Stuart Kaminsky - The Howard Hughes Affair

I let Shelly talk and complain all the way back to L.A. and my parked car on Hope Street near the Y. He talked of ships and shoes and ceiling wax, or at least he talked of cavities and made a bad sex joke about a dentist who seduced one of his patients and got sued for filling the wrong cavity.

He wondered why I didn’t laugh. I told him I had a lot on my mind and a sore in my mouth.

“You pay Jeremy to get the office cleaned up?” I asked as he let me off at my car.

“He wasn’t around today,” Shelly said and then added, “How about writing Dr. Sheldon S. Minck, Specialist, on the new door?”

“Sounds great,” I said. “It’ll bring in a classier set of clients from the hall.”

He pushed his glasses back and nodded in agreement. I thanked him and he pulled off.

I got in my Buick fast and drove for a block without thinking about where I was going. Hans and Fritz had followed me to the Y. They may have known where my car was. They could have been waiting for me to come back to it. The Skeleton of Calabasas knew where my office was and wouldn’t have any trouble finding where I lived. He could pick his own time and place, and next time he wouldn’t give me a chance to get away.

I drove home, parking my car almost two blocks away on a side street in the hope of getting in through the back door. I almost made it. If Mrs. Plaut hadn’t turned on the kitchen light when I hit the alley, I wouldn’t have seen the Skeleton standing in what had been shadows a fraction of a second earlier. He backed away from the window into new darkness, and I went back down the alley, sure that he hadn’t seen me.

I drove to Culver City as fast as I could and rang Anne’s door bell. She answered, and I hurried up the stairs and down the hall. She was about to close the door when she saw my bloody shirt, tired eyes and puffed face.

“Why here?” she said. “Why here?”

“There wasn’t anyplace else,” I lied. I could have gone to Shelly’s or any of a dozen former clients.

Anne was in a robe, and I had obviously gotten her out of bed.

“Come in and make it fast,” she said.

I went in.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a clean man’s shirt around, would you?” I asked, heading for the bathroom. I noticed that the bookmark in The Keys of the Kingdom was in about the same place as it had been the last time I was there. “You know, maybe Ralph dropped one or something.”

I recleaned my face and took off my shirt. She met me in the bathroom with a clean white shirt. I had been joking, and the joke had turned on me.

“Thanks,” I said.

She shrugged and I put on the shirt. It was all right in the chest and sleeves but the neck was too large, which didn’t matter since I left it open.

“Does this have something to do with the job for Mr. Hughes?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “And you got me the job.”

“Don’t try to make me feel guilty, Toby,” she said quietly. “If it wasn’t this job, it would be another one.”

“You’re right,” I said. “What time do you have?”

She told me it was a half hour past midnight. As I moved past her, my arm brushed against her breasts. She backed away as if I had bitten her.

I finished buttoning my shirt and went for the phone. I dialed the police and put on my Italian accent.

“Hey,” I said sleepily, “They’sa guy in backa the house behind me standing ina the yard with a greata big gun. Yeh. Right now. I got up getta myself a glass milk and I see him there and I say so to Rosa my wife. I wake her up an I say I’m gonna calla cops. So, I’m call.” I gave the cop the address, told him my name was Henry Armetta, and hung up.

“Thanks Anne,” I said.

“I don’t care if you have a bullet in your head next time,” she said evenly. “If you come here again, you don’t get in.”

“Right,” I said seriously. “I understand.”

I went out in the hall with the sound of the door closing behind me and wondered what I would pull the next time I wanted to see her. It was getting harder all the time.

By the time I got to the address Hughes had told me to meet him at, it was well after one in the morning.I recognized the place as an old movie studio that went back to the early silents. Since then it had been rented out for independents. It was a big barn of a building with a couple of small offices. I went into the outer glass-enclosed office and could see beyond it that the lights were on in the building. A blackboard inside the office had “Caddo Corp” written in chalk. Behind the desk sat one of the two FBI look-a-likes from my first visit with Hughes. The other one stood next to the desk.

“You’re late,” said the one behind the desk as he rose.

“I was detained,” I said.

“Mr. Hughes said to tell you that your services were no longer needed,” said the other guy. “You will be paid for two weeks work with a bonus. Mr. Hughes insists that people be prompt to appointments.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said, pointing at the last one who had spoken. “I’m getting fired from this case because I’m an hour late?”

“It’s not quite like that,” said one of the two without emotion.

“Is Hughes in there?” I asked evenly.

“Yes,” Number One said, “but he doesn’t wish to see you.”

“He’ll see me,” I said. “Since I took this job for Mr. Hughes, I’ve been beaten, brained, tortured and shot at. I’ve had two corpses dumped on me and my life might not be worth a used Hughes drill bit. Now I’m late this morning because of this case and I’m going to see Howard Hughes or make a lot of noise.”

Number One came around the desk and reached for my arm. His plan was to push it behind my back and shove me out or further. He was prepared for me to struggle, but I didn’t. I wasn’t after a fight. I was after his gun. I let him take my left hand and reached for the gun under his jacket with my right. It came out easily. Number One dropped my arm and backed away. I levelled the gun at him.

“I’ll see if I can find Mr. Hughes,” he said, making a move to the door. Number Two slowly showed his empty hands.

“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Why don’t we have him come here?”

I turned the gun to the ceiling and fired a couple of shots. The gun jerked in my hand and made a hell of a noise in the small room, sending my eardrums quivering.

In less than ten seconds, Howard Hughes burst through the door leading into the studio. His mustache was gone, and he was wearing a fedora tilted back on his head. He had no jacket and looked even younger than before. A group of people stood behind him including a guy in a cowboy suit. Hughes looked at my gun without a sign of concern and waved away the people behind him. He closed the door and faced me, saying nothing.

“I’ll say it slow and I’ll say it once,” I said. “I’ve got a lot to tell you, but the most important thing is that I’m late tonight because two guys who I think had something to do with taking those plans kidnapped me and beat the hell out of me. I should be dead now or collecting pats on the back for getting here at all instead of having this bunch of shit about being fired for being late.”

Hughes put up his hand calmingly.

“O.K.,” he said. “You’re right. You’re back on the job. I’m sorry.”

I believed him and put the gun on the desk.

The two guardians of the gate moved forward toward me, but Hughes stopped them.

“I said I was sorry,” he said. “I mean it. My word means something.”

The two backed off, and I told them to take better care of their weapons in the future. I had not made two friends.

Hughes motioned to me, and we walked into the studio and through a crowd of people, one of them a young man in a cowboy suit. They parted, and Hughes went toward a set with me at his side.