The twin letters one a meticulously detailed notice of legal action for breach of contract, the other a surprisingly generous buyout offer were sent to Steeltown Records via certified mail.
While they awaited for a hopeful capitulation, Duke and Walsh met with Joe Jackson in a conference room at the office.
Joe arrived, his usual bluster replaced by a wary, cornered tension.
The freewheeling hustler was gone, replaced by a man staring at the potential collapse of his carefully laid plans. He didn't sit, instead pacing for a moment before leaning on the table.
"This is some way to do business," Joe started, trying to seize the initiative. "Sending threats before we even have a proper conversation."
"That Steeltown thing, that was nothing. A handshake deal. A single that went nowhere. I was protecting my boys from being locked into a bad situation."
"Your job was full disclosure," Duke replied, his voice dangerously calm. He remained seated, "You presented your boy band as a free asset. They were not. If we had signed the contract that is fraud and Steeltown could have sue us, and we would have sue you in turn."
"It was a technicality!" Joe's voice rose, his fists clenching. "And you... you talk about professionalism? Your label, what is it? One band? You think you're Motown? You think you're RCA? You're a rich kid playing with a new toy."
Walsh shifted uncomfortably, but Duke didn't even blink.
"Motown has a system. RCA has a system," Duke said, his tone cutting. "They have a system designed to make them rich while the artists fight over scraps."
"Ithaca has a strategy. A strategy that took a song nobody else wanted, 'Proud Mary,' and put it in the top ten nationally in six weeks. A strategy that will do the same for your sons, but bigger. But we do not tolerate being lied to."
He finally picked up a single-page document and slid it across the polished table. It made a sharp, definitive sound.
"This is a Letter of Intent," Duke stated. "It binds you to Ithaca Records, contingent on our successful resolution of the Steeltown situation. The financial terms we originally discussed are here. They are more than fair."
"But the oversight clauses are now non-negotiable. Major financial decisions, tour routing, media appearances they are approved by Leo. This is the only offer."
Joe Jackson's eyes scanned the page, his jaw working as he read the clauses that diminished his power. He saw the financial security, the release of Creedence Clearwater Revival had shown him that Ithaca had the way to promise a nationan release.
He looked from Duke's impassive face to Walsh's grim one. He knew the Steeltown owner was already counting his twenty-five thousand dollars. The legal threat was real, and the escape route Duke offered was the only one he had for now.
With a sound that was half-sigh, half-grunt of resignation the closest he would ever come to an apology or admission of defeat he snatched the pen from the table.
He scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page with a furious slash, as if hoping to tear through the paper.
"Fine," he muttered, throwing the pen down. "You got what you want."
Duke picked up the signed document. "No, Mr. Jackson," he said, his tone of voice still even. "Now your sons have what they need."
The Jackson 5, for all intents and purposes, were now property of Ithaca.
---
A few days later, the first issue of The Paris Review under Ithaca's ownership arrived on Duke's desk.
The cover was its usual elegant self, the paper stock thick and respectable.
True to his word, George Plimpton had maintained the magazine's impeccable literary standards. There was no overt branding, no mention of Ithaca beyond a small, discreet line on the masthead: "Under the Control of Ithaca Publishing."
Duke had barely begun to flip through the pages when Eleanor announced Plimpton himself. The editor entered with his characteristic energy, a smile playing on his lips.
"Checking up on your investment, Connor?" Plimpton said, settling into the chair with an easy grace that contrasted sharply with the formal tension of most of Duke's visitors.
"Taking inventory," Duke replied, holding up the journal. "The quality is consistent."
"Of course it is. A deal is a deal." Plimpton leaned forward, his tone shifting from social to strategic. "But while the fiction and poetry remain the same, I've been thinking about our other sections. The world is changing."
"Film is no longer just entertainment; it's the new literature, the primary conduit for the national conversation. And that conversation is becoming intensely political."
He gestured toward the magazine on Duke's desk. "Take the review of Targets in this issue. Did you see it?"
Duke's eyes found the puff piece.
It was a substantial, analytical appreciation that praised Bogdanovich's formal control and the film's unsettling prescience, framing it as a key text of the new American cinema.
"I was just reading it," Duke said, his voice neutral.
"It's not just a review of a film," Plimpton explained. "It's a critique of the culture that produced it. The violence, the alienation, the death of the old. That's the direction. We can be the place where American film is taken seriously as art and as politics. We'll expand the film criticism section, give it more pages, more intellectual weight."
Duke listened, his expression unchanging, but internally, he was impressed.
He was proposing to use the Review's credibility to frame the narrative around the very films Duke was producing.
"I like the Targets review," Duke said, finally offering a measured sign of approval. "It understands the objective. The strategy you're proposing is sound."
He gave a curt nod. "Go on then."
Plimpton's smile widened. "Excellent. I'll have the next issue's draft for you soon. We're considering a piece on some of the newcomer American directors. Your Mr. Bogdanovich will feature prominently."
After Plimpton left, Duke looked back at the review. Finally they had something to do with publishing.
---
Later the same day, Duke ended on the Paramount lot, where he met Hal Wallis for a walkthrough of the bustling pre-production offices for True Grit.
The air hummed with the low-voltage buzz of logistics, a sound Duke was coming to know well.
A large corkboard was a constellation of casting possibilities for supporting roles like "Moon" and "The Colonel," names circled, crossed out, and debated in scrawled marginalia.
It was a tangible manifestation of his partnership with Paramount, a massive machine being assembled around the core of the script Duke had bought and the star they had jointly secured.
Wallis moved through the space with a proprietor's pride, pointing out details. "We're looking at the Coen Ranch for the primary location. The light is right. It has the scale," he said, gesturing to a large topographic map dotted with pins.
Duke merely nodded, he didn't have nearly as much experience to actually start a big project fast.
All his previous films he had gotten away with it for one reason or the other.
During The Graduate he joined the production when the shooting was already starting and he took advantage of the fact that the Studio clearly didnt believe much on the project.
During Targets he did very little producing with Bogdanovich and Jensen pulling his weight and on Night of the Living Dead, he only send an accountant producer to keep track of the money.
"The location scouts return from Colorado next week," Wallis continued, stopping before a storyboard of the final shootout. "Wayne is happy with the latest script revisions. Says it's the best thing he's read in years. It's all coming together."
Duke nodded, his gaze sweeping over the organized chaos. "It is."
Wallis studied him for a moment, then leaned against a drafting table, crossing his arms. "So, Peter Fonda, huh."
The name, so utterly disconnected from the Western frontier surrounding them, landed in the room without sublety.
Duke's focus sharpened, homing in on Wallis. "What about him?"
"He called me. Said you swooped in and tripled his budget for that motorcycle picture. Easy Rider." Wallis's expression was unreadable. "Told him it was the smartest move he could make."
Duke's voice was flat. "How do you know Fonda?"
A faint, knowing smile touched Wallis's lips. "This is a small town, Hauser, no matter how big it seems. I've known Peter since he was a boy. I've known his father since this industry was black and white. You should be friendlier with him."
"I was friendly enough to give him a million dollars."
"That's business. I'm talking about the other currency that matters here. Relationships. Fonda's not just an actor. That last name carries weight. He's well-liked. People talk to him." Wallis pushed off the table, his voice dropping slightly, though the office din ensured their privacy.
"You're building a company, but you're building it and have no allies, only assets and adversaries. A man like Fonda, if he considers you a friend, can open doors that even money can't. He's bound to rise. It wouldn't hurt for you to be seen rising with him."
The advice hung in the air, a stark contrast to the blueprints and schedules surrounding them.
Alliances of convenience with studios were one thing. Alliances of affinity with the emerging cultural forces were another.
He gave a slow, deliberate nod, not in agreement, but in acknowledgment.
The alliance with Wallis was productive, necessary, but it remained a temporary truce, Duke had one objective to become the second Louie B. Meyer.
Or even the John D. Rockefeller of the entertaintment.
-----
Short Chapter