With Maheu on the ropes, Hughes now shifted his tactics. There was no need to beat his sparring partner bloody. A TKO was sufficient. Besides, why let Maheu claim all the sympathy? Hughes too was in pain. Deep pain.
The terror over the opening, which had brought their marital strife to a head, had also forced Howard Hughes to look inward, to examine his life, to search his soul. He began the long journey with a brief but seemingly heartfelt review.
“Sixty-four years of my life have been devoted to hard work,” he wrote, somewhat sadly. “What I have to show for this consists of assets, liabilities, and a small amount of cash.
“If the above items will not purchase a certain amount of freedom for me, then my 64 years of effort have been wasted.
“If I am not permitted to use such funds and resources as I have to purchase a little more time prior to the Landmark opening, in order to remove the weight and pressure on me which would result from an attempt to meet a July 1st deadline, then I must assume that my 64 years of effort has been wasted.
“I do not say it cannot be done on July 1st, I just say I dont want the July 1st date committed or promised.”
July 1 was less than three days away. Maheu was in a state of panic. Hughes had just told him that his entire life was meaningless if he could not keep the opening date open, but Maheu desperately needed a decision.
“Any decision is better than none from this point on,” he urged his boss. “Howard, the impression is being gained in certain quarters that we are not very well organized.”
It was the ultimate understatement. Hughes, however, took it as the ultimate insult, one that called into question not only the Landmark party, not only his entire Las Vegas adventure, not only his troubled relationship with Maheu, but his entire life. Indeed, he now reviewed the whole of it in detail, all in another attempt to justify leaving the opening date open.
“I am very grateful to you for the many contributions you have made toward the success of the various activities I have assigned to you,” wrote Hughes.
“However, Bob, there comes a time when the success of a man’s business endeavors are not as important as his peace of mind and the condition of his health.
“Bob, I have worked as hard, and devoted myself as completely to my work as anybody I know.
“So, I now wind up a supposedly successful business man who has wrecked his health and consumed the best part of his life in the process,” he continued, seeming for the first time to glimpse his own sad reality.
“Bob, I have tried to be scrupulously honest, and I have tried to give, for charitable purposes, a sum in relationship to my earnings in excess of what is considered fair,” he went on, seeking salvation by a spurious statement of his good works.
“When the newspapers print stories of the unbelievable increase in business revenues in this area and the incredible increase in population, I can’t help but feel I must have given something to this community.
“Yet, somehow, this supposed success story does not seem to be enough for you, Bob,” he complained, as if to an unflattering mirror.
“Your messages, every so often, disclose a resentment lying beneath the surface. Sometimes it is only a few words, sometimes it is more.
“I got the impression from you that the purchase of the Landmark constituted an important contribution to the community.
“But now, you tell me that I dont have enough reserve of good will on deposit with the Governor and our other friends to permit a moderate delay in the announcement of the opening date of the Landmark.
“Bob, I think the most disturbing feature of your message is the statement that I should reconcile myself to the fact that the appearance is being gained in ‘certain quarters’ that we are not very well organized.
“The shocking part of this whole thing, in my opinion, Bob, lies in the fact that you and I dont have enough good will stored up to bridge over a delay of a few days in an announcement of this kind as if it were nothing.
“So, Bob, my point is that, if, after all the contributions to the community, which have led to unprecedented income and growth, if, after all this, I cannot tell you that I will give you this opening date in a few days without being warned that the Governor, etc. are going to lose faith and think the entire operation is ‘not very well organized,’ then I say my life is drawing too short for this kind of pressure.”
Not very well organized. He certainly would not sit still for that kind of slander. And all this pressure, where was it coming from? Maheu.
“Bob,” he continued, “you are one of the most high powered units of manpower I have ever come across. But, like most extremely competant people, you have enough pride in your work to resent any interference at all.
“I am convinced that you will not ever be happy in an organizational set-up such as we have. I think you will only be truly content when you are in a position comparable to working for yourself.
“I am sure you can see that, so long as you are in the position of administering all of the details and loose ends that go to make up my every-day life, complete independance free of any interference is just not possible.
“So, I am going to make a suggestion, Bob.
“I suggest, Bob, that you assign this Las Vegas job to any of your men you select.
“On this basis, Bob, I would be happy for you to spend the entire summer in Newport, and on your boat as much of the time as you wish.
“I think you subconsciously blame me for every week-end you are not on your boat, and it would be my hope that this plan would end that.”
It would also end Maheu’s power. No party was worth that. In a desperate bid to avoid being put out to sea, Maheu tried to soothe Hughes with abject deference and nostalgic praise.
“Howard,” he wrote, “I am familiar with the story of your movie ‘The Outlaw’ and how you decided to delay releasing it against the advice of all the experts. I am also familiar with the fact that in 1947 in your testimony before the Brewster committee—after having listened to all of the inputs—you negated them all and handled Brewster in your own way.
“I would not want to deprive you of being right once more as to the opening of the Landmark. After all, Howard, it is one thing to argue and for me to make known all of my thinking, but there can be only one Captain.”
The invocation of past glories had a magical effect. Captain Hughes finally picked a date for the party. Or rather a whole series of dates—July 3, July 4, July 5, July 24, agonizing over each, analyzing all of them quite carefully both in absolute terms and in relation to every rival event from the moon landing to the opening of the International, even considering a three-month delay—before he finally settled on July 1, after all.
“I dont mind yielding to your wishes as to the Landmark opening, both as to the time and as to the nature of the show,” he wrote Maheu grudgingly, with the big party now only two days away. “I only want to ask that the record show I want the opening delayed.”
The momentous decision caused Hughes immediate anxiety. His approval of the opening date opened the floodgates of his fears. His melancholy deepened. He could not sleep.
“I have been doing some very heavy soul-searching all night,” he solemnly informed Maheu at dawn on June 30, one day before the dreaded event.
“Now that I feel all decisions concerning the opening of the Landmark are in sight (I will have the invitation lists in your hands this morning. I dont want you to start calling until then, but there will be no problem. The changes I want are very simple.) I want to make some very important decisions concerning the future.