Intimations of Mortality

Stu, you better get over here quick. George is acting crazy, and I think he's trying to kill himself," the voice said over the phone. "He's out of control, Stu, but I think he'll listen to you ... if he's still alive."

I'd been awakened from a sound sleep, and now I was standing balanced against my bed, gasping to claim some air.

"Please hurry, Stu, hurry ... hurry." The voice was of desperation.

"I'll be there," I said. "I'm on my way." Then I turned to my wife, Shirley. "Something's wrong at the Getty's. Hurry and go with me." I grabbed for a shirt — any shirt — and as I ran out the door of my North Hollywood home, I felt my usually clear-eyed take on things begin to cloud. I usually wouldn't worry when an emergency call came in off hours because George Getty — or someone associated with Getty Oil Company — had a tendency to call at all hours, day or night. An emergency here, an emergency there, more company business, high-stakes company business. But this time, it was his wife, Jackie. I knew her well enough to know she didn't yield easily to panic and rarely betrayed anything more than a controlled formality, though she might be carried away now and then by whatever was the latest vogue among the wealthy.

This time, I recognized from her first breathless utterance that this was no hoax, and I shuddered at the vision of a doomsday scenario for this man George Getty, a deeply troubled man somehow always groping for the edge. I had glimpsed more than once his dark side.

The date was June 6, 1973, in Los Angeles, California. The call had come in the middle of the night.

Still, I clung to some notion it was a false alarm. Getty and his wife did fight a lot. And normal for George Getty was not normal for anyone else, but it sounded like this time he had found the edge and had gone over. Getty had suffered from periodic depression, often the result of binge drinking or excessive use of uppers and downers — or both. He didn't drink often, but when he did, he'd down 16 beers in a matter of an hour. I'd seen him do it. He popped heavy doses of diet pills at the slightest hint of weight gain. Sometimes all these conditions arrived simultaneously, and perhaps this was one of those times, I thought, as I raced to locate my keys. I had to collect my thoughts to formulate contingency plans and be ready for whatever circumstances I found when I arrived. I knew, deep down, that that level of preparedness was impossible.

But I told myself I could handle the situation. If Getty was alive, I would talk to him. It had to be all right. The powerful Getty family, led by George's father, J. Paul Getty, the richest man in the world, had depended on me to produce solutions, no matter what the conditions. So far I had never failed them — likely the dominant reason underlying my corporate success at Getty Oil. But what in hell awaited me tonight?

Like an old buddy, I was ready to curse Getty out for being put upon by his ruckus, and then to quickly forgive him the youthful folly. I might remind him that tomorrow was a horrific day for me. I had to negotiate a real estate project, a deal that would cost the company $2.5 million. I couldn't afford to be out all night just to get him to apologize and tell him to be a good boy and keep the peace. Could it be so easy? No, not likely.

As I sped through the Los Angeles night, taking well-known side streets to avoid police and their radar, I thought of Getty, my friend, my colleague, my pillar of support. I thought of our years together. All the fun and craziness, all the earnestness, and, yes, the pain. A slight fog crept through the oaks and hung in the ravines like an enormous, fallen, white balloon. The fog forced me to slow down at times — more than I wanted.

I pulled up in front of the mansion, part of a gated community called Bel Aire, a prestigious residential area where the palatial estates and sweeping landscapes of the rich and famous stood. Recently, the community had seen the newly affluent move away into more glamorous surroundings, like Benedict Canyon above Beverly Hills or the yawning beaches of Malibu.

I jumped out, still buttoning my shirt. My wife, Shirley, followed me closely. Frantic, Jackie Getty flung open the door, and I entered the house feeling lost, as though I had never been there before. She told me she and Getty had planned to cook on the barbecue that night, but instead of a quiet dinner at home on the maid's night out, the evening had devolved into drinking and arguing. She said that Getty had become mad and mean, and then morose. He told her to "get out of his life or he would kill himself." She had taunted him, she admitted with a trace of guilt, saying that she "didn't think he had the nerve."

I scowled at her words, the brutal arrogance of them. And I could tell she knew the implications.

"Where is he now?" She pointed to their bedroom suite, situated upstairs at the back of the house, suspended there by a swirl of a staircase. "We've got to get into that room. Is he alive?"

"I think he's dead," she said. She inhaled deeply. "He could be."

My jaw dropped. We were both using words that came so naturally, "Oh yes, he might be dead." I glanced about, looking for a phone. I started to ask why she hadn't called the police. I caught myself because I knew.

I raced up the stairs with Getty's wife at my heels. She said, "He grabbed a knife from the barbecue and sliced himself across the stomach."

I turned away, put my ear to the door, knocked with the back of my hand. "George, it's Stu. George, please open the door. I need to talk to you." Brief pause — no answer. "We can work this out, George. George? Come on, old buddy. You're in there. I know you're in there. Don't do this." I turned to his wife and lowered my voice, "When did you last speak to him?"

"I haven't heard anything for a while."

I looked down at the carpet, saw the blood droplets tracking under the door, shut my eyes tight, opened them, and could feel my own body pulsing blood as if I were about to explode. I pounded on the door, pushing hard with my 165 pounds, trying to force it. "George! George, old buddy, you've got to open the door!"

He did not respond. I leaned close to the door and listened. I could hear him on the other side, snoring loudly. Maybe that was sleep, maybe just a drunken stupor.

"Oh no! Someone's outside," his wife said, apparently hearing a car pull up on the secluded driveway.

I leaned toward the upstairs window and saw the lights of a patrol car flashing in front of the house. "Let me handle...