The man sitting across from Duke in the sparse, newly rented office space for Ithaca Records was named Leo Walsh. He was in his late forties, with weary eyes, slightly worn out suit and the smell of a man who'd spent too many years in smoky clubs.
A faint scent of cigarette smoke and old vinyl clung to him. But those eyes still held a spark, a fanatic's gleam when he talked about music.
"The industry is chasing its own tail, Mr. Hauser," Walsh said, leaning forward, his hands animated. He had a directness that bordered on disrespect, but Duke appreciated it. It was the opposite of Hollywood's oily politeness.
"They're all looking for the next Jefferson Airplane, the next Grateful Dead. It's all psychedelia, sitar solos, and songs about orange sunshine. A lot of the current music doesn't work in my opinion cause it's not talking to the guy who works on an assembly line in the middle of america or drives a truck down I-40."
Duke listened, sipping a glass of water. He'd read Walsh's resume: A&R for Fantasy records, and according to Jeese , he also has a reputation for having a golden ear but a bad temper for corporate nonsense.
He'd been fired from his last job for telling a VP that a scheduled act was, and he'd quoted, "a waste of good electricity."
He was exactly what Duke needed.
"What kind of music would be talking to that guy?" Duke asked, his voice neutral.
"The kids are forgetting about rock and roll," Walsh declared, slapping a palm on the desk for emphasis. "They're forgetting about the blues, and country, and the simple, angry truth of a three-minute song. But it's still out there, I'm telling you. It's in the garages. I heard a band up in the East Bay a few months back. They used to be called The Golliwogs, can you believe it? Terrible name. But they've changed it. Now they're Creedence Clearwater Revival."
Duke's expression didn't change, but internally, he felt a jolt of validation. This was the confirmation he needed.
This man did his homework.
"John Fogerty, the lead singer, he's got a voice that sounds like it's been marinating in gravel and cheap whiskey," Walsh continued, his voice rising with passion. "They're tight, they're raw, and they write songs you can hum after hearing them once. It's the sound of America. They've got this one song, 'Walk on the Water,' it's not even fully baked yet, but you can hear it. The potential is staggering."
"Can you sign them?" Duke asked, cutting through the poetry to the practical.
Walsh looked at him, the spark in his eyes igniting into a flame. He saw that Duke wasn't just another guy doubting, he was a man who made decisions.
"For a fair production deal and a real marketing push? Not just dumping their record in a bin and hoping for the best? Absolutely. They're hungry. But no one with a checkbook has listened to them. Not the way I have."
Duke didn't smile. He gave a single, sharp nod. "You're hired. Your first assignment is Creedence Clearwater Revival. Get it done. Your budget is your own discretion, but I'll be reviewing the contracts."
Walsh stood up, a new energy in his frame, the weariness momentarily banished. "You won't regret this, Mr. Hauser. We're not going to follow the trends. We're going to start one."
"That's the idea," Duke said.
As Walsh left, a man with a new purpose in his step, Duke felt a surge of satisfaction.
He also happen to remember as he stared at the paper of Walsh life, the part that said Fantasy records.
Wasn't Fantasy records the people that would originally publish CCR?
He only remembered cause they would use some funds from it to fund movies, including the animated Lord of The Rings movie in 1978.
"Well, who cares." Duke streched his arms as he decided to not care about it.
----
The phone's ring was a shriek in the deep quiet of the Hollywood Hills night. Duke, who had been reviewing the Carthay Circle acquisitions plans, picked it up on the second ring.
"Duke?" The voice was Mike Nichols', but it was stripped bare. All the usual wit, the layered irony, the director's confident control—gone.
What remained was raw, exposed nerve. "They hate it."
Duke stood, the acquisitions plans forgotten. He walked to the large picture window, the glittering grid of Los Angeles spread out below him like a fallen galaxy. "Who hates it, Mike?"
"The executives. The ones who write the checks for the prints and the ads. They had a screening. They said it's 'uncommercial.' They said the ending is a 'cop-out.' One of them… Christ, one of them actually used the word 'depressing.'"
Nichols' voice cracked on the word. "What if we were wrong? What if we just spent all this time, all this fights on set, to make a beautiful, perfect box office bomb?"
Duke could feel the terror radiating down the line. A phone call wasn't enough.
"Where are you right now?" Duke asked, his tone shifting from listening to commanding.
"I'm at home. Staring at a wall."
"No, you're not. Meet me at the diner on Sunset. The one that's always open. Twenty minutes."
The diner was a capsule of fluorescent light and chrome, a world away from the plush screening rooms and Bel Air estates. Nichols was already in a corner booth, hunched over a cup of black coffee he wasn't drinking. He looked up as Duke entered, his eyes shadowed with a despair Duke had last seen on the faces of young lieutenants after their first firefight.
Duke slid into the booth, ignoring the menu. "Okay," he said. "Start from the beginning. What did they actually say?"
"It's not what they said, it's how they looked," Nichols muttered, stirring his coffee aimlessly. "They were bored. Confused. Meyers even looked at me in the eye making fun. They see a movie about a kid screwing his parents' friend and then not even getting the girl in the end. They don't see the vision."
"Mike, listen to me," Duke said, leaning forward, his voice low and firm, the voice of a lieutenant steadying his platoon before a desperate dawn assault. "They don't get it because it's a mirror. They see their own marriages in the Robinsons plastic perfection. They see their own hollow lives. They're calling it 'depressing' because it's true for them."
"But the test audience cards..." Nichols started, clutching at the studio's cold, quantitative data.
"Forget the studio's tests," Duke interrupted, his voice cutting through the doubt. "We need our own people in those screenings. Not studio plastics. College kids. Musicians. Writers. The people under thirty. Mike, theywon't be confused. They're living in that silence. They'll get it because it's for them. The audience is ready. The executives are always the last to know."
Nichols stared at him, searching his face for any hint of doubt. He found none. He found only a face full of absolute certainty.
"You sure?" The question was a whisper, a final plea for a lifeline.
"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," Duke said, his gaze unwavering. "You didn't make a bomb. You made a landmark. They'll be studying this film long after those executives retired. Now, drink your coffee. Then go home and get some sleep."
A slow, weary, but genuine smile finally touched Nichols' lips. He picked up his coffee cup and took a real sip. "Okay. Okay." He took a deep breath, the weight on his shoulders visibly lightening. "A landmark, huh?"
"A landmark," Duke confirmed. He signaled for the check. The crisis was over. He needed to attend the next private screening of The Graduate to avoid the executives getting depressed and refusing to distribute.
----
The next day, Duke made two strategic purchases. The first was for mobility.
He got a taxi to a dealership in Beverly Hills, where the salesmen glided across the polished showroom floor in suits that cost more than most men's monthly rent.
They eyed his simple clothes and functional vehicle with practiced indifference until he bypassed them entirely, his cane tapping a deliberate rhythm on the tile.
He pointed a long finger at a car parked not under the dazzling lights, but in a corner where its lines spoke for themselves.
"The Mustang," he said, his voice cutting through the soft Muzak. "The Fastback. Not the convertible."
It was a 1967 model, in a deep, metallic nightmist blue that looked almost black until the sun hit it, revealing a hidden, cool intensity. It was sleek, muscular, and purposeful—a statement of performance, not ostentation.
A salesman finally slinked over. "An excellent choice, sir. A real driver's car. Would you like to discuss financing options?"
Duke didn't look at him, his eyes still on the vehicle. "I'll take it. The price on the sticker." He pulled a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and placed it on the salesman's desk. The stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills silenced the man's condescension instantly.
'Finally I get to show off with my wealth.' Duke though keeping a straight face while the saleman checked the money on the envelope.
The second purchase was human capital.
Back at his expanding office, the first candidate was waiting. Eleanor Shaw was in her early thirties, her dark hair pulled into a severe, practical knot at the nape of her neck.
She wore a impeccably tailored but simple office dress and looked at him with calm, assessing eyes. Her resume stated she had worked on the office of a demanding airline company for a decade.
"Your current filing system is a fire hazard, Mr. Hauser," she said by way of greeting, gesturing with a perfectly manicured hand to the stacks of scripts and contracts. "Your calendar, from what I can discern, is a series of hopeful suggestions, not appointments. And you waste, on average, seven minutes per phone call on unnecessary pleasantries that could be summarized in a fifteen-second memo."
Duke didn't smile, a little perplexed by this woman's direct efficiency, but he was also deeply impressed. "And you can fix this?"
"I can impose order on chaos. I cannot create time, but I can stop you from wasting it." She handed him a typed sheet. "This is my proposed system. You will have three protected hours each morning for creative work. All calls will be screened, logged, and summarized. All correspondence will be prioritized and presented with relevant background. You will know what you need to know, when you need to know it, and nothing else."
"You're hired," Duke said. "Your title is Executive Assistant. Your salary is twenty percent above your last position. And a performance bonus twice a year."
Eleanor gave a single, sharp nod. "A practical decision. I'll begin now." Within an hour, the frantic, uncontrolled ringing of the phone had ceased, replaced by the efficient sound of her electric typewriter and the crisp, quiet tones of her voice on the line: "Ithaca Productions, Mr. Hauser's office. State your business."
The second hire was a different kind of calculation. David Chen was thirty-eight, his suit expensive but conservative, his handshake firm and dry. He had spent twelve years in commercial real estate development, specializing in the acquisition and repurposing of large, complex properties. He was not from Hollywood, and that was his greatest asset.
"The Carthay Circle," Chen said, getting straight to the point. "It's a white elephant. The maintenance costs are large. Most potential buyers see a tear-down to make way for a modern office building or a parking structure. Is that your plan, Mr. Hauser?"
"No," Duke said, his voice leaving no room for ambiguity. "It's a landmark. I intend to restore it."
A flicker of interest crossed Chen's impassive face. "In that case, I propose a two-pronged strategy. First, we use its dilapidated state and its status as a 'liability' to drive the purchase price down significantly. Second, and concurrently, I will immediately file the paperwork to have it designated a California Historical Landmark. The process can be expedited with the right… encouragement. Once designated, its value as a cultural asset is locked in, it becomes eligible for tax advantages, and it makes it politically and legally difficult for anyone to ever challenge its existence. It also makes the current owners more eager to sell to a sympathetic buyer like yourself, before the designation complicates a potential demolition."
Duke studied him. This was the kind of long-range, strategic thinking he needed. "Do it. Your title is Director of Operations. You'll oversee all acquisitions and physical infrastructure, starting with the Carthay."
"I'll need an assistant," Chen stated, not asking. "The paperwork for the landmark status alone is a monumental task."
"Speak to Ms. Shaw my secretary. I'm sure she'll find you someone competent."
By five o'clock, the atmosphere in the office had transformed. The chaotic energy was gone, replaced by a low, purposeful hum.
Eleanor Shaw was a silent, efficient engine at her desk. David Chen was already on the phone with city hall, his voice a calm, persuasive murmur.
Sitting in his office, the weight of the Mustang keys in his chest pocket, Duke felt relaxed. Things were cilking into place.
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Hey, I been trying longer chapters, let me know if you guys like them