The Big Nowhere

Buzz heard a door opening behind him; a woman’s voice called out, “Mr. Hughes will see you now, Mr. Meeks.”

The woman had stuck her head out of Herman Gerstein’s doorway; if the Variety International boss was involved, then bonus dough was a possible. Buzz ambled over; Hughes was seated behind Gerstein’s desk, sca

And no Herman Gerstein; and no Gerstein’s secretary. Buzz dropped the formalities that Hughes required when other people were present. “Getting any, Howard?”

Hughes pointed to a chair. “You’re my bird dog, you should know. Sit, Buzz. This is important.”

Buzz sat down and made a gesture that took in the whole office: cheesecake, rococo wall tapestries and a knight’s suit of armor hatrack. “Why here, boss? Herman got a job for me?”

Hughes ignored the question. “Buzz, how long have we been colleagues?”

“Goin’ on five years, Howard.”

“And you’ve worked for me in various capacities?”

Buzz thought: fixer, bagman, pimp. “That’s right.”

“And during those five years have I given you profitable referrals to other people in need of your talents?”

“You surely have.”

Hughes cocked two finger pistols, his thumbs the hammers. “Remember the premiere of Billy the Kid? The Legion of Decency was outside Grauman’s shouting ‘Whoremonger’ at me and little old ladies from Pasadena were throwing tomatoes at Jane Russell. Death threats, the whole megillah.”

Buzz crossed his legs and picked lint off a trouser cuff. “I was there, boss.”

Hughes blew imaginary smoke off his fingertips. “Buzz, that was a dicey evening, but did I ever describe it as dangerous, or big?”

“No, boss. You surely didn’t.”

“When Bob Mitchum was arrested for those marijuana cigarettes and I called you in to help with the evidence, did I describe that as dangerous or big?”

“No.”

“And when Confidential Magazine was getting ready to publish that article that alleged that I like well-endowed underage girls, and you took your billy club down to the office to reason with the editor, did I describe that as dangerous or big?”

Buzz winced. It was late ‘47, the fuck pads were at full capacity, Howard was a pork-pouring dervish and was filming his teenaged conquests’ endorsing his prowess—a ploy aimed at getting him a date with Ava Gardner. One of the film cans was snatched out of the RKO editing department and ended up at Confidential; he broke three sets of scandal mag fingers quashing the story— then blew Hughes’ bonus betting stupid on the Louis-Walcott fight. “No, Howard. You didn’t.”

Hughes shot Buzz with his finger guns. “Pow! Pow! Pow! Turner. I am telling you that that seditious spectacle down on the street is both dangerous and big, and that is why I called you here.”

Buzz looked at the pilot/inventor/mogul, exhausted by his theatrics, wanting to get to it. “Howard, is there any cash money involved in all this big danger? And if you’re askin’ me to break some union heads, take another think, ‘cause I am too old and too fat.”

Hughes laughed. “Solly Gelfman wouldn’t say that.”

“Solly Gelfman is too goddamned kind. Howard, what do you want?”

Hughes draped his long legs over over Herman Gerstein’s desk. “What’s your opinion of Communism, Buzz?”

“I think it stinks. Why?”

“The UAES down there, they’re all Commies and Pinkos and fellow travelers. The City of Los Angeles is getting a grand jury together to investigate Communist influence in Hollywood, concentrating on the UAES. A bunch of studio heads—myself, Herman and some others—have formed a group called ‘Friends of the American Way in Motion Pictures’ to help the City out. I’ve contributed to the kitty, so has Herman. We thought you’d like to help out, too.”

Buzz laughed. “With a contribution out of my meager salary?”

Hughes aped the laugh, putting an exaggerated okie twang on it.

“I knew appealing to your sense of patriotism was a long shot.”

“Howard, you’re only loyal to money, pussy and airplanes, and I buy you as a good buddy of the American Way like I buy Dracula turning down a job at a blood bank. So this grand jury thing is one of the three, and my money’s on money.”

Hughes flushed and fingered his favorite plane crash scar, the one a girl from the Wisconsin boonies was in love with. “Brass tacks then, Turner?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hughes said, “The UAES is in at Variety International, RKO, three others here on Gower and two of the majors. Their contract is ironclad and has five more years to run. That contract is costly, and escalation clauses will cost us a fortune over the next several years. Now the goddamn union is picketing for extras: bonuses, medical coverage and profit points. Totally unacceptable. Totally.”

Buzz locked eyes with Hughes. “So don’t renew their goddamned contract or let them strike.”

“Not good enough. The escalation clauses are too costly, and they won’t strike—they’ll pull very subtle slow dances. When we signed with UAES in ‘45, no one knew how big television was going to get. We’re getting reamed at the box office, and we want the Teamsters in—despite the goddamned Pinko UAES and their goddamned ironclad contract.”

“How you go

Hughes winked; scars and all, the act made him look like a big kid. “There’s a fine-print clause in the contract that states the UAES can be ousted if criminal malfeasance—and that includes treason—can be proved against them. And the Teamsters will work much cheaper, if certain payments are made to certain silent partners.”

Buzz winked. “Like Mickey Cohen?”

“I can’t shit a shitter.”

Buzz put his feet on Gerstein’s desk, wishing he had a cigar to light up. “So you want the UAES smeared, before the grand jury convenes or sometime during the proceedings. That way you can boot them on the malfeasance clause and put in Mickey’s boys without them Commies suin’ you—for fear of gettin’ in more shit.”

Hughes nudged Buzz’s feet off the desk with his own immaculate wing tips. “‘Smeared’ is a misnomer. In this case we’re talking about patriotism as the handmaid to good business. Because the UAES are a bunch of card-carrying Pinko subversives.”

“And you’ll give me a cash money bonus to—”

“And I’ll give you a leave of absence from your duties at the plant and a cash bonus to help the grand jury investigating team out. They’ve already got two cops as political interrogators, and the Deputy DA who’s ru

Dollar signs danced in Buzz’s head. “Who’s the DA?”

“A man named Ellis Loew. He ran for his boss’s job in ‘48 and lost.”

Jewboy Loew, he of the colossal hard-on for the State of California. “Ellis is a sweetheart. The two cops?”

“An LAPD detective named Smith and a DA’s Bureau man named Considine. Buzz, are you in?”

The old odds: 50-50, either Jack Dragna or Mal Considine set up the shooting that got him two in the shoulder, one in the arm and one through the left cheek of his ass. “I don’t know, boss. There’s bad blood between me and that guy Considine. Cherchez la femme, if you follow my drift. I might have to need money really bad before I say yes.”

“Then I’m not worried. You’ll get yourself into a bind—you always do.”