Blood and Oranges by James Goldsborough (top 50 books to read .TXT) 📕

“How do we make more money, Howard?” asked Joe.

Hughes looked benignly at him. He’d heard about a script for a Western being read at RKO. Something about a pseudonym. He made a mental note to call Buddy Fix. “Because the government will screw you, Joe, but it won’t screw me. We know each other too well. In short, you will make more money, much more money, selling the land to me and letting me negotiate with people I’ve been negotiating with for years.”

You had to admire his balls, thought Cal. The argument was preposterous: that somehow they could do better with Hughes getting a cut of the proceeds than without him. Having worked with city government, Cal knew the weaknesses of civil servants, but why should they overpay just because they were negotiating with Howard Hughes? Buying property just to flip, wasn’t that a kind of flimflam? What about government auditors? What about the press? Would Lizzie be able to keep from writing about something as fishy as a huge land flip?

“What guarantee can you give, Howard?” asked Cal.

“Guarantee? There are no guarantees in business negotiations, son. Call it experience against inexperience.”

“Howard was good with Congress,” said Maggie. “I’ve seen him perform.”

Hughes turned to her. “Perform is not the word I would have chosen.”

She smiled. “Okay, negotiate.”

“I’m willing to go as high as $50 million.”

“Because you think you can get $100 million from the government,” said Cal. “You’ll have do better than that.”

“Can’t do it. Bankers won’t let me.”

It was time for Cal’s surprise.

“You want our land, Howard. What about your land?”

“What?”

“What about the land we’re sitting on right now?”

Hughes leaned closer. Did he miss something? “What about it?”

“Let’s assume the marina is built. Now look a few years down the road, a decade or two. Say the marina has ten thousand yachts by then—a huge man-made harbor surrounded by dry docks, shops, apartments, yacht clubs, restaurants—a seaside community unto itself.”

They’d all turned toward him.

“What are you saying?” said Hughes.

“Do you intend to hold on to an empty airfield during all this?”

“What do you mean empty airfield? This is Hughes Aircraft.”

“Which can be moved anywhere—Lancaster, Ontario, Riverside, the middle of the desert for that matter, where you do most of your testing. You’ll want to move by then, Howard, and the question is, what happens to this land we’re sitting on?”

Hughes face was blank. If the future of his airfield was something he’d never thought about, he wasn’t going to show it. Cal’s guess was that the idea was new to him. A man of action, a dealmaker and egotist focused on whether he could fly the fastest airplane, run the best studio, own the most successful airline and screw the sexiest actress, why would he think about the future? He was buying new land, not selling what he had. Who cares about two decades out? We’ll all be gone.

“This land stays an airfield.”

“It can’t for long,” said Terry, speaking for the first time. “Not with the expansion of L.A. International two miles away. Not with jet airliners on their way.”

Hughes stared at his pilot, having trouble remembering why he was there.

“All this land belongs to Ballona,” said Cal, sweeping his arm across the window. “Maggie, Lizzie, and I have been coming here since we were children, long before you came to town, Howard. All of it—from the airfield, across the wetlands, beyond the stables to the beach, down Ballona Creek and across to the oil fields and the Venice canals—becomes more vital as the city grows. A marina is good land use, but what will surround it? Hughes Aircraft will have to move. Are you going to sell to developers who put up high-rises right down to the ocean? How is that better than oil wells? How do the stables survive, as you promised?”

Hughes had been leaning forward to make sure he heard every word. Now he sat back. One could almost see the wheels of his mind spinning.

“What exactly are you asking for?”

“A stipulation concerning the future use of your airfield.”

“You’re crazy.”

“No, not crazy. Looking to the future.”

“You want a land swap?”

“Of course not.”

“So what is it?”

“Do you have a will?”

A smile inched slowly across his rugged face and he looked around at the others. “I believe that he wants the Sierra Club to be in my will. No sir, I have no will. Why would I have a will? I am a healthy man. Ask Maggie. I have no heirs and don’t intend to have any. Anyone who claims to be my heir is an impostor.”

Cal looked closely at him. A little gaunt maybe, but still impressive. He thought of the pretty girl in pink plumeria at Maggie’s wedding. But there were the plane crashes, the loss of hearing, the rumors. You can’t always tell by looking at a person.

“What about a statement of intent? Would you sign a statement with Mull Oil that Hughes Aircraft land is protected and cannot be used for future commercial development?’

Hughes looked over them to Cobb.

“No such statement would be legally binding,” said the factotum.

“Of course not,” said Cal. “So Howard would have no problem signing it.’

Hughes’s mind was processing. “How would such a statement influence the present negotiations?” he asked at length.

“Maybe it wouldn’t. I haven’t discussed this yet with my cousins, who look as surprised as you do. On the other hand, maybe it would.”

“An interesting idea,” said Lizzie.

“We need to talk,” said Maggie.

Hughes stood up. “When you’re ready, call me.”

Chapter 35

The fifties were the golden age of Los Angeles, when a perfect balance was achieved between man, his resources, and his ambitions: Human life was good. Population went on growing, but was no longer doubling every decade. Governments were progressive, but not too. The Cold War continued, but in Los Angeles that meant jobs at companies like Hughes, Douglas, and Lockheed. Dwight Eisenhower, a moderate Republican, was elected in two landslides, winning California and Los Angeles both times and