KIRK KERKORIAN
(1917- )
The Quiet Lion
The father of the megaresort, this daredevil pilot turned his high-flying ways into soaring profits by building the world's biggest hotels both on and off the Strip.
BY K.J. EVANS
Review-Journal
Correction -- Because of an editing error, a story in the Sept. 12 Review-Journal's First 100 section gave an incorrect date for the opening of the original MGM Grand Hotel. It opened on Dec. 5, 1973. Stories in the same issue gave apparently contradictory figures for the death toll in the 1980 fire at the hotel. There were 87 deaths, including three which occurred later as a result of injuries sustained in the fire.
Kirk Kerkorian, father of the Las Vegas megaresort, dropped out of school in the eighth grade to become a professional boxer, flew suicide missions for the Royal Air Force, made a small fortune in surplus military airplanes, and a larger one in the airline business.
In Las Vegas, he built three hotels that were the largest in the world in their time, and proved that, contrary to the wisdom of the day, courting the convention and family travel markets could be profitable.
Today, Kerkorian is the 41st richest man in the country, worth about $5.7 billion.
Kerkorian rarely attends board meetings and never gives speeches. He is shy, but a tough negotiator.
Those who know him describe him not as Hughesian hermit, but a gentle, gracious, normal guy.
"I'm far from being reclusive," declares Kerkorian. "I have 30- or 40-year friendships that I prefer to meeting new people. I go to an occasional party, but just because I don't go to a lot of events, and I'm not out in public all the time doesn't mean I'm anti-social or a recluse. I'm at a restaurant three or four nights a week, here or in Las Vegas."
His dark, motionless eyes are set below thick salt-and-pepper eyebrows. The tanned, deeply lined poker face reveals nothing. He may be amused, bored, or about to knock his interviewer through the second-story window of his Beverly Hills, Calif., office. He still looks capable of demonstrating why he was called "Rifle Right Kerkorian" in the boxing ring.
Kerkor Kerkorian was born in Fresno, Calif., on June 6, 1917, youngest of Ahron and Lily Kerkorian's four children.
When the recession of 1921-22 wiped out the family, the Kerkorians moved to Los Angeles.
"Our first language, although we were born here, was Armenian," Kerkorian recalls. "We didn't learn the English language until we hit the streets."
He sold newspapers and hustled odd jobs.
"When you're a self-made man you start very early in life," he says. "In my case it was at 9 years old when I started bringing income into the family. You get a drive that's a little different, maybe a little stronger, than somebody who inherited."
The Kerkorians moved often, and Kirk was always the new kid in school, obliged to prove himself. Big brother Nish, a pro boxer, coached him. By junior high school, he had been transferred to a disciplinary campus where order was maintained with a metal-studded leather belt. There were more fights than ever.
Kerkorian became the Pacific amateur welterweight champion and wanted to box professionally. He might have boxed himself into addled obscurity. Instead, he met Ted O'Flaherty.
In the autumn of 1939, Kerkorian was earning 45 cents an hour helping O'Flaherty install wall furnaces. Some days, Kerkorian would go with him to Alhambra Airport and watch him practice maneuvers in a Piper Cub. Originally disinterested, Kerkorian consented one day to go aloft with O'Flaherty.
As the plane rose, and the Southern California landscape became visible from the mountains to the ocean, Kerkorian experienced a defining moment.
"He was sold on it right then," O'Flaherty later recalled. "He had never been up in a plane before. But I'm telling you, after that first flight he went right at it. The very next day, he was back out at the field to take his first flying lesson."
With war clouds darkening Europe, he worried that he would be drafted into the infantry before he became a licensed pilot.
One day in 1940 Kerkorian showed up at the Happy Bottom Ranch in the Mojave Desert adjacent to Muroc Field, now Edwards Air Force Base. Owned by Florence "Pancho" Barnes, a pioneer female aviator, the ranch was a combination flight school and dairy farm.
"I haven't got any money," Kerkorian told Barnes. "I haven't got any education. I want to learn to fly. I don't know how I can do it. Can you help me?"
No college was needed, just the willingness to pull teats and shovel bovine backwash. Within six months, Kerkorian had a commercial pilot's license, and a job as a flight instructor.
But teaching bored him.
"I heard about the Royal Air Force flying out of Montreal, Canada, and I went up there and I got hired right away," he recalls. "They were paying money I couldn't believe, $1,000 a trip."
The mission of the RAF Air Transport Command was to fly Canadian-built Mosquito bombers from Labrador to Scotland. Only one in four made it.
The Mosquito's fuel tanks carried it 1,400 miles. It was 2,200 miles to Scotland. Pilots had only two possible routes, each worse than the other.
The roundabout route was Montreal-Labrador-Greenland-Iceland-Scotland, but the planes' high-performance wings could be distorted by a paper-thin coating of ice, causing it to fall out of the sky. "The snowfields and forests around that frozen perimeter were strewn with downed Mosquitos crushed like matchboxes," wrote Dial Torgerson in the 1974 biography "Kerkorian, An American Success Story."
Or one could fly straight across the Atlantic, riding a west-to-east airflow called the "Iceland Wave." It blew Mosquitos toward Europe at jet speeds, but it wasn't constant. If it waned in midflight, plane and pilot were lost.
Kerkorian and his wing commander, J.D. Woolridge, rode the wave in May 1944, and broke the old crossing record. Woolridge got to Scotland in six hours, 46 minutes; Kerkorian, in seven hours, nine minutes. He came in second. He hated that.
The following month, the Iceland Wave died halfway across. The sun set. The reserve tank ran empty, and Kerkorian prepared to ditch. His navigator begged Kerkorian to drop low just once. As they broke through the cloud, the lights of Prestwick, Scotland, twinkled ahead.
Kerkorian made a perfect landing.
In 2 1/2 years with the RAF, Kerkorian delivered 33 planes, logged thousands of hours, traveled to four continents and flew his first four-engine plane. He also saved most of his generous salary.
Kerkorian clearly recalls his first visit to Las Vegas in July 1945. His RAF service completed, he paid $5,000 for a single-engine Cessna in which to train pilots. "And I used that same plane to fly charters. That's what got me into the transportation end of the business."
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