The party for Bullitt was a sea of suede jackets, the air thick with the scent of Scotch and smoke.
Duke navigated the crowd, a quiet island in the storm of style.
He'd been talking with Steve McQueen and Peter Yates for twenty minutes, a low, intense rumble about action films and cars. McQueen, drinking a beer, was talking about the chase in Bullit.
"Car chases are not about the speedometer, not really," McQueen said, his famous blue eyes narrowed in thought. "It's about the guy's face. The grip on the wheel. You gotta feel the vibration in your teeth."
Yates, the director, nodded vigorously, his own drink forgotten. "Exactly. It's the authenticity. By the way loved your book, Hauser. The water, the boat, the feaer it feels lived in." He gestured with his glass toward Duke. "That bloody shark. It's brilliant. And its also such a simple villain."
Duke gave a slight, acknowledging nod. "Sometimes the simplest threat is the most effective."
"Yates tells me you were in the shit in Asia," McQueen said, shifting the subject with a direct phrase. "Vietnam."
"Infantry. Second Lieutenant," Duke nodded confirming it, his voice neutral. He took a sip of his bourbon.
"See? Lived in," Yates repeated, almost to himself.
McQueen's gaze dropped to the mahogany cane leaning against Duke's leg. "Get that over there?"
Duke followed his look.
"In a manner of speaking. One of my friends, got a little too enthusiastic checking a village basement during a search and destroy mission. Picked up a bag of rice that was a little too heavy." He took a slow drink. "Turns out the Vietcong were kind enough to leave us a housewarming gift. A pressure activated bobby trap. Shattered my right ankle into about twelve pieces. The docs did what they could." He tapped the cane lightly on the floor. "Now I have a built in conversation starter and a permanent excuse to get a seat on the bus."
McQueen let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, a rare, genuine sound. "A bag of rice. Jesus. That's the real war, right there. Not the John Wayne crap."
He raised his beer in a small, respectful toast. "To getting home, any way you can."
Yates, looking from Duke's cane to McQueen's intense focus, shook his head. "And you write about a shark. Man after things like that I would write a memoir."
"The shark's easier to write," Duke said flatly. "After all It's just a shark."
Before McQueen could respond, a discreet tap on Duke's shoulder.
His driver, a former corpsman he'd hired for his discretion, held out a phone, its long cord snaking back to a private booth. "Mr. Hauser, it's Mr. Nichols. He said it's urgent."
Duke excused himself. McQueen gave him a final, knowing look.
He took the phone. "Mike."
"Duke." Nichols' voice was a tight wire of anxiety. "I just got off the horn with Levine. The meeting's arranged. Tomorrow at eleven o'clock in Musso & Frank."
"Did he give anything away?" Duke asked, his mind already shifting from the car chase in Bullitt to the corporate distribution game.
"Nothing. The old bastard just said, 'I'll tell you tomorrow.' That's it." Nichols sounded like he'd chewed through a pack of cigarettes. "This is it, Duke. The whole thing hinges on this meeting."
"I'll be there, dont worry about it." Duke said, his voice leaving no room for doubt.
He hung up, the noise of the party fading into a dull roar. The real premiere was happening tomorrow morning, over steaks and martinis.
---
Musso & Frank Grill was a relic, all red leather, dark wood.
Duke arrived at 10:55, finding Nichols already at a back booth, drinking a coffee and looking pale.
A moment later, Joseph E. Levine arrived.
He was a bull of a man, shorter than Duke but radiating a formidable, old school aura.
He wore a loud tie and a larger than life persona, a showman who'd built an empire on savvy. He slid into the booth, his eyes, sharp and a smile.
"Mike you look terrible. Stop worrying," Levine boomed, not unkindly.
He turned his gaze to Duke. "And you must be the writer. The producer with the checkbook. Hauser."
"Connor Hauser," Duke said, shaking his hand. The grip was firm, practiced. "A pleasure, Mr. Levine."
"Joe. Call me Joe." He flagged down a waiter. "Three martinis. Dry. And bring the menu later." He leaned back, surveying them. "So... you two think I was going to let a group of executives from Avco screw up a movie project I pushed?"
It was a statement, not a question.
Nichols opened his mouth to speak, but Levine cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I built Embassy. I put my name on that picture. You think I'm gonna let some airline executives in New York tell me how to sell a masterpiece? Forget about it."
Duke felt the tension in his own shoulders ease slightly.
He decided to go for the direct approach, the one that had served him best. "Joe, with all due respect, we need to know. Is The Graduate going to be distributed, or is it going to get lost in the corporate shuffle?"
Levine laughed, a loud, genuine sound that turned a few heads. "I like you, Hauser. Direct. No bullshit."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial level. "Listen to me. The distribution is locked. The marketing plan is set. The Avco guys, they'll learn. They bought the golden goose; they're not gonna wring its neck. I'll make sure of it. Your picture is safe. It's my movie, too."
The martinis arrived. Levine raised his glass. "To The Graduate. To making those Yankee bastards in New York a lot of money, whether they understand how or not."
Duke and Nichols raised their glasses, a wave of profound relief washing over them.
They clinked glasses with the man who held their fate in his hands.
----
The restored Carthay Circle Theatre was dazzling.
The marble gleamed, the gold leaf glinted, and the plush red velvet seats seemed to sigh with contentment. The air no longer smelled of dust and decay, but of fresh paint, polish, and immense possibility.
For Duke, standing in the lobby, it was more than a theater; it was a tangible symbol of his permanence, his kingdom made manifest in plaster and dreamlight.
"It's perfect," Nichols murmured, standing beside him. "We should break it in. A small screening. Just for the cast, a few friends. Before the circus of the real premiere."
Duke agreed. It was the perfect test. But when they ran the idea by Paul Meyers, the executive, now fully transformed into an Avco company man, balked.
"A private screening? Now? Out of the question," Meyers said, his voice tight. "The security, the insurance… the new corporate protocols. We can't have an uncontrolled event. It's a liability."
Nichols fumed. "A liability? It's my film in my producer's theater!"
"It's Embassy's film in a third party venue, and the risk is too high," Meyers countered, his newfound corporate allegiance a flimsy shield.
The standoff threatened to sour the triumph.
Then, Nichols got a gleam in his eye. He turned to Anne Bancroft. "Annie, your husband's movie is it finished?"
Bancroft, a vision of sharp intelligence and dry wit, raised an eyebrow. "The Producers? It's finished. Mel says the studio is going to bury it. Thinks it's too Jewish, too offensive."
"Perfect," Nichols said, a mischievous smile spreading across his face. "Let's bury it here first then."
A phone call was made. An hour later, a beat up station wagon pulled up to the Carthay's service entrance. Out jumped Mel Brooks, a whirlwind of chaotic energy, followed by a small, loyal group carrying a film canister.
"Where's the palace?" Brooks shouted, his voice echoing in the grand lobby. "Annie says you've got a place for my dead movie!"
He was introduced to Duke.
"You!" Brooks said, pointing a finger. "The writer! Annie told me. You talked to that putz Thornton for me. Thank you! A futile gesture, but noble!"
He thrust a six pack of beer into Duke's hands. "Payment for services rendered! Now, where's the projector in this mausoleum? I haven't seen my own movie with a real audience yet!"
The small group Duke, Nichols, Bancroft, Katharine Ross, Dustin Hoffman, and a few key crew members got into the magnificent auditorium.
Brooks, with the help of the bewildered but experienced Carthay projectionist, fumbled with the ancient, newly refurbished projector.
"This thing was built when movies had title cards!" Brooks yelled from the booth. "I hope it can handle the sheer comedic genius about to assault it!"
After a few moments of clattering and muttered curses, the screen flickered to life. The opening credits of The Producers began to roll.
For the next ninety minutes, the glorious, hollowed out hall of the Carthay Circle Theatre echoed with something it hadn't heard in decades: pure, unadulterated, roaring laughter.
They watched Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder scheme and flail, and Brooks' audacious, offensive, and utterly brilliant comedy filled the space, baptizing it in a new kind of magic.
When the lights came up, Brooks was standing at the front, tears of joy and relief in his eyes. "You guys laughed!" he exclaimed, looking at the small, elite audience. "In a real theater!"
He found Duke, grabbing him by the shoulders. "Hauser! This place! It's got good bones. Good comedy bones! You saved my movie for one night."
Duke looked around at the laughing, relieved faces in his resurrected theater.
The corporate anxiety of Avco, the nervousness of the premiere—it all melted away.
The Carthay was alive. It had passed its test. And in the unlikeliest of ways, with the most offensive movie in Hollywood, Duke had thrown the first real party in Hollywood
---
University is kicking my ass so kind of a simple but nevertheless late chapter