“Theft is theft—no matter what you do with the money after you steal it.”
Various aides tried to calm him, to no avail.
“I do not believe that the station manager intentionally stole any money from you,” wrote Maheu. “He is fully aware of the FCC regulations which provide specifically that certain announcements must be made gratis to support charitable projects.”
Maheu’s cavalier dismissal of the flag-ad theft was the last straw. Responding with Queeg-like zeal, Hughes ordered a sweeping investigation to find the missing strawberries:
“I believe he did it because he was pressured by somebody to do it. I am sure he knew he was sticking his neck out a mile, and he surely must have had a much stronger motive, to take a risk like this, than any of the casual, unimportant excuses which have been advanced….
“I have been intending to ask you to make one of your usual thorough investigations of this matter before it is put aside.
“I personally dont think, when you dig into this thing, that you will find this contribution was made for the benefit of the FCC one damn bit.
“Bob, there are at least one hundred, by actual count, charitable funds, causes, drives, donations, etc., which rank equally high in point of importance, worthiness, validity, etc. So, why does the station manager select this one single entity out of all the others, and place the station in the posture of supporting this one cause so abundantly while neglecting all the other various causes, hospitals, Vietnam War Orphans, etc., etc.
“Only a careful investigation will disclose all the facts. Will you assume this task?”
Maheu apparently let the matter drop, and Hughes, forgetting about the flag-ad theft, once more became absorbed in his beloved “Swinging Shift.”
Yet even into this special enclave of off-hour reverie came disconcerting problems. It was the cruelest of blows. These were Hughes’s prime viewing hours—11:30 P.M. to six A.M.—when he could commune comfortably with his set, secure in the knowledge that he and he alone controlled television.
While nine floors below, beyond the blacked-out windows of his penthouse retreat, Las Vegas was alive with neon and nonstop action, the only light in his bedroom beamed from the overworked TV. But, like the swingers in the gambling halls, Hughes too was swinging—with his own “Swinging Shift.” Every night, all night, three movies back to back, each his own selection.
Sometimes it would all be ruined by a tired KLAS announcer who flubbed the carefully phrased introduction. That at least could be corrected. One night, the announcer referred to the “first swinging shift,” and Hughes quickly pounced:
“There should not be more than one Swinging Shift,” he immediately scrawled on his bedside legal pad. “If it should be necessary to refer for any reason to the first picture, then it should be identified as the ‘first movie on the Swinging Shift’—not the ‘First Swinging Shift.’”
Other problems proved more intractable. Hughes insisted on personally clearing all movies in advance. But often he could not make up his mind until the last minute:
“Please ask Stoddard if he will be able, without too much difficulty, to substitute Las Vegas Story and Sealed Cargo in place of Gang War and Great Jewel Robbery. Please apologize for it being so late.”
It became a nightly rituaclass="underline" “If it will cause no confusion, it will be appreciated if he can substitute either Jeopardy or Inside the Mafia to replace Woman Obsessed at 4:30 AM.”
“You and Roy failed to remind me in time about the movies for tonight, and now I am faced with the situation at the last minute,” wrote Hughes on yet another occasion, this time blaming his Mormons for the lapse.
“Please ask Stoddard if, entirely without problems, he can substitute two pictures in place of the last two coming in the AM. Please say you will give him the names as soon as possible, and to assist in this, can he give you the synopsis on:
“Oklahoma Woman
“Fast and Furious
“Malta Story
“Great Diamond Robbery
“Also, principle cast, please.”
The sudden changes caused some complaint. “Obviously, the problems which have arisen have been questions from viewers as to why one movie is listed in TV Guide or the newspapers and a different one is shown,” explained the station manager. “If we continue to make unannounced changes certainly the questions are going to continue and eventually we could have a problem with the advertisers.”
Hughes was understanding. “Re: the future,” he replied two days later, “since the objectionable aspect of showing a program in conflict with the announcement was first called to my attention, I believe this is the one and only movie substituted at my request.
“I even permitted the showing of ‘Mudlark’, an absurd whimsy at 4 AM last nite, in preference to changing the program in conflict with the announcement.
“I will request as few changes as possible from now on.”
It was a promise, however, that Hughes could not keep. There was a limit to how many Mudlarks he would suffer in silence. The billionaire, on the other hand, had a simple solution—in the future, titles of the late movies would not be given in the published TV listings at all.
But one recurring problem seemed to have no solution. KLAS could not manage to come up with three films a night that pleased its owner. Even after the station started sending Hughes multipage synopses of available movies a month in advance, the problem persisted.
“This list of pictures is just simply zero as far as I am concerned,” Hughes complained. “Outside of ‘Hired Gun’ I dont see anything I would watch.”
A new set of proposed shows was sent, to no avail. “There are simply no pictures on this list that I consider satisfactory,” came the response from the penthouse. “I am familiar with every one of these movies—I even made quite a few of them—and there are not enough to fill out the package of 3 needed for tonight.”
Still Hughes made plans to upgrade the show. Secret plans, of course. “It is my intention that Hughes Resort Hotels will sponsor the entire Swinging Shift program with no commercial interruptions, but I want this kept very secret for now. My first request is that this matter be held in complete confidence from everybody until I am ready to announce it in a big way.”
Once ready to reveal his “big secret” to the station manager, Hughes insisted on tight security: “Ask him to go to an office where it is quiet, private, and where he will not be interrupted. You dont have to mention my name—just say at the beginning, ‘I have a message for you and I am sure you will know whom it is from.’”
But before the secret plans could be executed, yet another blow was struck. The TV station, in violation of Hughes’s direct orders, inserted a commercial between two of the movies one night.
“Now we are 4 min. over because I did not anticipate the commercial between Call of the West and Oregon Trail,” Hughes fretted.
“Please explain to Stoddard, and ask if he doesn’t think we can drop the 4 + minutes needed from the end of Sunrise Semester instead of cutting one of the movies.”
The dreaded “Sunrise Semester” once again came full force into Hughes’s consciousness. “I want to discontinue ‘Semester’ completely, anyway,” he added, “as soon as it can be done without repercussions.” The program had been plaguing Hughes for months, and he had already ordered it cut back to half an hour. But his lawyers warned that KLAS would certainly run afoul of the FCC if the educational series was canceled outright.
“Sunrise Semester” was his nemesis. Hughes never said why he so detested the show. But it came on at 6:30 every morning, just as the “Swinging Shift” ended, and to Hughes it seemed to represent something deeply antipathetic. Nonetheless he watched it—he was probably the only person in Las Vegas who did—as if compelled. At one point KLAS tried to move the show back to six A.M., and Hughes successfully resisted the change. But he could not get it off the air.