The low hum of the car engine was a familiar soundtrack to Duke ride as he went ot the office.
His hand moved, to twist the dial of the AM radio.
The tuner needle slid across the band, past bursts of static and snatches of song, until it locked onto the overpowering signal of KHJ.
A saccharine jingle faded, and the disc jockey's voice, polished to a high-gloss sheen of false excitement, sliced through the cabin. "And for all you love children out there on this beautiful smoggy morning, here's something new that's got everyone at the station buzzing... from El Cerrito of all places, it's Creedence Clearwater Revival with 'Suzie Q'!"
And then it began..
Duke's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the simulated leather of the steering wheel.
He smiled.
There was no other ouwtard sign of celebration. But deep within him, a profound, quiet sense of vindication settled into place, cold and hard as a diamond.
This was the sound of his judgment, his foresight, being validated and broadcast to the entire city.
(Author: wanted to add a win among all the problems that Duke faces every chapter)
---
The vindication turned into a tangible tsunami as he got to the office. Leo Walsh entered Duke's office as he exploded into it, his face flushed with a kind of joyous disbelief.
He slammed a preliminary sales report onto the desk so hard the new Ithaca logo seemed to tremble.
"It's happening, Duke! It's a goddamn avalanche!" Walsh's words tumbled out in a rush. "The numbers from the Bay Area… they're insane. Stores can't keep it on the shelves. The radio stations the phones are lighting up. They're playing 'Suzie Q' and 'Proud Mary' back-to-back. It's exploding faster than anyone, even me, predicted!"
As if on cue, the phone on Duke's desk rang, its shrill tone cutting through Walsh's exuberance. Eleanor's voice came through the intercom, impeccably calm. "Sir, it's Mr. Saul Zaentz from Fantasy Records on line one."
Duke exchanged a look with Walsh, who rolled his eyes and mimed wiping sweat from his brow.
Duke picked up the receiver. "Saul."
"Connor!" Zaentz's voice was a masterclass in forced neutrality, all traces of their previous tension sanded away. "I trust you're well. Listen, I'm calling with fantastic news. The response to the Creedence album is… well, it's phenomenal. Absolutely phenomenal. We're getting calls from distributors all over the country. It's clear we have something major on our hands. I think it's time we sat down again, discussed ramping up this distribution to a truly national level. We should move quickly to capitalize on this momentum."
Duke listened, his expression unchanging. He could almost smell the man's desperation to now claim a piece of the success he had been so hesitant to back. "That sounds like a logical next step, Saul."
Duke said, his voice devoid of triumph, merely stating a fact. "Have your people coordinate with Leo Walsh. He'll handle the details." He hung up without another word.
Walsh stared at him, a slow grin spreading across his face. "He folded like a cheap suit."
"He saw the numbers," Duke corrected, his strategy reasserting himself. "This doesn't change the fundamentals of our deal. It just means we hold all the leverage now. Make sure Fantasy understands that."
---
The sweet smell of musical success still hung in the air when Robert Aldrich from Doubleday arrived for his long-awaited meeting.
He carried himself with a renewed, almost proprietary confidence, as if the sustained performance of Jaws and Cujo were personal achievements.
"Connor," he beamed, settling into the chair as if it were his own, "So what do you have for us?"
Duke, without a word, slid the Star Wars treatment and the first three chapters across the polished wood.
Aldrich's smile remained, a mask of expectation, as he began to read. But slowly, the mask began to crack. His eyes, which had been skimming eagerly, began to slow, then stop.
He flipped a page back, then forward again, his brow knitting into a dense furrow of confusion. When he looked up, the professional smile was gone, replaced by a look of profound, almost paternal disappointment.
"Connor…" he began, his voice careful, as if addressing someone who had suddenly taken ill. "This is… a space opera?"
He gestured vaguely at the manuscript. "Floating cities? Laser swords?… Spaceships? This reads like a… a children's serial. A Saturday morning matinee.," he stressed, leaning forward, "the ones who made Jaws a cultural tidal wave, they expect a certain realism."
Duke remained a statue, his expression betraying nothing. "It's a myth for a modern age. The sophistication isn't in the setting; it's in the structure, the archetypes, the Hero's Journey."
"The marketing department would have an aneurysm!" Aldrich countered, his hands rising in a gesture of helplessness.
"We'd be starting from absolute zero, trying to explain this… this universe. The budget just to make it comprehensible would be staggering." He leaned forward again, his tone dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
"Now, if you had another horror novel… something with the literary weight and psychological terror of Cujo, but with the commercial hook of Jaws… our marketing commitment would be immediate and substantial. We're talking six-figure guarantees. The public knows you, Connor. They know 'C.W. Blackwell' as a master of terror. That is your brand."
Duke was silent for a long, calculated moment, letting Aldrich's definition of his "brand" hang in the air, a cage he had no intention of entering.
He then, with a slow, deliberate motion, opened a desk drawer and extracted another, much thinner folder.
"I do have another concept," he said, his voice flat. "A small, insular town in Maine. A vampire. Not the Transylvanian count, but something… more insidious. It seeps into the foundations. It's about the corruption of innocence, the slow, quiet horror of the evil that settles in right next door." He slid the folder across. "The working title is 'Salem's Lot."
Aldrich's transformation was instantaneous. The skepticism vanished, replaced by the gleam of a predator spotting easy prey.
He practically snatched the pages, his eyes devouring the prose.
"Yes!" he exhaled, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "This is it! This is the Duke Hauser our readers want! A vampire story, but a grounded story. We can sell this. This is perfect."
"Good," Duke said, the word a period. "I'll expand it into a novel. But my commitment to this… particular 'brand'… requires something in return."
Aldrich looked up, his enthusiasm momentarily checked by wariness. "What sort of thing?"
"Doubleday has deep connections in the publishing world, far beyond bestseller lists. I want you to use them. I want you to help Ithaca Press acquire a struggling literary magazine. A small but influential magazine in circulation. Something like The Paris Review."
Aldrich blinked, stunned into momentary silence. "A literary magazine?" he finally sputtered. "Connor, they're… they're money pits. Vanity projects for philanthropists and universities. They're prestige, not profit."
"Exactly," Duke said, a sharp smile finally touching his lips. It was the most unnerving expression Aldrich had ever seen on him.
"I'm not buying it for the profit. I'm buying it for the credibility. It becomes the official, respected voice of Ithaca Press."
"A platform from which we can anoint new writers, shape critical taste, and ensure that our 'brand' is never again defined solely by the commerce of terror. You help me acquire it, and you get 'Salem's Lot."
Aldrich stared, finally understanding why Duke had been so nice in these past few meetings. He swallowed, his earlier confidence utterly deflated.
"I…" he stammered, "I'll see what I can do."
---
The whirlwind of business was interrupted by the ringing of his office phone. Eleanor's voice was subtly different when she announced, "Sir, Ms. Katharine Ross is here to see you."
Duke looked up, his carefully maintained composure faltering for a single, unguarded second. "Send her in."
Katharine entered, beautiful and poised, but the ease that had once existed between them was gone, replaced by a formal, careful distance.
She offered a small, tentative smile.
"I heard it," she said simply. "I heard that song, 'Suzie Q.' I was in my car, and I thought… I had to come and say congratulations. It's wonderful, Duke you did something truly great."
"Thank you, Kate," he said, he gave a smile back, the use of her name feeling both familiar and foreign in his mouth.
The conversation was slower than their conversations before the break, less jokes, like an invisible wall was in the middle of them.
She acknowledged his successes the films, his books, now the music with genuine admiration, but her posture, her eyes, reinforced the boundary she had drawn.
"I was thinking about how we ended things," she continued softly. "I'm proud of you."
There was a heavy pause.
"Actually," she said, shifting the subject with visible effort, "there's a professional reason for my visit, too."
"A friend of mine is incredibly enthusiastic about Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. He's connected, and he's looking to invest in a project with real vision. He asked me if the project was still… standing."
Duke felt a complex twist of emotions. "The project is very much alive," he confirmed, his voice returning to its business-like calm.
"I'll have Mark Jensen send the script over to your friend. I appreciate the connection."
"Actually," Katharine said, "he's here with me. I hope you don't mind, I thought it might be easier to introduce you directly."
She turned toward the door and gave a slight nod.
A moment later, Paul Newman walked in, his smile as brilliant and disarming as the camera loved it to be. He moved with the easy confidence of movie star.
"Mr. Hauser," he said, extending a hand. "A pleasure. Kate's been singing your praises, and that script… it's something special."
"Mr. Newman," Duke replied, shaking his hand. "The feeling is mutual. Please, have a seat."
Newman got straight to the point, his blue eyes sharp and focused. "I'll be frank. I want to play Butch Cassidy. I think I'm the right man for the role. And I'm prepared to invest in this picture."
"My offer is this: I'll forgo my usual salary. Instead, I take a significant piece of the profits. A backend participation. It aligns our interests that way we all win when the picture wins."
The room went very still.
Duke's expression, which had been politely receptive, cooled by several degrees.
"I appreciate the offer, Mr. Newman," Duke said, his voice even and firm, "but that's not a model I work with. Ithaca Productions retains full ownership and control of its profits."
"We pay fair, competitive salaries. We do not cede equity."
Newman's smile didn't falter, but it became more challenging. "Come on, now. This is how pictures like this get made. You're new to this, but you'll find that having skin in the game brings the right people to the table."
"Look at Warren Beatty with Bonnie and Clyde. He fought for the project, he built it, he had a piece of it. That's how you make a classic."
"I'm aware of how certain movie stars operate," Duke replied, his tone leaving no doubt that he had no intention of emulating him. "Ithaca's model is different. We control the asset from creation to distribution. We don't partner with talent on ownership."
Newman leaned forward, his charm now layered with a hint of steel. "Let me be clear, then. Without a star of my caliber attached, you're going to have a hell of a time getting the financing you need for a picture this size."
"This isn't a low-budget horror film. By bringing me in, you're not just getting an actor—you're getting a person that unlocks the doors to the funding and the audience this picture needs. My participation isn't a cost."
"I can even help with distribution since I have been in this town for decades."
Duke listened, his gaze unwavering.
He understood the logic, the conventional wisdom Newman was espousing.
"I understand the industry's perspective, Mr. Newman," Duke said, his voice still polite. "And I respect your position. However, my position is equally clear. The project will move forward under Ithaca's financial and creative control. If that structure is not amenable to you, then I completely understand, and I appreciate your time and your passion for the material."
It was a dismissal. A polite, professional, and utterly final one.
Newman studied him for a long moment, a flicker of surprise and then a grudging respect in his eyes. He wasn't used to being told no, especially not by a young producer on the rise.
He glanced at Katharine, then back at Duke. He stood up.
"You're making a mistake," Newman said, though the words lacked their earlier force. "This picture could be a landmark."
"I agree," Duke said, also rising. "And it will be. Thank you both for coming."
After they were gone, the office felt larger and emptier than ever.
He sat in silence for a long time, while lip-singing Bye bye bye by NYCNC as the night continued.