In a leather-padded booth, Duke and John Wayne faced each other across a table.
"Hauser," Wayne mumbled, the voice instantly familiar. "Heard about you, on that film, The Graduate, hell of a thing. I also heard you were in… Vietnam, wasn't it? Thank you for your service, son."
For a moment, Duke was just a young man hearing praise from his idol. The carefully maintained composure softened into an expression of pure, unadulterated respect. "That... means everything. Thank you."
He then gave a firm, final nod, the title carrying the weight of his esteem. "Mr. Wayne"
He didn't offer flattery. He didn't mention the dozens of Wayne films he'd seen. He looked at the icon not as a fan, but as an executive trying to sell something.
"I'm here about Rooster Cogburn for the True Grit Project," Duke began, his voice low and even, cutting through the restaurant's din. "But I'm not here to offer you a hero."
Wayne's famous squint intensified, his bushy eyebrows lowering. This was not the usual pitch.
"Cogburn is a old fashioned in the script," Duke stated, his blue eyes locked on Wayne's. "He's a brutal, one-eyed, whiskey-soaked man. He operates by a code the world is already forgetting, he's the last of his kind, a man out of time."
"The girl, Mattie Ross meanwhile, she's the future. Pragmatic, unbending, smarter than the adults in the room. The story isn't about him winning. It's about whether a man like him has any place left in the world he helped clear. It's about the end of something."
He let that hang in the air, watching Wayne process a characterization that was a little more complex and flawed than the straightforward heroes he often played.
Then, Duke pivoted, his tone shifting from the artistic to the executive.
"With you in this role, this picture is a guaranteed critical and commercial success. It will be the film they remember. It will remind everyone why John Wayne isn't just a movie star, but an american icon."
He paused, delivering the final, stark contrast. "Without you, it would just be just another Western."
Wayne was silent for a long, heavy moment, his big hands resting on the table..
A slow, deep rumble started in his chest. "I like the book," Wayne said, a flicker of respect in his eyes.
"I like the girl." He leaned forward, the wood of the booth creaking. "You've got my attention, son. Send me the final script. If it holds up to what you just told me… you've got your Cogburn."
---
The California sun beat down on the windows on the inside Duke's office, after he came back from the meeting.
Eleanor moved with her usual quiet efficiency, placing a single, pristine sheet of paper directly in the center of his desk.
"The information you requested, sir," she said. "Steven Spielberg. He's been frequenting the Universal Studios lot. The address is listed."
Duke picked up the paper. It was barely more than a name and a location, but it felt heavier than any contract. This was a different kind of acquisition.
Before he could stand, Eleanor spoke again, her tone subtly shifted, carrying a note of significance.
"One more thing, sir. Mr. Jack Valenti called personally. The President of the Motion Picture Association extends an invitation for dinner this evening. He was quite insistent."
Duke's hand stilled. He looked up from the paper, his analytical mind instantly engaging, pushing past the surprise.
Jack Valenti.
The bridge of Hollywood, the man that acted as the connection between the studios and Washington.
A man whose dinner companions were studio heads and senators. Why was he calling a 21-year-old producer?
His mind began running through possibilities a warning about his distribution ambitions, a probe regarding his political leanings, an offer he couldn't afford to either accept or refuse. He filed it away as a critical, high-stakes variable to be solved later.
"Acknowledge the invitation," he told Eleanor, his voice betraying none of his internal calculations. "Tell his office I'll be there."
Pushing the Valenti puzzle to the back of his mind, he stood, folding the paper with Spielberg's name and tucking it into his jacket pocket.
Some things required personal attention.
---
The air at Universal was very californian dusty, hot, and humming with the manufactured magic of a studio backlot.
Duke found his prize not in an office, but trailing at the end of a guided tour group.
He saw a lanky young man in a cheap polo shirt, his eyes not on the guide but feverishly scanning the faux New York street facade, the angles, the light, the potential.
Duke walked directly up to him, bypassing the group. "Steven Spielberg?"
The young man flinched, his face flashing with a mix of guilt and defiance. He was a kid caught sneaking into the lot of a big studio. "Yeah? Look, I have a pass—" he started, gesturing vaguely.
Duke cut him off, his tone leaving no room for debate. "My name is Connor Hauser. Let's get off this tour and get some food. We need to talk."
Spielberg looked stunned, but something in Duke's calm authority make him stop, he just though this was a security guard kicking him out. He mutely followed Duke off the lot.
They ended up in a vinyl-upholstered booth at a coffee shop down the road, the Formica table between them littered with burgers and fries.
And for the next two hours, something unusual happened.
The conversation wasn't about gross points or distribution networks.
It was about the relentless, forward-driving momentum of The Searchers and the significance of the doorway shoot.
It was about the breathtaking scale and intimacy of the match-cut in Lawrence of Arabia.
Spielberg talked with his hands, his words tumbling out in excited bursts, his entire being lit from within by a pure, undiluted passion for the language of film.
Duke listened, and he felt he was in the presence of someone who didn't just read the grammar of cinema, but who dreamed in it. It was a native fluency he respected deeply, a talent as formidable in its own way as his own strategic foresight.
As the afternoon light began to soften, Duke placed a twenty on the table to cover the check. He then slid a stark, elegant business card across the Formica.
It was heavy cardstock, bearing only the sharp, clean image of the Odysseus logo and a single, embossed phone number.
"You're wasting your time sneaking onto the Universal lot," Duke said, his voice quiet but intense. "If you want to actually get in the business, call me. I have projects that need someone who understands what they're doing."
He held the younger man's gaze. "Be reliable."
He stood and left without another word, leaving a speechless Steven Spielberg holding the card in his hands.
---
The dinner with Jack Valenti was held at a club of opulent, old-world power, all dark wood, and leather.
Valenti, a master politician, was impeccably charming, treating Duke not as an upstart, but as a respected peer.
He praised The Graduate with genuine insight, discussed the changing landscape of film with a scholar's eye, and spoke fondly, almost reverently, of his time with Lyndon B. Johnson.
Then, over brandy, the velvet glove came off.
"I understand you've recently become a patron of the arts," Valenti said smoothly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "The Paris Review. A fine publication. A pillar of American letters. I also hear you had a very interesting conversation with a Mr. Charles Lockwood."
Duke didn't react, simply taking a sip of his drink, his mind connecting the dots instantly.
Lockwood, the consultant from the Paris Review. Valenti, the ultimate Washington insider and former LBJ aide.
This was no coincidence; this was a coordinated, high-level approach.
Valenti's tone became grave, statesmanlike. "Connor—may I call you Connor?—this nation is fighting a war on two fronts. One is in the jungles of Southeast Asia. The other is here, in the living rooms of America. We are losing the battle for public opinion."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential register. "As a man who served, you understand the stakes in a way most in this town cannot."
"And as a man who can get the attention of millions through film, through literature, you have a unique ability to help. We need stories that remind Americans of the honor, the sacrifice, the necessity of our cause. You have the power to shape those stories."
He leaned forward, his eyes intense. "I am asking you, as a patriot, to use it."
Duke held his gaze, his own expression unreadable. "What, specifically, are you asking for, Mr. Valenti?"
Valenti smiled, a thin, professional expression. "A partnership. A shared commitment to the national interest. When you undertake a project that aligns with this goal, a film that portrays our boys in a righteous light, for instance you will find the path remarkably smooth."
"The full resources of the Department of Defense would be made available to you equipment, locations, technical advisors. The sort of access that lends undeniable authenticity and saves a production project millions."
He paused, letting the carrot dangle.
Then came the stick, delivered with the same polished, reasonable tone. "Conversely, in this complex business of yours, there are so many points of friction. Union disputes. Regulatory hurdles with interstate distribution. Taxation on film prints. A lack of cooperation can make the process… unnecessarily difficult."
"It can strangle a promising enterprise in its cradle. But with friends in high places," he said, his meaning crystal clear, "those obstacles have a way of vanishing. Your distribution network, this 'Ithaca' you're building, would be seen as a vital national asset. We take care of our assets."
The night ended and Duke drove back home while thinking about whether doing a propaganda film about America in Vietnam would be the best move.
_--------------
Quick chapter since i'm busy today, btw please leave reviews and power stones