Arthur Finch sat in Duke's office, the scent of his expensive cologne a stark contrast to the room's usual aroma of paper and ambition.
He laid a single summary sheet on the desk, his expression one of profound satisfaction.
"A resounding success, Mr. Hauser," Finch began, his voice a low, confident purr. "We have successfully navigated the fiscal rapids. Your taxable income for 1967 will be a fraction of what it could have been. The combination of strategic business expenses, capital depreciation on the Carthay and your equipment, and the charitable donation has proven exceptionally effective."
Duke gave a single nod. It was the expected outcome. "And the Platoon Fund?"
Finch's smile tightened slightly. "The Fund is the one area requiring immediate and visible attention. The IRS, in its wisdom, expects philanthropy to look like philanthropy. A single, large donation is a red flag. It must appear to be a functioning, active organization."
He produced another document. "I've taken the liberty of drafting a preliminary action plan. We need to establish a board of directors—respected names, a retired general, a prominent doctor. We need to issue press releases announcing grants to specific VA hospitals for physical therapy equipment and psychological counseling services. We need a public face, a series of small, documented disbursements that create a paper trail of legitimate charitable activity. It cannot simply be a line item on your tax return. It must become a real entity."
Duke scanned the list. It was bureaucracy, but necessary bureaucracy. "Do it. Start with the grants to the West LA and Long Beach VA hospitals. Get the paperwork moving on the board. I want it to look real because it will be real."
For Duke, this was more than a tax dodge; it was a help to Vietnam vets, and one he intended to keep.
"A wise decision," Finch said, gathering his papers. "I'll have the first disbursements processed by the end of the week."
---
The recording studio in Berkeley was a world away from the polished calculations of high finance. The air was thick with the smell of tube amplifiers, cigarette smoke, and creative sweat. Leo Walsh, his A&R man, stood beaming as Duke entered the control room.
"They're laying down the basic tracks for the album," Walsh whispered, pointing through the glass.
Inside, Creedence Clearwater Revival worked with a quiet, focused intensity. John Fogerty, his brow furrowed in concentration, guided his band through a swampy, irresistible groove.
When they took a break, Fogerty came out, wiping his face with a towel.
He was humble, almost shy, a stark contrast to the raw power of his voice. "Mr. Hauser, thanks for coming down. We're… we're just really grateful for the opportunity."
"The opportunity is mine, John," Duke replied. "Leo tells me you're making some great music in there."
Fogerty's face broke into a grin. "We've got one we're pretty excited about. It's called 'Proud Mary.' Wanna hear a rough version?"
He led Duke back into the booth and cued up the tape.
The song began with that iconic, rolling guitar riff, then Fogerty's voice, a gritty, soulful instrument that sounded like it had been dredged from the Mississippi Delta, kicked in: 'Left a good job in the city…'
Duke listened, his arms crossed. He didn't need his memories of the future to recognize what he was hearing. This was such a good song.
It was a story of escape and resilience set to a rhythm that was impossible not to move to. As the final chord faded, the control room was silent for a beat.
"Well?" Fogerty asked, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.
Duke looked from Fogerty's hopeful face to Walsh's proud one.
"That's a future number one record," he said, his voice filled with certainty. "That's the sound of your future." The bet on Walsh's ear, on this band's authenticity, had just paid off in spades.
---
Paul Meyers' office at Embassy Pictures was now a shrine to his own supposed genius. A large, framed poster for The Graduate dominated one wall.
When Duke entered, Meyers rose with a magnanimous smile, as if they were the oldest of friends and collaborators.
"Duke! Come in, come in! Have you seen what the critics are saying? The buzz is unbelievable! I knew we had something special from the moment I read Buck's first draft."
Duke let the lie hang in the air, unacknowledged. "I'm here to talk about the premiere, Paul."
"Of course! The Chinese is filled and we cannot do it there, the arrangements are going to be..."
"I want it at the Carthay," Duke interrupted.
Meyers' smile faltered. "The Carthay? Duke, be serious. C'mon it's a construction site. The Chinese is the best but since we couldnt get it, now the plan is on the Lincoln Art Theatre. Also i'm pretty sure Nichols wants the premiere in New York."
"The Carthay is where Snow White premiered," Duke countered, his voice calm but firm. "It's a piece of Hollywood history. Imagine the story, Paul. The film that's redefining modern cinema, premiering in the resurrected palace of Hollywood's golden age. The PR writes itself. It ties our success to the very foundation of this town. And i spoke with Nichols and he's not against the idea of doing a premiere in LA first and later in New York."
He could see the gears turning in Meyers' head, the publicist's instinct warring with the executive's caution. The allure of the narrative, of attaching his name to such a symbolic event, was too powerful.
"I dont know…" Meyers repeated, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his face. "But hey it is bold. It's exactly the kind of bold move this picture deserves. I'll make the calls. The Carthay it is."
Another battle won without a shot fired. Duke's legacy and his property were now inextricably linked to the film's success.
A film he knew was destined to a collosal box office champion.
---
The signing for The Godfather was a quiet, almost anticlimactic affair. The lawyer's office was all dark wood and leather, smelling of dust and old paper.
Mario Puzo, a large, rumpled man whose suit seemed to carry the weight of a thousand unpaid bills, signed the last piece of paper with a hand that, this time, no longer trembled.
The $11,000 check was handed over, a crisp rectangle of salvation.
"Thank you, Mr. Hauser," Puzo said, his voice thick with an emotion that was equal parts relief, disbelief, and a dawning sense of freedom. "You have no idea what this means."
Duke looked at the author, seeing not just the writer before him, but the ghost of the legend he would become. "I think I do," Duke replied, his grip firm as he shook Puzo's hand.
The transaction was complete.
He now held the copyright to a story that would become a national obsession, a cornerstone of American cinema. It was the ultimate strategic acquisition, a crown jewel secured for a small price.
As the lawyers began gathering their copies, Puzo lingered, a newfound energy in his eyes.
The financial noose had been loosened, and the writer in him was reawakening.
"You know," he began, almost conspiratorially, "working on this book… it got me thinking. About power. Not just in organized crime, but the real power. The kind in Washington."
Duke, who had been about to leave, paused. This was an unexpected dividend. "Go on."
"I've been reading about this lobbyist," Puzo said, his hands beginning to animate his words.
"A fixer. A man who understands that the real Godfather doesn't sit in a back room in Little Italy; he wears a two-thousand-dollar suit and has a direct line to senators. He trades in favors, not violence. Information, not intimidation. The corruption is the same, but the language is different. It's all about the deal."
He looked at Duke, gauging his interest. "I'm thinking that's the next one. A political epic."
Duke filed the information away.
His focus was absolute. "It sounds compelling, Mario. But right now, my focus is on the family you've already created. The Corleones."
He tapped the signed contract on the lawyer's desk. "This isn't just a book to me. It's a film. An epic. I came here today just to buy the rights to this story.."
Puzo nodded a little discouraged.
Duke knew he was full of gambling debts so he didnt blame him for trying to sell some other stories.
"You make the film, Mr. Hauser," Puzo said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You make the film, and I'll help write."
---
Back in his own office, as the late afternoon sun cast long shadows across his desk, Duke allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.
The pieces were falling into place.
The charity was being legitimized, the record label had its first smash hit, the premiere was set for his flagship theater, and he now owned the film rights of one of the greatest stories ever told.
The phone rang, shattering the calm. It was Paul Meyers again, but the congenial, confident tone was gone, replaced by a frantic, breathless panic.
"Duke! Jesus Christ, have you heard?"
"Heard what, Paul?"
"The sale! It's done! Avco just bought us. The whole company. The ink is dry. I just found out twenty minutes ago."
Duke's mind went away instantly, coldly tactical.
A corporate takeover in the middle of his film's launch. "What does this mean for The Graduate? For distribution?"
"I don't know! I don't know anything! The new bosses are flying in from New York tomorrow. Everything is up in the air. I… I have to go, there's another call." Meyers hung up abruptly.
Duke slowly placed the receiver back in its cradle. The foundation he had been carefully building suddenly felt less stable.
The phone rang again almost immediately. This time, it was Mike Nichols, and he was livid.
"Duke, tell me you've heard this Avco bullshit."
"I just did."
"They're goddamn carpetbaggers! They make sheet metal! What do they know about my film? This is a disaster. The distribution could get screwed six ways from Sunday. Meyers is useless, he's probably updating his resume as we speak the little rat."
"Calm down, Mike."
"Calm down? We're about to be handed over to a bunch of accountants who think a good film is one that comes in under budget!"
Duke cut through the director's panic. "Meyers mentioned someone. Joseph E. Levine."
"Levine!" Nichols barked a bitter laugh. " HE'S THE ONE THAT SOLD US! He's been on safari in Africa or some damn place for the last six months. What is he going to do?"
"He sold the company. But he might still have some sway, or at least, he'll care about its legacy. You know him, right?. Set up a meeting."
There was a pause on the other end of the line as Nichols processed his words.
"Levine… yeah. Yeah, you're right. He's a showman. A barnstormer. He loves a hit more than anything. I can get to him. I'll set it up. But you're coming with me, Duke. I need you there."
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Ive been busy today so My Bad