Mark Jensen looked weary as he sank into the chair in Duke's office, the vibrant energy that usually animated him subdued by the relentless pace of managing True Grit's sprawling pre-production.
He ran a hand through his already-disheveled hair.
"McQueen," he began, the name itself sounding like a report. "He's a star, Duke."
"He's insulated by his 'inner circle' his agent, Freddie Fields, his business manager, and of course, his wife."
"He's got a stack of scripts a mile high from every major studio, and he's notoriously, painfully indecisive. Getting a 'yes' is like pulling one of his teeth."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and tapped a notepad filled with frantic scribbles.
"But I found a chance. Digging through old interviews, talking to people who've worked with him… for all his 'King of Cool', I don't care about things persona, the man is fiercely, obsessively competitive."
"The rise of guys like Warren Beatty as a serious actor-producer, the growing buzz around Redford… he seems to not like it. He reads the trades. He knows the landscape is shifting. He's looking for a project that will shut everyone up and put him back on top, not just at the box office, but in the industry."
Jensen's eyes met Duke's, a spark of strategic clarity returning to cut through his fatigue. "So we shouldn't just offer him the project. We frame this as a character-driven piece with Oscar-worthy depth. We sell him on the chemistry with Butch, the tragic, romantic arc, the chance to show more than just stoic cool to show vulnerability, humor, and ultimately, a kind of noble failure. We sell him on winning."
Duke listened, his gaze unwavering.
He gave a slow, single nod. "The timing is critical, I met him at a celebration party for a movie."
"Right, the car picture," Jensen said.
"It's not just a car picture," Duke corrected, his voice low and certain. "We need to sign him before Bullitt hits the theaters."
Duke didn't hesitate further. He picked up the phone. "Eleanor, help me set up a meeting with Freddie Fields from Creative Management Associates." He hanged up pretty fast.
He looked back at Jensen. "Now, let's speak numbers. What's his current quote?"
"A million," Jensen said. "Maybe one-point-two for a like project."
"And after Bullitt?" Duke asked.
"One-point-five million or even two million, easily. Maybe more if it's the hit you seem to think it is."
Duke steepled his fingers. "We offer one point two million. That's our ceiling for his salary. We do not, under any circumstances, offer profit participation."
"He'll push for points," Jensen warned.
"We'll see after meeting him," Duke replied, his voice leaving no room for debate.
---
On a corner table of a restaurant, Duke had chosen this place not for its two Michelin stars, but because it was new, its business ledger pristine, making the substantial bill a perfectly justifiable expense for "industry networking."
Across the table, David Chen dissected a perfectly cooked sole meunière.
"The preliminary analysis on Marvel is complete," Chen stated, his voice as calm and measured.
He took a sip of wine he had ordered. "The financials are workable. Their magazine division is a consistent drain, but the comic division, while not generating massive profit, possesses the intellectual property we've discussed. The primary structural impediment remains their distribution contract with Independent News."
He laid down his fork and dabbed his lips with a starched linen napkin. "However, a new variable has emerged, entirely external to our calculations."
He paused, ensuring he had Duke's full attention. "Earlier this week, I received an informal approach from a representative of the Kinney National Company. The inquiry was discreet, probing whether you might possess any interest in entertaining an acquisition offer for Ithaca Productions as a whole."
Duke didn't even look up from his filet mignon, cutting a perfect, blood-rare slice. "No," he said, the word flat and final as a judge's gavel.
"Naturally, I conveyed that preliminary sentiment," Chen replied smoothly, unperturbed. "However, given the nature of the approach, I took the liberty of conducting a preliminary investigation into Kinney."
"It is a sprawling conglomerate, originally built on a foundation of parking lots and funeral homes. However, in recent years, under a new guy's ambitious leadership, it has been aggressively diversifying."
"Their strategy appears to be one of vertical integration within the entertainment sector. They recently completed the acquisition of the Ashley-Famous talent agency."
He let that information settle before delivering the crucial data point. "And, more notably for our purposes, they have just finalized the acquisition of National Periodical Publications."
Duke's fork, halfway to his mouth, paused. He slowly lowered it, his gaze lifting from his plate to lock onto Chen's. "DC Comics," Duke stated.
"Precisely," Chen confirmed, a faint glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
"They now own Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman. And, through their corporate subsidiary, Independent News, they currently hold the distribution rights to every comic published by their direct competitor, Marvel."
"Their interest in us is a significant weird point specially since they would get hit with a case since they cant own both agencies and production companies at the same time."
Duke processed this in silence.
After a long, contemplative moment, he spoke, his voice low and resonant with conviction. "Their interest is noted," he said, picking up his fork again as if the matter were now filed and closed. "And it's irrelevant."
He took the final bite of his steak, chewed deliberately, and swallowed.
"Ithaca is not a regular company, David. There are only two outcomes for this enterprise. Either it goes bankrupt, or it becomes a major."
He signaled for the check, the conversation clearly over. "Our next move is Marvel. We must find a way to break their distribution contract too."
---
Duke had driven and taken Barbara Hershey to a secluded cove in Malibu, the Jaguar's headlights illuminating a part of the beach.
A thick wool blanket was spread on the sand, and Barbara sat nestled against his side, his arm around her shoulders, her head resting in the hollow of his neck.
Unlike when working when he was constantly having to solve issues. Right now, he was content to just breathe in the salt air and feel the warmth of Barbara beside him.
Barbara's fingers were laced with his, tracing idle patterns on his palm. "When I was a kid," she said, her voice soft against the rumble of the surf, "I used to put on plays in my living room. I'd force my poor parents to sit through them. I'd use a bed sheet for a curtain and my mother's scarves for costumes."
She laughed, a gentle, self-deprecating sound. "It's crazy to think about all the people in this town dreaming of making it on the industry, they all probably had the same passion for this. Does that sound crazy?"
"No," Duke murmured, his lips brushing against her hair.
For him, his path had been a chaotic rebirth, an strategy born out of foreknowledge and deep passion for the movie industry even on his past life.
She tilted her head back to look at him, her face pale and lovely in the starlight. "What about you? Were you always determined to come here?"
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Not really, I saw a movie a Sergio Leone movie starring Clint Eastwood and i realized i wanted to come here."
She shifted, turning to face him more fully, her hand coming up to rest on his own. Her touch was cool from the night air.
"You know, I read Jaws," she said, her eyes twinkling. "It terrified me. I wouldn't go in the ocean for a week. It's a little strange, being here with you. Are you sure there's nothing lurking out there?" She gestured playfully toward the dark water.
"The water's safe tonight," he assured her, his voice a low rumble.
He leaned in, closing the small distance between them, and kissed her. It was slow and deep. When they finally parted, they were both breathless, the sound of the waves filling the air between them.
He didn't pull away. He rested his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling in a small, warm cloud in the cool air.
"I don't want to talk about the book," he whispered. "Or the movies. Or the business."
"What do you want?" she whispered back, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck.
"This," he said simply.
---
Short chapter today, double chapter tomorrow
IF THE BARBARA SCENE SEEMS CRINGE THE SKIP IT