Dust motes danced in the slanted light cutting through the boarded-up windows of the Carthay Circle Theatre.
Duke walked the sloping floor of the main auditorium, his footsteps echoing in the vast, hollow space. David Chen moved beside him, a clipboard in hand, his voice a calm, factual guide in the cavernous silence.
"The main structural integrity is surprisingly sound," Chen said, rapping his knuckles against a thick column. "That's our foundation, literally and figuratively. The wiring, however, is a genuine fire hazard, likely from the Truman administration. The plumbing… let's call it 'vintage.' It will all need to be stripped out and replaced to modern code. The roof has a few leaks that have caused some dry rot in the upper balcony, but it's contained." He led Duke towards the stage. "The proscenium arch is solid, and surprisingly, the acoustics are still remarkable. The bones are good, Mr. Hauser."
Chen guided Duke while checking his notes back into the grand, derelict lobby, where the faded grandeur was most apparent in the intricate, dust-covered plasterwork on the ceiling and the sweeping staircase. "The assessor's notes mentioned a significant premiere was held here. Snow White, I believe?"
Duke looked up, a faint, knowing smile on his face. "Yeah, the first premiere for Disney, Chen. In 1937 and it was also the first premiere of an animated film. They rolled out a crimson carpet from the curb to the doors. Shirley Temple was here. Most of the industry came. Walt Disney was so nervous he couldn't watch from the audience; he paced the projection booth. The industry then presented him with a special Academy Award, one full-sized Oscar and seven miniature ones, on a stepped platform."
Chen listened, his expression one of polite interest. The history was a curious anecdote, a value-add to the real estate, but not the core asset in his mind. "Fascinating. That legacy certainly adds to the narrative for the historical board. And the prestige will be a valuable asset for your premieres."
Duke ran a hand over the cracked marble of the concession stand, feeling the grit of decades under his fingers. He could feel the history in the plaster, the echoes of a thousand tuxedos and glittering gowns. "This won't be a rental house," he said, his voice firm in tone. "This will be a home of premieres. The premieres for Ithaca Productions will be here."
Chen gave a rare, slight smile, understanding the symbolic weight, not really feeling it himself. "Understood. The historical landmark paperwork is already in motion. It should be official by the new year, which will lock in the tax advantages and solidify its cultural status."
Later, over steaks at a quiet, wood-paneled restaurant nearby, Chen finished his summary. "The initial renovation will be costly, but the landmark status makes it a capital investment, not an expense. The business plan for operating it as a first-run flagship is sound." He took a sip of water. "With the Carthay underway, what would you like me to focus on next, Mr. Hauser?"
Duke chewed thoughtfully for a moment. The question was a good one. The Carthay was a monument, but a monument needed a kingdom. He had production, he was planning on getting into distribution, but the machine needed more parts.
"I'm not entirely sure," Duke admitted, his mind racing through possibilities. "But I know we need to keep building. I want you to do two things. First, find out the current market valuation for the smaller major studios—companies like American International Pictures, Embassy, maybe even Filmways. I want to know what the price of admission is to truly sit at the big table."
Chen nodded, pulling a small notebook from his breast pocket and jotting it down. "Of course. A strategic reconnaissance."
"Second," Duke continued, leaning forward. "I want a list. Small, agile companies that Ithaca could benefit from acquiring. I'm not just talking about other production houses. I want vertical integration."
Chen finished his note, a look of clear approval on his face. This was a language he understood perfectly: growth, acquisition, vertical integration. "A comprehensive analysis of potential strategic acquisitions within the entertainment ecosystem. I'll have a preliminary report on your desk by the end of the week."
"Good," Duke said, sitting back.
---
Pittsburgh was a world away from the faded glamour of the Carthay. The warehouse was cold, the air smelling of damp concrete, ozone from the film lights, and something else—a faint, coppery tang and the sweet, cloying scent of latex. George Romero, energetic and bearded, shook Duke's hand with a firm, grateful grip.
"We're so glad you're here, Mr. Hauser. Really. The funding… it changes everything." He gestured around the chaotic space with palpable excitement. "We can actually afford to make the movie now, not just piece it together. Let me show you."
He led the tired Duke over to a makeshift table—a sheet of plywood laid across two sawhorses—littered with detailed storyboards.
"See, this is the cemetery sequence, right at the top," Romero explained, his finger tracing the panels. "We're going for a real documentary feel here, handheld, shaky. And then here, in the farmhouse," he flipped a page, "we tighten up. The compositions get more claustrophobic, more trapped. It's not just about the monsters outside; it's about the pressure and anxiery inside."
He then guided Duke to another station where a young makeup artist was carefully applying a grotesque, grayish face to a patiently waiting extra. "This is our star," Romero joked. "We're keeping it simple. Gray skin, dark sunken eyes. No fangs, no claws. The horror is in the blankness, the emptiness. They're not evil, they're just… hungry. It's more terrifying that way."
After the tour, they ran the scene. Duke read for Ben, the part of the resourceful survivor boarding up the farmhouse.
His voice was flat, his instructions precise. When he said, "Board up the windows," it wasn't a plea. He sounded more like a soldier than a random civilian.
When he finished, Romero and his partner, John Russo, were nodding, deeply impressed.
"That was… really great, man," Romero said, genuine admiration in his voice. "Really different. You brought a real weight to it. A real seriousness. It felt… authentic."
"But?" Duke said, hearing the hesitation layered beneath the praise.
Romero sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I'm not gonna blow smoke. It's fantastic. But… we've got Duane Jones. He's been with us from the start, rehearsing, living and breathing this. He's… he's just got this incredible, quiet dignity. A real presence. And honestly," he added, lowering his voice slightly, "having a black man as the clear-headed leader in this situation, while everyone else is falling apart… it adds a whole other layer. It makes a statement about who we are as a society without having to say a single word of dialogue. I hope you understand, man. It's not about your performance. It's about the bigger picture."
Duke looked at the earnest, slightly anxious faces of the young filmmakers. He saw their vision, their integrity. This wasn't a rejection; it was a confirmation that he'd backed the right people artists who cared more about their message than placating their financier.
"Duane Jones is your man then," Duke said, a definitive nod. "He's the right choice. You're making the right call."
The relief that washed over Romero was visible. "Thank you for understanding. Seriously."
"But," Duke continued, a faint smile finally touching his lips, "I flew all the way out here. I want a walk-on. A zombie. One of the ones in the field. I get to get shotgunned."
Romero burst out laughing, a sound of pure relief and delight. "You got it! We'll make you the best-damned ghoul in the field! Welcome to the crew!"
"My producer will be here next week to finalize the talks over production details and delivery timelines," Duke added, shaking their hands again. "Now go on."
---
Back in his L.A. office, the scent of old dust replaced by Eleanor's Glade lemon refreshener, Duke met his next supplicant. Peter Bogdanovich was not what he expected. He wasn't a bundle of nervous energy, but a young man of poised, almost academic calm, his words not tumbling out but chosen with the precision of a film scholar, which he was. He had the measured, articulate cadence of the East Coast intelligentsia.
"The premise is deceptively simple, Mr. Hauser," Bogdanovich began, steepling his fingers. "It's two stories, running in parallel until they violently converge. The first is Byron Orlok, a Boris Karloff figure, a king of Gothic horror who has come to believe his brand of monster the vampire, the mummy is an anachronism. He feels the world has moved past him."
"The second story is Bobby Thompson." Bogdanovich's voice grew quieter, more intense. "A boy so clean-cut he's practically translucent. He lives in a tract home, works a dull job, and is, for all outward appearances, the all-American son. And he is also a psychotic sniper."
He leaned forward, his eyes alight. "The idea, i'm trying to present, is that the horror movie is no longer confined to the screen. It has escaped. It's in the supermarkets, it's on the freeway. Orlok's creatures are charming, knowable relics next to the blank-faced, senseless evil that now stalks the American landscape. It's a commentary on the end of one kind of way of life and the terrifying birth of a new, random American violence."
Duke listened, utterly captivated. It was brilliant and audacious.
When Bogdanovich finished, settling back into his chair, Duke didn't hesitate.
"I'll buy it," he said.
Bogdanovich blinked, his composure cracking for a single moment of pure surprise. "Just… like that?"
"The budget is manageable. The vision is crystalline. You're the real thing, Peter," Duke stated, as if it were simple fact. He stood and walked to his window, looking out at the city. "Targets and Night of the Living Dead." He turned back, his eyes alight with an unprecedented determination. "They'll be the first two official releases of Ithaca Productions. We'll release them next year."
He paused, a new thought occurring to him. "There's a private screening of The Graduate tomorrow night. Mike Nichols' film. I'd like you to be my guest. I think you should see what we're building here."
"I'd be honored," Bogdanovich said, genuinely impressed.
"One more thing," Duke said, his tone shifting to one of quiet authority. "The sniper, Bobby Thompson. In your script, he's a former Vietnam soldier."
"Yes, that's correct. It grounds his familiarity with weapons, and also speaks on the violence that america is commiting in Vietnam." Bogdanovich confirmed.
"Change it," Duke said. It wasn't a request. "Make him a former Marine. One who was discharged, never saw combat. He's just a man who was taught to be an instrument of violence, and then was turned loose in a place with no war to fight."
Bogdanovich was silent for a moment, turning the idea over in his mind. A slow smile with some reluctance spread across his face. "Yes. I see. The banality of evil, not the trauma of it. That's… that's better. Much more frightening."
"Good," Duke said. "We'll have the contracts drawn up. I'll see you tomorrow night, Peter."