The news of the Steeltown contract landed with a quiet, decisive weight on Duke shoulders.
He summoned David Chen to come to the office while Leo Walsh was already there.
"Chen," Duke began, his voice comanding.
"Get a copy of that Steeltown contract. I don't care if you have to pay one of their interns. Go through it line by line, look for a missed obligation, a technicality, a failure of consideration anything we can use as a lever."
Chen gave a curt nod, his mind already compartmentalzing the task. "Understood. I'll start immediately."
Duke then turned to Walsh. The A&R man looked like he'd aged five years overnight, the hangover now replaced by a gut revolting anxiety.
"Leo," Duke said, his tone firm but not accusatory. The failure was systemic, not personal.
"Your job is containment. Find Joe Jackson and get him in a room. I don't care if you have to fly to Gary and sit on his doorstep."
"Make him understand that his lack of transparency has just moved this from a negotiation to a salvage operation. The next word out of his mouth that isn't full and transparent disclosure, and we walk away permanently."
Walsh, grateful for the clear directive and the absence of blame, straightened up. "I'll find him."
---
Forty-eight hours later, they reconvened. Chen laid the contract on Duke's desk, several passages highlighted in neat yellow ink.
"It's binding, but it's sloppy," Chen reported. "There are two primary vulnerabilities. First, a 'key man' clause that ties the contract's validity to the active involvement of Steeltown's owner, a Mr. Gordon Keith."
"Second, and more importantly, the language regarding marketing and promotion is vague but demanding. It stipulates that Steeltown will 'vigorously promote the artist's career nationwide.'"
Chen looked up, a rare hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "They pressed a single, 'Big Boy.' It sold an estimated four hundred copies, almost entirely within a fifty-mile radius of Gary. There were some radio promotions in Gary, no tour support, no national advertising. By any reasonable legal standard, they have failed to meet their obligation. We can argue material breach."
Leo Walsh let out a low whistle, this time of admiration. "So the contract isn't a wall at least."
"Precisely," Duke said. He didn't smile, but a glint of strategic approval showed in his expression. "Here's the play. Our lawyers will prepare a lawsuit"
"Allegations: breach of contract, failure to promote, stunting of professional growth. Make it sound like Gordon Keith personally ensured these kids would never have a career."
"Then, you will draft a separate document. A buyout offer. Twenty-five thousand dollars cash. For the complete and unconditional release of the Jackson 5 from all obligations and the transfer of all master recordings, including that single."
"Twenty-five grand?" Walsh breathed. "Duke, that's… that's a fortune to a small-timer like Keith. He probably hasn't seen that much money in his life."
"It's a pittance for us," Duke corrected, his voice flat. "We present them simultaneously. We show Keith the legal abyss we're about to push him into. Then we show him the golden parachute."
"He can take the money and have a life-changing win, or he can fight us in court until he's bankrupt and owns nothing but a legal bill. It's not a choice. It's an ultimatum."
He turned to Walsh. "Your meeting with Joe is now different. You're not going in angry. You're going in as the bearer of a solution that 'we' had to engineer to clean up 'his' mess. You explain the situation, you explain our plan, and you make it abundantly clear that his collaboration is now mandatory."
"His only job is to get his sons ready to record for Ithaca. Are we clear?"
"Crystal," Walsh said, a new sense of purpose squaring his shoulders. The machinery was now in motion a classic pincer movement of legal terror and financial seduction, with Joe Jackson and Gordon Keith caught perfectly in the middle.
---
While the Jackson situation simmered, Mark Jensen brought another opportunity to a boil.
He burst into Duke's office, his usual composed energy crackling with excitement.
"The Easy Rider project," he said, leaning on the desk. "Fonda, Hopper. They've been shopping it everywhere. They've got a shoestring budget, maybe three hundred thousand, from Bert Schneider and Bob Rafelson. They're practically begging for film stock, but they're about to start shooting."
Duke's mind instantly accessed his memories of this counterculture landmark.
A massive, generation-defining hit that would capture the national mood with terrifying precision.
"Schneider and Rafelson?" Duke said, a predator's smile touching his lips. "The Monkees producers, right? They don't understand what this is. Set up a meeting. Now."
He met with Peter Fonda and Dennis Hopper in a sparse, rented office on the fringes of Hollywood that smelled of stale coffee and fresh ambition.
Fonda was the calm, pragmatic strategist, while Hopper vibrated with the intense, unpredictable energy of a live-wire visionary.
Jensen began the pitch with practiced smoothness. "Gentlemen, Ithaca Productions sees incredible potential in Easy Rider. We believe in a new kind of American filmmaking, and this script is at the vanguard."
"We appreciate the interest," Fonda said, his tone polite but firm. "Really. But we've already got our funding. Bert and Bob are behind us."
It was then that Duke spoke, his voice cutting through the pleasantries like a blade. "I'll triple it."
The room went silent. Fonda blinked. Hopper's restless tapping stopped.
"One million dollars," Duke stated, the number hanging in the air, absurd and undeniable. "Final cut remains with you, the directors."
He turned his gaze specifically to Hopper, who was studying him with a wild, suspicious look. "Your vision stays your vision. No studio interference."
Fonda was visibly calculating, the sheer scale of the budget unlocking possibilities he'd only dreamed of.
But Hopper remained coiled, distrustful. "You're not some studio suit gonna come in and tell me how to frame my shots? How to edit my picture?" he challenged, his voice a low growl.
"I'm buying the result, not the process," Duke replied, his calm a stark contrast to Hopper's frenzy. "But I expect a result. A finished film. I'm not a patron of the arts; I'm a producer. And I will be the lead producer on this."
Peter Fonda saw the future in that million dollars. He had originally planned to give some unoficcial money for production on his part, but with this new budget then they could solve most of these things.
He leaned over to Hopper, his voice low but urgent. "Dennis, think about it. No compromises. We can get the bikes we want, the locations, the film stock. We can actually make the movie we talked about, not the one we can afford."
Hopper looked from Fonda's earnest face back to Duke's impassive one.
"I want it in writing," he finally demanded, jabbing a finger at Duke. "Distribution. I don't want this thing to die in some dusty art house."
"I want it in... two hundred theaters. Minimum. You guarantee that, you put your name on a contract that says Ithaca gets this picture into two hundred theaters across this country, and you've got a deal."
It was a bold, nearly unprecedented ask from an unproven director. But Duke's mind showed him the future: drive-ins packed with kids, the soundtrack blasting from radios, a cultural moment being born. Two hundred theaters would be just the beginning.
"Ithaca Distribution guarantees a two hundred theater national release," Duke said without a moment's hesitation. "The contract can be signed today."
The deal was struck. In one afternoon, Duke had not only strategically overpaid to capture a cultural touchstone, but he had also secured a major, guaranteed release for his burgeoning distribution arm, forcing it to grow to meet the obligation. He had turned a counterculture manifesto into a cornerstone of his corporate strategy.
---
In early March, the trade papers delivered a long-awaited headline: "THE GRADUATE HITS #1." The intellectual, character driven film had finally, definitively, outlasted all competition.
The phone rang. It was Mike Nichols.
"Duke. We're having a party. My place. Don't even think of saying no. I want you there."
The party at Nichols's sleek, modern home was a whirlwind of Hollywood's new elite. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the scent of expensive perfume, and the heady aroma of success.
Nichols was ebullient, draping an arm around Duke. "We did it, you stubborn son of a bitch. We actually did it."
Dustin Hoffman, now a certified star, thanked him with some small words filled with intense gratitude. Anne Bancroft was regal and warm, her congratulations carrying the weight of a shared, hard won battle.
Then, he saw Katharine Ross across the room. She was standing near a bookshelf, a glass of wine in her hand, observing the celebration with a detached calm. He made his way over, the crowd seeming to part for him.
"Congratulations, Duke," she said, her smile a practiced, polite thing that didn't reach her eyes.
"You too, Kate. It's your victory as much as anyone's," he replied, the use of her name feeling like a relic.
"It feels like a lifetime ago," she replied softly, her gaze drifting over the crowd. "All of it."
The filming, the secrecy, them—it was all bundled into that single, weary phrase.
He moved closer, lowering his voice, the noise of the party creating a fragile bubble of privacy.
"Why then? Why break it off just before Valentine's? It felt… unnecessarily pointless. Why not wait two more weeks?"
It was an uncharacteristically emotional question, one that betrayed how much the timing had felt like a deliberate, final shot.
Katharine sighed, a small, weary sound. She finally looked directly at him, and he saw not anger, but a profound resignation.
"Because it was the moment I knew, Duke. And the moment doesn't care about the calendar. Waiting would have been a lie. 'It is what it is,' as they say."
She gave a slight, sad shrug. "I meant what I said. I'm very proud of you. But I can't be the option when I'm treating you as a priority."
With a final, lingering look that held more regret than anger, she melted back into the crowd.
Feeling the weight of the finality in her words, Duke needed a distraction of his ideas of what might have been.
He moved towards the living room where a slow, soulful Otis Redding track was playing, the music a warm, melancholic counterpoint to the sharp chatter of the party.
He intended to just pass through, to find a quiet corner to recalibrate, but as he navigated the edge of the dance floor, a young woman with a cascade of dark hair and strikingly expressive eyes turned to him.
She spotted him, a flicker of recognition in her gaze, followed by a playful smile. Before he could process it, she reached out, her fingers cool against his, and deftly pulled him into the flow of dancers.
Duke, momentarily thrown by her audacity, found his footing almost instinctively, one hand settling on the small of her back, the other holding hers.
"Barbara Hershey," she said, introducing herself as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Connor Hauser," he said.
"You dance often?" she teased, her eyes glinting with amusement.
"Only on the graves of my competitors," he deadpanned, the corner of his mouth twitching. "It also depends on the occasion."
She laughed, a warm, genuine sound that cut through the party's sounds. "I'll consider it an honor, then."
"You don't seem very happy," Barbara noted, her head tilting as she studied his face. She was observant.
"I'm just thinking," he corrected, his hand resting lightly on her back.
"Of what?" she asked.
"About how interesting it is to be dancing with you." he said, the honesty surprising him. "Girls are normally not first aproachers."
She laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "Well, I just enjoy dancing."
After a couple of dances, the intensity of the party began to feel suffocating. She nodded toward the sliding glass doors. "It's getting loud in here. The garden's quieter."
They slipped outside into the cool night air, the sounds of the party becoming a distant murmur. They talked and joked, leaning against a low stone wall. The conversation was easy, devoid of the calculation that defined his every other interaction.
"I'm starving," Barbara announced after a while. "I hate party food. Let's get out of here."
She drove them in her little convertible, the wind whipping through their hair. On a whim, Duke pointed to a brightly lit Sonic drive-in. "There. Pull in."
They ordered burgers and fries. When the carhop arrived, Duke smiled. "And an Ocean Water, please."
The girl, chewing gum, stared blankly. "A what?"
"An Ocean Water. Coconut flavoring, Sprite, a little blue food coloring."
"Mister, we don't got nothin' like that," she said, shaking her head before skating off.
Barbara looked at him, amused. "An Ocean Water? Did you just make that up?"
"I guess I did," he said, realizing his mistake. "It sounded good."
As they ate, they talked about the industry.
"I auditioned for the Batman TV series a while back," she mentioned offhandedly. "For Catwoman. Julie Newmar got it, obviously. I think they wanted someone with longer legs."
Duke took a bite of his burger, a thoughtful look on his face. "That's a shame. I would have paid good money to see you in that suit."
Barbara laughed, a full-throated, unguarded sound that seemed to light up the entire parking lot, and smiled a slow, pleased smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
In that moment, sitting under the fluorescent lights of a drive-in, the scent of fries and gasoline in the air, with a woman who wasn't afraid to pull him onto a dance floor or laugh with him in the night, Duke felt surprisingly relaxed.