The first week of January 1968 bled into Los Angeles with a sense of unfinished business.
In Duke's office, the scent of strong coffee drifted through the air.
The mood was one of focused optimism Seated across from his desk were Leo Walsh, his A&R man, and the four members of Creedence Clearwater Revival.
"The album is finished," Walsh announced, a strong pride in his voice. "It's tight. It's raw. It's polished just enough to shine without losing the grit."
John Fogerty, the band's clear eyed leader, nodded, his gaze a little anxious on Duke. "We called it self titled. Creedence Clearwater Revival. The music speaks for itself."
He leaned forward, his voice earnest. "We're trying to make American music. Rock and roll, blues, a little country in the back."
Duke had already heard the final songs.
Hearing them now, but a confirmation.
The memories of car radios, movie soundtracks, people humming these tunes, crossed his mind. Even if the album failed, Duke knew the rights to soundtracks would be huge.
"It speaks just fine, John," Duke said, his voice cutting through Fogerty's justified anxiety. "You make the songs. I will make sure the world can hear them. I want you to understand, you guys have every resource Ithaca has. Marketing, promotion, tour support. You are the priority."
The relief in the room was palpable. The other band members Stu, Doug, and Tom exchanged glances, the final vestiges of doubt evaporating. They had a believer on their corner at least.
Duke turned to Walsh, a rare, genuine smile touching his lips. "Well, Leo, it looks like our entire musical division is currently sitting in this room. No pressure."
Walsh chuckled. "I have some artist to show you, Duke. But just so you know, If this," he said, gesturing to the band, "works i want a fat bonus."
----
The optimism of that meeting was tempered days later in a sterile, beige conference room in San Francisco that smelled of stale coffee and industrial carpet cleaner.
Across a polished table sat three executives from Fantasy Records. They had the relaxed, slightly superior air of men who dealt in tangible goods vinyl, shipping crates, distributor relationships.
Duke and Walsh were the unknowns from Hollywood, the writer backed label playing at being a music man.
"We've heard the tracks," the lead executive, a man named Phillips, said, steepling his fingers.
He had the weary smile of a man who'd seen a thousand next big things die out in front of his eyes. "There's no denying the raw talent. Fogerty's voice is… distinctive. 'Proud Mary' has legs, no question. But a debut album from an unproven band on an unproven label…"
He let the sentence hang, a cloud of unspoken risk. "It's a crowded field. The kids are listening to psychedelia, and concept albums. This is different, we like it but we cant be running to high of a risk."
"The label may be new, but the backing isn't," Duke countered, his tone even, refusing to be baited. "We're prepared to handle a significant, targeted marketing push. What we lack is the physical pipeline. We're proposing a licensing deal. You handle the manufacturing, the distribution to the stores. We retain all creative control, provide the marketing materials and budget, and we share the profits. A sixty-forty split, in our favor."
Phillips's eyebrows rose, not in offense, but in professional appreciation of a bold offer.
The man to his right, a younger, sharper executive named Davis, leaned forward. "Mr. Hauser, with respect, that's an… ambitious starting point. We're assuming the entire financial risk of production the vinyl, the sleeves, the shipping. That's capital on the line. On a sixty-forty, our margin is razor thin. We'd need it to be, at minimum, the reverse. Sixty for us, forty for you. And we'd need to be involved in the marketing. We know the radio promoters, the retail buyers. You know… movies." The condescension was a soft, practiced thing, but the counter offer was a real one.
They were at the table expressing interest at least.
Duke didn't change his expression. "The risk is mitigated by the product. You've heard it. This isn't a gamble; it's an investment. The band's vision is the product, and creative control from the album art to the single releases is not negotiable. We are not interested in diluting what makes them unique to fit a preconceived notion of the market."
He paused, letting the firmness of his position settle. "However, I understand your position on the risk. We can move on the split. Fifty-five, forty-five. In our favor. You get a premium product with built in marketing funding for a minority yet sizable share. That's the value proposition."
Phillips and Davis exchanged a glance. This was no longer a dismissal; it was a negotiation.
The third executive, silent until now, spoke up. "A co-operative marketing fund," he suggested. "Ithaca puts up the capital, but we have a joint committee. Our people know the levers to pull in the music business. Your people have the… promotional control. We work together to maximize impact."
Leo Walsh, sensing a potential opening, jumped in. "We can work with that. A committee. But final approval on all materials rests with Ithaca. We're not putting Fogerty in some weird suit and a mop top haircut on the cover."
The meeting stretched for another twenty minutes, a tense, detailed dance of percentages and responsibilities.
They were haggling, which meant they were interested. They saw the value. But they were also determined to bleed as much value from the deal as they could.
Finally, Phillips sat back. "Mr. Hauser, it's clear you believe in this. And the music is strong. But fifty-five/forty-five with you holding all the creative cards… that's a hard sell to my board. We're a business, not a patron of the arts. Our final position is fifty-two and a half to forty-seven and a half, split down to the penny. And the marketing committee has equal say. That's our line."
Duke looked at the man. It was a serious offer. It was a deal he could take. But he didn't want to sign right now.
Duke stood up, smoothing his jacket. "I appreciate your time, gentlemen. You've given us a lot to consider. We'll be in touch." It wasn't a rejection; it was a tactical retreat.
The Fantasy executives were visibly surprised. They had expected a counter or a concession, not a retreat.
Phillips stood, quickly recovering and staring directly at Duke. "Of course. The offer stands. For now. But these windows have a way of closing." The threat was thinly veiled.
In the elevator down, Walsh let out a long breath. "Jesus. Fifty-two and a half? They were actually dealing us some cards. We could have made that work."
"We could have," Duke agreed, his jaw tight. "I don't want the band to turn into a committee approved product."
"So what now?" Walsh asked, the initial optimism from the band meeting fully evaporated.
"Now we prove we don't need them as much as they think we do," Duke said, the steel back in his voice.
"Set up meetings with Atlantic. With Columbia. Let's see if a bigger player has the vision to recognize a paradigm shift when they hear one. If we get a better offer we use it to negotiate with Fantasy again and give us more." The setback was no longer a sting to his pride, but a calculated risk.
He had just walked away from a good deal, betting everything that a great one was still out there as long as he waited.
---
Back in his office, the trade papers offered a different, more subtle frustration.
The Graduate was a certified, unqualified smash. The box office numbers were staggering, the cultural conversation was deafening.
Yet, in the weekly rankings, it held fast at number two, perpetually blocked from the summit by a movie about four girls falling into drug addiction with Shannon Tate and Judy Garland called Valley of the Dolls that Duke found similar to Requiem of a Dream in some camerawork.
He read the reviews, not for the praise, but for the subtext.
They marveled at Nichols' direction, lauded Bancroft's performance, and deconstructed the screenplay.
But so many circled back, obsessively, to Dustin Hoffman, their praise laced with a qualifier that felt like a wince.
"Dustin Hoffman's Benjamin Braddock is a revelation, proving that heroism need not reside in the chiseled jaw of a fraternity president, but can be found in the anxious slouch of a boy who might have been captain of the chess team."
"In a bold departure from convention, Mike Nichols gives us a protagonist who looks nothing like the typical Ivy League golden boy. Hoffman's Benjamin Braddock brings a refreshing urban intensity to what might have been another bland California saga..."
"One can't help but admire the courage in casting an actor who seems to have actually experienced anxiety rather than just studied it in an acting class..."
"Hoffman's great achievement is making us believe this decidedly un-athletic, socially awkward young man could captivate the sophisticated Mrs. Robinson. It's a testament to both actors that we accept this unlikely pairing..."
Duke didn't crumple the paper. He set it down with a quiet precision that was more dangerous than any outburst.
The praise was a backhanded compliment, a pat on the head for being a "refreshingly authentic" diversion.
They were treating Hoffman not as a great actor, but as a fascinating specimen, a brilliant directorial choice rather than a good talent.
He didn't like Hoffman but he did won the role through his own hard word and talent.
The phone rang, shattering his grim analysis. It was Mike Nichols, his voice a mix of exhaustion and wired euphoria.
"Duke did you check the numbers?"
"I did," Duke said, his voice flat.
"The audience love it! The critics love it!" Nichols continued,. "The money, the lines around the block, I may even get an Oscar, it's everything we wanted."
"Everything but the top spot," Duke countered.
There was a pause on the line. "Yeah. That. It's stuck behind Valley of the Dolls. A junkie movie, Duke. We're being beaten by a junkie melodramatic movie." He let out a short, bitter laugh. "But have you read what they're saying about Dustin? It's incredible."
"I've read it," Duke said. "They keep talking about how 'interesting' he looks. They can't just say he's great. They have to explain him, like he's a math problem they've finally solved."
The energy drained from Nichols' voice, replaced by a weary recognition. "You see it too. They're saying he's brilliant in spite of his face, not because of it. Look i get he looks very jewish, but the judging is a little too harsh."
Duke was silent for a long moment. "How is Hoffman?"
"He's on welfare in new york right now i'm sure" Nichols said, "We need to let the box office talk for itself. We let the public make him a star, since the critics seem incapable of just saying the words."
After he hung up, Duke stood at his window as the sun dipped below the smoggy horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and regret.
He had produced the most talked about film of the year, a work of art that was printing money, and it was still, the respectable number two.
He had built his small kingdom with breathtaking speed.
But the battles for supremacy, were fought not in grand, decisive campaigns, but in a thousand petty skirmishes in conference rooms with executives.
1968 was here, and it was not a new beginning for Duke.
He was going to kick down doors and climb higher on Hollywood.