Inside the Chairman's office at Paramount, Duke Hauser sat behind his mahogany desk, posture relaxed waiting for Barry Diller to arrive with the architect of their current financial headache.
When the doors finally swung open, Diller walked in first, behind him came Clive Davis.
The record executive carried himself with an specific kind of arrogant swagger.
Duke didn't offer a greeting. Didn't gesture for either man to sit.
He just let the silence stretch, forcing Davis to stand in the center of the room.
"Let's skip the preamble, Clive," Duke finally said, his voice calm. "Barry briefed you on what our internal accounting found. 1,3 million dollars of Paramount's money, redirected into your personal expenses. I'm not interested in a denial, since we have proof of the paper trail."
Clive shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his chest like a shield. He looked irritated.
"You film guys just don't understand the record business," Clive started, trying to grab the high ground. "You look at a spreadsheet and see theft. I look at that same spreadsheet and see the necessary cost of doing business."
"You want Bruce Springsteen on the radio? You want Aerosmith climbing the charts? That doesn't happen organically, Duke. It happens because I grease the radio host. It happens because of payola."
Clive began to pace slightly, hands moving emphatically as he talked. "The radio stations, the disc jockeys, the promoters, they all demand their cut. Sometimes it's cash in a brown bag. Sometimes it's setting them up with women for the weekend. Sometimes it's making sure the right drugs find the right parties."
"That's the currency of the music industry. You think our revenue jumped from three million to forty-five million because we pressed better vinyl? No. It jumped because I know exactly who to bribe, how to bribe them, and how to keep them happy."
"The artists sign with Paramount Records specifically because they know I'll do whatever it takes, legal or otherwise to make them superstars. I'm protecting your investment."
He stopped, glaring at Duke. "I am the only reason Paramount has a music division worth talking about."
Duke leaned forward, elbows on the desk, hands clasped.
"That's a fascinating sociological breakdown of the radio industry, Clive. Truly." Duke's voice dripped with sarcasm.
"Now, please explain to me how a 54 thousand-dollar Bar Mitzvah for your son paid for by Paramount company funds fits into your grand strategy of bribing radio host. Was there a particularly influential program director hiding in the ice sculpture? Did the rabbi refuse to play the new Aerosmith single unless we bribed him with chopped liver?"
"That... that was a networking event," Clive stammered in his words, his confident cracking just a fraction. "Every major player in the New York music scene was in that room. The goodwill generated-"
"Shut up." Duke said. "You are not a misunderstood genius operating in the shadows for the good of the company, Clive. You are a common thief who got comfortable."
"And you are severely overestimating your indispensability. There are a dozen ruthless record executives in New York and LA who would happily manage our talent and distribute payola, they just haven't had the connections or the backing of a conglomerate."
"The industry is thinking of investigating Payolas again, and also I can replace you by Friday, and prosecute you for the money you took."
Clive's eyes narrowed, "You don't want to play this game with me, Duke. You think you're powerful because you own a movie studio? You have no idea the circles I run in. I have friends in very high places. I'm talking about people in the intelligence community, the CIA."
"I am under the protection of very important people who consider me a vital asset, and they will not let some Hollywood kid destroy my career over a bookkeeping dispute. You try to push me out or make this public and you'll find yourself dealing with consequences you can't comprehend."
Duke stared at him for a long moment. Then a slow smile spread across his face.
"The CIA, Clive? Really? That's your play?" Duke stood up slowly, the physical diffence huge, Clive Davis was standing at 5'6 while Duke was 6'5. "Let me explain the real world to you. I am not just a 'Hollywood kid.' I am a twenty-six-year-old millionaire who has send donations directly into the inner circle of the Republican Party."
"I have the President's friends on speed dial. Do you honestly believe that some mid-level officer at Langley is going to risk his career to protect a record executive from a stubborn vindictive young donor?"
Duke walked around the desk, closing the distance until he stood just inches from Clive.
"If you ever threaten me again, I won't just fire you. I will personally fund the federal investigation into your payola schemes. Stealing from me is illegal. Bribing radio stations is illegal."
"The Justice Department is already looking for scalps in the entertainment industry, and I will hand them yours on a silver platter. I will have you prosecuted, Clive. I will bankroll Neo-Naze groups to beat your jewish ass in prison. The CIA won't save you. They'll deny they ever met you."
The fight was finally drained out of Clive Davis. His shoulders slumped. He looked at Diller for support, but Diller just stared at the paintings around the room pretending not to see him.
Clive swallowed hard, "Okay, Duke. I understand. I apologize. I overstepped. If Paramount is willing to play ball with me, I can play ball with Paramount. The artists stay. The revenue stays. Just... tell me how we fix this."
Duke didn't offer a forgiving smile. He was already mad about the fact that he asked for a Dr. Pepper in the morning and his assistant brough a Mr. Pibb, a copycat drink, that even in his poorest moment across two lifes, he never drunk.
He just nodded, acknowledging the message. "Here's how we fix it. You keep your title, and you keep managing the talent. But as of this afternoon, you no longer have access to the Paramount Records bank accounts."
He turned to Diller. "Barry, lock the money down. Bring in a new CFO for the label immediately. This CFO will handle every budget, approve every expense, sign every check. Clive, you will submit forms for your 'networking'. If you try to bypass him, you're done."
Duke turned his gaze back to Clive, voice flat and dismissive. "Now get out of my office."
Clive nodded quickly, tand practically fled. Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, the tension in the room finally broke. Diller let out a long breath and walked over to the bar cart in the corner.
"Well," Diller said, pouring himself a measure of scotch. "That was brutal. The new CFO is the best play. We keep our golden goose, but we put it in a cage."
Duke walked back to his chair, "It's a temporary measure, Barry. He has to go. You can't trust a thief, no matter how much money he makes you. Keep the revenue flowing for now, but have the new CFO audit every single piece of paper from the last three years. Build an airtight federal case. When the time is right, I want to send him to jail."
---
Later that evening, the ruthless Chairman of Paramount persona was entirely replaced by a man devoted to the woman beside him.
The Long Beach Arena was a massive arena that was right now filled with a haze of marijuana smoke, cheap beer, and the roar of ten thousand teenagers.
Duke moved through the VIP with his arm securely wrapped around Lynda Carter's waist. They were a big contrast to the glitter-soaked crowd.
Beneath Lynda's breathtaking exterior, Duke could feel the tension radiating from her. Lynda had been uncharacteristically quiet all evening.
Two days ago, her private Los Angeles apartment had been broken into. Not a random burglary, some of her so-called "friends" had stolen several pieces of jewelry. The financial loss was irrelevant to Duke but the emotional toll was deep.
He'd brought her to a David Bowie concert not just because she loved the Ziggy Stardust album, but because he wanted to get her in a place with good energy.
The stadium lights suddenly plunged into total darkness, and the crowd erupted into a deafening scream that shook the floor.
A single spotlight snapped on, illuminating David Bowie standing center stage. He was an alien vision, skin-tight, vividly colored jumpsuit.
He struck a dramatic pose, and the opening chords of "Starman" ripped through the amplifiers.
Duke watched Lynda's face in the strobing lights. He saw her eyes widen, she loved this music, loved the weird, unapologetic freedom it brough with it.
But as the concert progressed, the frantic energy slowed, and Bowie launched into a slower start song, Rock 'N' Roll Suicide.
The aggressive lighting softened into deep blues and purples, Without a word, Duke stepped behind her. He wrapped both arms around her waist, pulling her back firmly against his chest.
Lynda leaned back into his embrace, her hands coming up to rest over his forearms.
Duke began to sway slowly, forcing her to move with him to the rhythm of the music.
All in all, a good night.
---
The next morning, Duke found himself back at the El Gato facility.
Duke stood in front of a massive whiteboard in the center of the Atari engineering floor, holding a blue dry-erase marker. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up.
Standing next to him was Steve Bristow, a brilliant young engineer who'd been instrumental in the hardware design of their arcade cabinets. Steve clutched a legal pad, eyes fixed intently on the whiteboard as Duke began to draw.
"It's called Breakout," Duke explained. He drew a long, horizontal rectangle at the bottom of the board.
"This is the paddle. The player controls it along a X-axis. Left and right. Simple, intuitive."
He drew a small circle, the ball and a large, dense grid of smaller rectangles at the top. "These are the bricks. The objective is simple, destroy the bricks."
"The ball bounces off the paddle, hits a brick, the brick disappears, and the ball deflects back down. The player has to keep the ball in play until the entire ceiling is cleared."
He stepped back, gesturing with the marker. "It takes the competitive two-player dynamic of Pong and turns it into a solitary, addictive battle against a machine. Man versus machine."
Steve stared at the drawing, scribbling notes. "It's great, Mr. Hauser," he said, nodding enthusiastically.
"We can definitely use the existing discrete logic architecture from Pong. We'll just need to upgrade the collision detection algorithms to handle the specific angles when the ball hits the brick corners. And we'll need a dedicated memory bank just to track the state of the brick grid, whether a brick is active or destroyed."
Duke watched the engineer, waiting for the inevitable pushback. He knew the hardware limitations of 1973 made rendering dozens of independent, destructible objects incredibly difficult.
He expected Steve to complain about CRT refresh rates, the impossibility of making paddle movement feel analog and responsive. But Steve just kept nodding.
"We can do it," Steve said confidently, looking up from his notes. "I'll need to assign three more guys to the logic design, and the research phase on ball trajectory might take... a couple of months, but I guarantee we can have a working prototype by the end of the year. Everything you're asking for is completely achievable."
Duke couldn't help but smile, letting out a short amused laugh at the Unlikely Yes man he had found.
Steve looked slightly confused by Duke's laughter. "Did I miss something, Duke? Is the timeline too conservative?"
Duke shook his head, capping the blue marker and tossing it onto the tray. "No, Steve. The timeline is perfect."
____
Im exhausted, bye