“So, please string along with me on an open date,” he insisted, relieved to have found a reason to avoid making the decision. “If you will go along with the above, then may I persuade you to help me try to find the very strongest name that can be made available by any conceivable device?”
Unwilling to set a date, Hughes was more than willing to throw himself into planning the party. Down to the smallest detail. The big question, however, was who would entertain.
There were pipe dreams. Bob Hope. Hope and Crosby. But neither had ever performed in Las Vegas. How about Dean Martin? He used to work at the Sands, but left soon after Sinatra stormed out. Now Martin was under exclusive contract to another hotel, indeed was part-owner, but Hughes wanted him. By any conceivable device.
“Before I try to obtain somebody from my Hollywood contacts,” he schemed, “do you think there is any slightest possibility of getting Dean Martin by the following strategy:
“I think Martin can be motivated by one of three factors, or all three:
“1. Money—a capital gain on some asset he no doubt owns.
“2. An agreement to finance some picture he would like to make. (Bob, there is not an actor alive who does not have some pet idea he would like to make into a movie. If Dean Martin does not have such a pet idea, he will be the first movie star I have ever heard of in my entire life who does not.)
“3. I think Martin can be persuaded that my friendship may, in one way or another, be important to him sometime. I also think he can, very carefully, be persuaded I have a deep hurt from the lousy way he acted, and I think he can be motivated to repair the damage….”
The idea of getting Martin, of enticing him away from the “Rat Pack,” of stealing him back from his reputed mobster partners, began to really excite Hughes.
“Can you imagine the nationwide publicity possibilities of Martin performing at the Landmark when he owns part of the Riviera?” Hughes added in a P.S.
“I can see some smart reporter, with the proper encouragement, taking this thing and writing a complete dime novel out of the behind the scenes ‘True Story.’ Dont you see the possibilities of creating a plot out of that situation: Las Vegas moguls fight battle under the glittering surface. First Sinatra, then Martin walks out—then, the axe falls.
“I know one thing,” added Hughes, concocting his own dime novel, “if I were a newspaper reporter, and my editor told me to take that story and make the most of it, I would have everybody from Sinatra to Martin to Moe Dalitz, the Justice Department, and two hired guns in it before I got through.”
Maheu, also excited about getting Martin, offered an even grander vision. They would reunite the entire old “Rat Pack” on the stage of the Landmark, a coup that would truly leave its mark on Las Vegas history. Maheu took it one step further. They would call the whole dazzling assemblage of talent the “Hughes Parade of Stars.”
The concept disturbed Hughes. He was not ready to step out on the stage.
“First, Bob, I dont think my name should be used in connection with a theatrical production at the Landmark,” he wrote, instantly deflating Maheu’s dream. “I am fearful that the critics will consider that I have moved into the theatrical realm and have thereby placed myself in their target range. If it were used, it would give the critics the opportunity to hack away at my name at will.”
The fear of being personally reviewed rekindled all of Hughes’s fears of going public, prompting him to reopen the still unresolved question of the opening date.
“Now, regarding the opening date,” he added, “I humbly beg you not to permit anything to leak out in confirmation of any July 1st date. Just as determined as you are to beat K to the punch with an earlier opening than the International, I am equally convinced it is a mistake.
“In two nearly simultaneous dates such as this, the later one is always the climax, and the one remembered. Also, the entity opening second is always the newest, and the first one is as old as yesterday’s newspaper.
“I urge that no further statement be made or word leaked about the date until further along.”
Maheu was getting upset. It was not Kerkorian who worried him. It was Hughes. It was not the date of the opening that concerned him. It was the fact that Hughes refused to pick any date.
“I sincerely hope that you understand the truly unbelievable position in which I am placed when I still cannot commit a day of opening,” he wrote. “Howard, we are not the least bit stubborn on July 1 per se. If you prefer that we do it a few days after the International, please give us a fixed date and we will proceed accordingly.
“But darn it, Howard, if you care about what happens to the Landmark you simply cannot hold this decision in abeyance any longer.”
Hughes was not about to be outflanked. If Maheu would not be drawn into a debate over the merits of throwing their party before or after Kerkorian’s, the naked impresario had a new excuse to leave the opening date open. Another rival event, bigger than the International.
“I just had a rude awakening,” he wrote in mock alarm. “The moon landing is planned for July!
“Now, what disturbs me equally is the fact that there may be another event scheduled for one of the dates under consideration, either locally or elsewhere, which may dilute the publicity impact of the Landmark.
“So, Bob, please review the calendar, both locally and nationally, and report to me all events of publicity import which are scheduled for July. Then, I will do my best not to delay the selection of the Landmark date.”
By mid-June, however, Hughes had still failed to approve a definite date for the opening, still tentatively set for July 1. Maheu was climbing the walls. It had gone beyond the party. His entire public image in Las Vegas was at stake. He was one of the most powerful men in town, and now he was being shown up as a flunky who did not even have the power to pick the date of a party. Finally, he could no longer stand the humiliation.
“Here I am on the front line talking to Dean Martin, Danny Thomas, the Astronauts, the public, the Governor, and I don’t know what in the hell I am talking about because you still have not given us a date,” a frantic Maheu wrote Hughes.
“I am getting to a point where I frankly don’t know what in the hell to tell them when they ask the very simple question—when are we going to open?
“Honest to God, Howard, if this question is not resolved forthwith, I am simply going to have to get the hell out of town because I just simply cannot continue facing all these people any further.”
Hughes refused to answer the question of the opening date. Instead, he responded to Maheu’s frantic plea by calling their whole partnership into question.
“Bob, you have done a good job for me and I appreciate it,” the billionaire wrote with heavy solemnity. “I also appreciate your several statements to me that you have a low flash point and that I should learn to accept this in its proper relevance.
“However, Bob, there are some things in life becide money and success,” he lectured his underling, taking the broader view.
“I am afraid I have reached the point where I have a greater reserve allowable tolerance in my money-success column, than I have in my health-and-remaining-years column.
“If, under these circumstances, you think my failure to give you a specific date has placed you in a position of embarrassment under which you dont want to be in Las Vegas, I think maybe the time has come when, for my health’s sake, a somewhat less efficient and less successful man, but one who would not find it so difficult to put up with my, admittedly less-than-perfect operation, should perhaps be the resident managing executive here in Las Vegas.