Steeltown Records immediate surrender for the $25,000 buyout was a surprising victory, that didn't lasted for much.
It was immediately eclipsed by Walsh, storming into Duke's office, his face was the perfect picture of a man about to explode in anger.
"He's playing us," Walsh snarled, not even bothering with a greeting.
"Joe. That son of a bitch is playing us. Berry Gordy called him, of course he would. The man has ears everywhere, he didn't even make a formal offer, just… expressed 'interest.' Told Joe that Motown is the true home for Black talent, that they'd be with their own kind, part of a real legacy, not some experiment."
Walsh paced, his frustration a physical force in the room. "And Joe, that greedy, short-sighted bastard, is getting stars in his eyes. He's 'reconsidering our arrangement.' He's talking about 'exploring all options.' He's treating the Letter of Intent like a used car negotiation, not a binding legal document!"
Duke didn't react with matching anger.
He simply went very still, his gaze turning inward, calculating.
A bidding war with Motown was a fool's errand; they had surprisingly deep pockets and an irreplaceable brand.
Motown Records in 1968 was already called "The Sound of Young America", and their address was called Hitsville U.S.A for a reason.
They were dominant, having Marvin Gaye and Diana Ross & The Supremes in their rooster.
But he wasn't dealing with a rational businessman. He was dealing with Joe Jackson, a man who understood force, not business.
In his past life, the Jackson Five signed with Motown Records through such a bad contract that they left after a few years.
They literally walked out and named themselves the Jacksons after Berry keep giving them awful deals despite their success.
"Get him in here," Duke commanded, his voice dangerously quiet. "Not on the phone. In this office. Now."
An hour later, Joe Jackson strode in, a false confidence in his step. He wore a cheap suit and a thinner smile. "Mr. Hauser. Leo. What's so urgent?"
Duke laid his back on his chair, not inviting him to sit. "I'm told you're having conversations with Berry Gordy."
Joe's smile tightened. "A man has to listen, doesn't he? Got to do what's best for the family. After all, Motown is a powerful institution."
"You signed a Letter of Intent with Ithaca," Duke stated, his voice flat. "It is a binding document. You do not have the right to 'listen' to competitors. You work for me now."
Joe's facade of civility cracked. "Now you listen here. You don't own me. You don't own my boys. That paper don't mean a damn thing if a better offer comes along."
"It means everything," Duke countered, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "It means own you, Joe. And if you break it, I won't sue Motown. I will sue you. For breach of contract, for fraud, for every single cent you have and every cent you ever hope to make. I will tie you up in court until your grandchildren are old. By the time I'm done, the only stage your boys will be performing on will be a bus terminal."
Joe's face flushed with rage. He took a step forward, his fists clenching. "You think you can talk to me like that? You little boy. You want to step outside and settle this?"
"Fine," Duke said, standing up. "Let's go."
The simple, immediate agreement seemed to suck all the air out of Joe's bluster. He stood there, frozen, his bravado evaporating.
He had expected more argument, more lawyer-talk. He hadn't expected the calm acceptance of a physical challenge.
Duke walked around the desk and stood before him, his posture relaxed. "Well?" Duke asked.
Joe Jackson shuffled his feet, his eyes dropping. He slowly sank back into the chair he'd had not been offered.
Duke didn't sit. He looked down at the man, his voice laced with a contempt.
"I see," Duke said softly. "You're more comfortable fighting children. Not adults."
He leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk. "Let me be perfectly clear, one last time. You will sign the final contract with Ithaca. You will cease all communication with Motown"
"If you try to break the Letter of Intent, if you so much as look at Berry Gordy from across the street, I will not just sue you. I will use every resource I have to make sure you never work in this industry again. I will have you and your entire family sleeping on the streets of Gary. This isn't a negotiation. Do you understand me?"
All the fight had left Joe Jackson.
He gave a single, jerky nod. "I understand."
"Get out," Duke said, turning his back on him. "Come back to tomorrow and be ready to sign."
---
Later the same day, David Chen entered.
He placed the latest circulation and financial report for The Paris Review on the desk. "The acquisition is performing to projections," Chen stated.
"The literary prestige is undeniable. However, it is currently operating at an annualized loss of approximately eighteen thousand dollars."
Duke gave a slight, dismissive wave. "The cost of a key to the right doors. It's acceptable."
"Agreed. But it has me thinking about the future of our publishing distribution. Prestige is an asset, but it should not be a perpetual expense. To make it sustainable, we need to leverage and increase its distribution."
"What would it cost to establish a dedicated distribution network for the Review?" Duke asked, getting to the heart of the matter.
"I do not have a precise figure," Chen admitted, "as building one from scratch is inefficient."
"It would be a significant capital outlay for a publication of its niche scale warehouses, trucks, unionized drivers, sales teams. The infrastructure would be severely underutilized. We would be losing money on a much larger scale."
"So, we need more product for the pipeline," Duke concluded. "Enough product to make the network self-sustaining."
"Precisely," Chen said, a glint of strategic satisfaction in his eyes. "I have analyzed two potential paths. The first is an organic launch. We could create a low-cost comic book line. The profit margins would be minimal, but its purpose would be strategic: to build and sustain a robust national distribution network. We could use the presses and trucks for the comics, and the Review would ride along, its distribution costs effectively subsidized."
Duke considered it, his expression skeptical. "A comic book line, there's two big companies that would fight us if we did that. We'd also be building a network brick by brick."
"It is a logistical tool, not an end goal," Chen corrected. "However, to ensure its initial success and gain rapid shelf space, we could leverage a powerful, underutilized asset: your name."
Duke raised an eyebrow. "My name..."
"You are the author of Jaws and Cujo" Chen stated. "A figure of immense public curiosity. You have never given an interview. Never done a book signing. Your mystique is a marketable commodity."
"If you were to break your silence a single, carefully managed press tour, a signing at a major bookstore and announce your involvement in a new comic book venture during it, the publicity would be immense. It would help the line's launch as a commercial event, forcing at least some distributors to pay attention."
Duke was silent, his distaste for the publicity circus warring with his appreciation for the plan's efficiency.
Chen continued, pressing his advantage. "There is, however, a faster, more direct path. We could acquire an existing infrastructure. My research indicates a company called Charlton Comics is struggling. They are based in Derby, Connecticut. Their content is largely derivative, but their true value is their direct distribution arm they own their own newsstand distribution company with capabilities in the East Coast."
"We could acquire Charlton for a minimal sum, primarily for its machinery, its union contracts, and its established routes. Overnight, Ithaca Publications would have a ready-made semi-national distribution network."
He let the proposition hang in the air before delivering the final part of his integrated strategy. "To immediately maximize the return on this acquisition and signal our serious intent, we would still leverage your name."
"But not with a comic book. I propose you give your first major interview… to The Paris Review. A 'Writers at Work' interview. It would be a cultural event, tying your commercial success directly to our new flagship of high culture."
"It would generate buzz for the Review, driving subscriptions and newsstand sales, which would now flow efficiently through our new Charlton-derived network."
Duke leaned back, steepling his fingers. Chen had presented a complete, interlocking strategy.
It involved an acquisition, a personal compromise, and the merging of high and low culture, all in service of building a self-sustaining logistical empire.
"Get me the due diligence on Charlton Comics," Duke said, his decision made. "And draft a list of potential interviewers for the Review."
---
The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the Carthay Circle parking lot, glinting off the polished chrome of Duke's dark green Jaguar E-Type.
He leaned against the driver's side door, the picture of casual intensity in a simple black sweater and slacks.
At exactly 6:02 PM, Barbara Hershey appeared, a vision of soft California hippie charm that stood in stark contrast to the car's aggressive lines and his own severe demeanor.
She wore a flowing, embroidered peasant dress, her dark hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. A small, slightly shy smile played on her lips as she approached.
"You're punctual," Duke observed, a faint, almost imperceptible note of approval in his voice as he opened the passenger door for her.
"My drama coach said timing is everything," she replied, sliding into the low-slung leather seat. "Although he was usually talking about a punchline, not a date."
She ran a hand over the dashboard. "This is quite a machine. It doesn't seem very… practical."
"It's not meant to be practical," he said, closing her door and walking around to the driver's side. "It's meant to be good at what it's designed for."
"And what's that? Showing off?" she teased, her nerves seeming to melt away into playful curiosity.
"Yeah," he stated, pulling smoothly out onto the street. "This is the type of car Bond would use."
They drove for a while, the powerful car cutting through the Hollywood streets. He didn't fill the silence with small talk, and surprisingly, she seemed content with it, watching the city slide by.
"So," she said finally, turning in her seat to look at him. "Connor 'Duke' Hauser. Producer. Writer. You know, for a guy whose name is on so many things, you're remarkably hard to find out about."
"There's not much to find," he said, his eyes on the road.
He drove them to a small, unassuming Italian place tucked away in a stree, a place with checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in chianti bottles.
He held her chair for her, a gesture that was old-fashioned and utterly natural coming from him.
Over a dinner of simple pasta and red wine, she did most of the talking, and he found himself content to listen.
She spoke about her acting classes, her dreams of playing bigger roles, her love for foreign italian and german films.
"You're very quiet," she said, twirling spaghetti onto her fork. "Most of the men in this town can't stop talking about themselves. It's all deals and credits and who they know. You just… listen."
"I learn more by listening," he replied, taking a sip of wine. "And you're more interesting than most of the deals in this town."(Cringe or ..., I have never written romance so give some leeway guys)
A faint blush colored her cheeks. "That might be the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Okay, my turn. One real thing. What do you do when you're not… you know, in your company?"
He considered the question. The truthful answer was that he was always in his company.
But for her, he crafted a different truth. "I read. I think. I sometimes drive up the coast. Just to… be on the road."
"No hobbies? No stamp collection? No… I don't know, raising prize-winning cattle?"
A rare, full smile touched his lips, transforming his face and startling her with its warmth. "No cows. The cleaning required would be problematic."
"You'd scare them," she laughed, a warm, genuine sound.
The evening passed with an easy rhythm he hadn't experienced in the last year. There was no agenda, no negotiation, no strategic calculation.
Just the simple, unfamiliar pleasure of a connection with someone who just wanted to hang around.
Driving her home, the atmosphere in the car was warm and comfortable. He walked her to her door under a blanket of stars.
"I had a really nice time, Duke," she said, turning to face him on her doorstep.
"So did I, Barbara."
She stood on her toes and brushed a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek. "Next time, I get to pick the place. Maybe someplace that is not pasta."
He watched her disappear inside, and drove off back to his house. He seriously started to consider just getting a Company CEO to handle things.