No further effort was made to pursue a personal meeting with HOWARD HUGHES.”
All the state ever got was a power of attorney supposedly signed by the recluse. Now the governor took this treasured scrap and nervously handed it over to the FBI for authentication. Was the signature genuine, had the phantom left any fingerprints?
“Nevada gaming authorities do not desire to do anything of an official nature with the results of this examination,” the surreal report concluded, “other than to satisfy in their own minds that HOWARD HUGHES exists and that they are dealing with him.”
If the question was more than embarrassing, the answer was truly a rude shock.
J. Edgar Hoover had not become a national institution by sending his G-men in pursuit of ghosts. The director took one look at Laxalt’s pitiful plea and unceremoniously scrawled, “We should have absolutely nothing to do with this. H.”
Case closed.
Hughes would continue to haunt Nevada as long as Laxalt remained in office, and the governor would continue to do his bidding, but Laxalt would never get to see him, nor would he ever get any real proof that he was dealing with a “live individual.”
Howard Hughes, of course, was alive, right there on the ninth floor of the Desert Inn. Had Laxalt managed to meet him, however, he probably would have had the shock of his life.
Naked and disheveled, his hideously long fingernails tracing patterns on color-coded maps, the phantom of the penthouse