I woke before the sun even considered touching the desert—sheets damp, curtains drawn, and the city below still humming with the broken dreams of gamblers and nightwalkers. I didn’t sleep much anymore, not really. Sleep had become a negotiation with shadows, and I didn’t care to bargain.
The penthouse at the Desert Inn felt like a spaceship orbiting some gaudy, sunburned planet. I’d bought the place just to keep people out—literally. They tried to evict me once. I bought the hotel instead. That’s the kind of clarity money brings.
The air in the room was dry but filtered. I’d had it purified twice already that morning. The germs—they’re everywhere. Swarming. I have the data. The men in lab coats might think I’m eccentric, but that’s just the word the fearful use to describe someone with more resolve than they’ll ever know.
I watched the Strip come to life from behind my blackout curtains, slit just enough to let a shard of light in. It cut across the room like a scalpel. I stared at that blade of sun for an hour, motionless, a prisoner and a king. There was something holy in stillness. Something necessary.
I scribbled notes in a yellow legal pad. Numbers. Names. New designs for aircraft engines I’ll never build and movie scripts I’ll never shoot. Doesn’t matter. The act of creation is its own religion. The Mormons downstairs in the hotel—they think God is in a temple. I know better. He’s in the blueprint of a fuselage that can fly at Mach 2 without rattling.
Breakfast came in a sealed tray, handled only by gloves. Scrambled eggs, toast burned to sterile perfection, a cup of tea that I never drank. I wasn’t hungry, but I needed control, and control often looks like ritual.
My aides knocked once. I didn’t answer. They slid the papers beneath the door. Headlines. Contracts. Reports from my spies about who in Washington was planning what. There’s always a plan. I circled words in red ink. “Lockheed.” “Nixon.” “Atomics.” That was the word of the decade.
At noon, I paced. In my slippers. Ten steps forward, ten steps back. I calculated fuel ratios for a new prototype that would never leave the page. They think I’m mad. They don’t see the symmetry I see. They don’t hear the music in numbers. But I hear it. All day long.
Sometimes I watch movies in the dark—my movies. Hell’s Angels. The Outlaw. Jane Russell’s silhouette burned into celluloid like an icon. I press pause on her frame and let the screen glow like a stained-glass window. She’s still with me, somehow.
The sun set over Vegas in violent pinks and oranges. Neon signs lit up like circuitry in a malfunctioning brain. I sat in the glow of a dozen monitors—security feeds, weather satellites, a muted newscast. The world kept turning, but I’d long since stepped off the ride.
By midnight, I was in the tub. Water so hot it scalded the past off me, if only for an hour. I lay still, breathing steam, letting it fog the mirrors and erase my face. I wasn’t Howard Hughes in those moments. I wasn’t the aviator, the director, the eccentric billionaire. I was just a man trying not to drown in air.
I slept again—fitfully. In between dreams of crashing planes and silent movie screens, I could still hear the low hum of Vegas below. Always calling. Always offering. But I’d built my kingdom in the clouds, and I wasn’t coming down. Not yet.
