When Robert Aldrich from Doubleday returned, his avuncular mask was firmly back in place, but this time he was not alone.
The air in the office shifted from strategic to confrontational.
Seated across from Duke and his imperturbable, standing lawyer were two other men: a sharp, hungry-eyed executive from Bantam Books and a serious, methodical representative from Pocket Books.
The paperback auction for Jaws and Cujo had moved from back-channel whispers to its final, silent phase, conducted in person across a single desk.
"Connor," Aldrich began, trying to reclaim a sense of familiarity that had long since evaporated, "Doubleday is prepared to make a historic commitment. We see the long-term value in both of your properties, exactly as you outlined, we have also believed in you since the first day. We're offering one million, two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. A unified, non-negotiable advance against royalties for both properties."
He slid the formal offer sheet across the polished wood.
It was a staggering sum, a number designed to shock and awe the competition into silence, to remind Duke where his true alligeance were.
The Bantam executive, a man named Davis, didn't flinch. "Bantam will match it, dollar for dollar, Mr. Hauser. But a dollar from us is worth more. We have the stronger, more aggressive presence in non-traditional retail spaces—supermarkets, bus stations, airports, newsstands. We can get these books in front of people who don't even know they want to buy them. We create impulse buys. That's where the real volume is for paperbacks."
His offer was the same, but his pitch was for explosive, immediate market saturation.
Then, the Pocket Books man, a Mr. Sterling, spoke. His voice was calm, devoid of salesmanship. "Pocket Books will offer one million, three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Our distribution network is not the flashiest, but it is the most efficient and reliable in the business. We get books to market faster, we have fewer returns from retailers, and we keep proven titles in print longer than anyone. We believe in a long-term commitment to our assets."
His offer was not just higher; it was cleaner, built on a foundation of operational excellence, not promises.
Duke let the silence stretch, a full ten seconds, his gaze moving over the three men, the three offers that represented the steel and concrete for his distribution arm.
He wasn't thinking about covers or marketing plans. He was thinking about the $200,000 for 200 film prints. He was thinking about Larry Finch's salary and the team of bookers he'd need to hire for Targets release.
He was assessing the deal purely on velocity and volume of cash. Bantam was hungry, aggressive, promising a flashy, fast burn. Pocket Books was reliable, robust, built for the long haul. Doubleday was his past, offering a respectable but lesser sum based on sentiment.
He finally picked up the Doubleday offer, his expression unreadable. "The guarantee is key," he said, his voice calm, cutting through the tension. "But so is the partnership. Robert, you were here first, and I appreciate that. But I can't go for that offer."
He placed the sheet back down and turned his head, his blue eyes locking onto Mr. Sterling. "Pocket Books I guess we have a deal."
Aldrich's face fell, the professional mask cracking to reveal genuine shock and a flicker of betrayal. The Bantam man, Davis, gathered his papers with a tight, disappointed nod.
But Mr. Sterling allowed himself a small, tight smile, a crack in his serious demeanor. "You won't regret this, Mr. Hauser. This is the beginning of a long and prosperous relationship."
Duke shook his hand, the grip firm and final. "I'm sure it is."
When the door closed, Duke was alone with the single sheet of paper that represented $1,350,000. He didn't pump his fist or smile. He felt a cold, clean surge of triumph.
He had just mortgaged a significant portion of his literary future, trading long-term royalties for a king's ransom in immediate, liquid capital.
He picked up the phone, his voice utterly even.
"Eleanor, get Goldberg and David Chen in my office within the hour. The capital is secured. The planning phase is over. We are now in the execution phase for distribution." He hung up and looked at the map on his wall where Los Angeles, New York and Chicago were marked.
---
Later that afternoon, the mood shifted from the gritty logistics of distribution to the alchemy of creative acquisition.
Mark Jensen stood before Duke's desk, no longer the nervous kid from UCLA but a quivering, confident prospector who had just struck a vein of pure gold.
"I've been doing the rounds, Duke, just like you asked. Looking for the next thing." He laid a worn manuscript on the polished wood.
The title was printed with a stark simplicity that promised no nonsense: TRUE GRIT by Charles Portis.
"It's a Western," Jensen said, pre-empting the obvious categorization with a dismissive wave.
"But it's not like any Western. The narrator is a fourteen-year-old girl, Mattie Ross. She's stubborn, pious, and sharper than any adult in the room. She hires the meanest, drunkest U.S. Marshal she can find, a one-eyed relic named Rooster Cogburn, to hunt her father's killer. The dialogue… Duke, the dialogue is a thing of beauty. It's formal, funny, and absolutely authentic. It's not a cowboy shoot-'em-up; it's a revenge story told through the eyes of a terrifyingly competent child. It's like Huckleberry Finn with Christian vengeance."
Duke picked up the manuscript, feeling the heft of it.
He knew this story. Not the specific, crackling dialogue, but he remembered it was a classic, a film that defined the image of the grizzled Western hero. It was a cornerstone property.
"Set up a meeting with the author," Duke said, his decision made before he'd even read a page. He trusted Jensen's instinct, and he remembered the mvoie so it should be profitable.
The meeting with Charles Portis was brief and businesslike, held in a very similar office to the one where Duke had made the deal with Mario Puzo(the author of the godfather).
Portis was a quiet, unassuming man from Arkansas, his demeanor a stark contrast to the bold, eccentric prose he wrote. Duke didn't offer flattery; he offered a direct vision.
"Mr. Portis," Duke said, "I don't want to just buy the film rights and bury it. I want to build a film around this, a film that honors the unique, formal voice of your book. I see John Wayne playing Cogburn."
Portis, a man of few words, studied Duke.
He agreed with a quiet handshake.
Another property was secured.
As Portis left, Duke turned to Jensen. "Good work." He gestured for Jensen to sit. "Now, what else is on the horizon for '69? I need a slate, not just a single shot."
Jensen leaned forward, his energy refocusing. "Right. There's a caper film shooting in England now. Michael Caine is attached. It's called The Italian Job. It's about a gold heist in Turin, uses Mini Coopers. It's slick, funny, very stylish. The producers are looking for a North American distributor. We could come in as an investor and lock down the domestic rights."
Duke considered it. A British caper with Michael Caine. He remembered the iconic cliffhanger ending, the film's playful tone.
It was a guaranteed crowd-pleaser. "Do we have the capital for that kind of buy now?" he mused aloud, thinking of the massive outlay required for his distribution plan.
"It's a smart play, but the timing is tight. Get me the numbers. If the paperback deal closes fast enough, it might be possible."
"And the other project," Jensen continued, lowering his voice as if sharing a state secret, "is a script that's causing a real stir. It's called Midnight Cowboy. John Schlesinger is set to direct. It's... well, it's raw."
"A naive Texan dishwasher heads to New York to become a gigolo, ends up hustling alongside a sickly, tubercular street conman named Ratso Rizzo. It's about their desperate, squalid friendship. United Artists is backing it, but they're terrified. They don't know how to sell it. The word is they might try to bury it before they start shooting."
Duke's eyes narrowed. Midnight Cowboy. The title conjured the image of the only X-rated Oscar winner, a film that would push boundaries and define the gritty, unflinching side of the New Hollywood. He remembered its power, its tragic heart.
"Who are they looking at for the leads?" Duke asked, his mind already racing through the casting possibilities he remembered.
"They're testing Jon Voight for the cowboy, Joe Buck. And for Ratso... they're talking about Dustin Hoffman," Jensen said, a hint of awe in his voice.
Hoffman. The lead from The Graduate, transforming into a limping, sweaty, dying lowlife. "Well Hoffman fits the casting."
"Schlesinger is a good director," Duke mused, thinking of the director's sharp, often cruel, eye for human frailty. "Could we contact him in some way or keep an eye or somehting on that project."
"Should we make an inquiry? See if they'd be willing to share the risk?" Jensen asked.
"Not yet," Duke instructed, his tone decisive. "But keep a very close eye on this one. Closer than any other. Track its progress. If United Artists gets cold feet at all, I want to be the first call they get."
---
With the money in the bank and a new classic in his portfolio, Duke convened his general staff: Chen, Jensen, and the newly arrived Larry Goldberg. A large map of the United States was now the focal point of the room.
"Alright, Larry," Duke said, gesturing to the map. "Now that we have a budget, what's the plan for Targets?"
Goldberg stepped forward. He picked up a pointer and tapped the three red circles: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago.
"The strategy is the platform release," he grunted, his voice all business. "We don't have the money for a wide release, and we don't want one. We want prestige. We want word-of-mouth."
He tapped New York. "Week One: We open exclusively at the Fine Arts Theatre on 58th Street. It's an art house, we'll get a review from the New York Times. I have a friend in the New York Times so basically if Renata Adler loves it, we have our spearhead. If she hates it, we're kind of screwed but we can stop production immediatly and shelve the film without losing much."
The pointer moved to Los Angeles. "Week Two: We use the Times review as long as it's either good or neutral, it's publicity to open here, at the Crest in Westwood. We play up the 'Boris Karloff's Last Great Performance' angle. We get the LA Times and the industry talking."
Then to Chicago. "Week Three: We open at the Biograph. By now, we have two sets of major market reviews and, if we've done our job and the movie is a hit, a growing buzz. We use the grosses from NY and LA to prove it's working."
He looked at Duke, his eyes hard with realism. "Now this is the delicate part. For these first three weeks, we will lose money. The limited prints and marketing will cost more than the box office from three theaters. We are basically buying data and credibility."
David Chen nodded, understanding completely. "We are treating the initial outlay as a marketing and research expense. The return on investment is not immediate fiscal profit, but the creation of a viable product that we can then scale."
"Exactly," Goldberg said. "After Week Three, if we have the momentum, we 'expand the pattern.' We use the clippings and the grosses to book another twenty, thirty theaters in key secondary markets: Boston, Washington D.C., San Francisco. We ride that wave for a month. If it holds, we go wider, to a hundred, maybe two hundred theaters. But it all hinges on those first three weeks in the three key cities. We need a win in New York. Basically everything flows from there."
Duke stared at the map, at the narrow path Goldberg had drawn from three theaters to a national release.
It was audacious, risky, and perfectly aligned with his own philosophy.
"Make it happen," Duke said, his voice low and firm. "The money is there. The film is there. Just do it."