The scent of Zaentz's cigar felt like an invasion in the Carthay's lobby. It was a rich, pungent aroma that spoke of old deals made in wood-paneled rooms, a stark contrast to the clean scent of new plaster and fresh paint.
Saul Zaentz stood around, his hands in the pockets of his expensive overcoat, admiring the restored ceiling as if he were considering buying it.
"Hauser," he said, turning, a smile that was all teeth. "You've done a remarkable job. Truly. To bring this old place back to life… it takes vision. I respect vision."
Duke remained by the concession stand, leaning on his cane. He said nothing. Respect had nothing to do with this visit, it was pure business.
"I'll be direct," Zaentz continued, gesturing with his cigar. "This feud is bad for business. My business, and, whether you see it yet, yours."
He snapped his fingers, and an aide materialized from his side, handing him a slim document folder. Zaentz slid it onto the polished marble of the concession counter. "That band of yours… Creedence. My people have been listening. We were hasty. Here's a gesture of good faith."
Leo Walsh, standing slightly behind Duke, shifted his weight. Duke could feel his A&R man's hope like a physical heat. He opened the folder.
The terms inside were not the generous offer of a chastened partner; they were the opening salvo of a negotiator who still believed he held the whip hand.
"Eight percent royalty," Duke read aloud, his voice devoid of inflection. "Marketing budget of twenty thousand, discretionary. Fantasy retains final approval on album artwork and sequencing. A five-record commitment."
He looked up, meeting Zaentz's gaze. "You call this good faith?"
"It's a starting point," Zaentz said, his smile unwavering. "The royalty is standard. The marketing is a significant investment for an unproven act. And artistic guidance… let's just say we have experience in these matters."
Walsh couldn't contain himself. "Saul, for Christ's sake, eight percent? After what you just said? The standard is a insult for a band of this caliber..."
Duke held up a hand, silencing him without looking away from Zaentz.
"You're not listening, Saul. You're still trying to dictate terms. You came here because you know what you have in that studio. You're not doing me a favor. You're trying to get a piece of a great band at a discount."
He pushed the folder back across the counter. "The royalty is fifteen. The marketing is seventy-five thousand, non-recoupable. We control the art, the track order, everything. And it's a three-record option, not five."
Zaentz's smile tightened. The charm offensive was over. "Fifteen is fantasy. Seventy-five in marketing is a fantasy. I'm offering you a reality, there's a path to shelves so lets be realistic."
"There are other paths," Duke said, though the words tasted like dirt. He knew how narrow those other paths were.
"Are there?" Zaentz picked up the folder, tapping it against his palm. "Let me paint you a picture, Hauser. You say no. You walk. I make a call. I tell my friends at Columbia, at Atlantic, at Warner Bros., that you're unreasonable. That you're a writer who thinks he's a mogul, impossible to work with. That your band, while talented, comes with… complications. How many doors do you think will stay open then? The industry is a small town."
The threat was no longer veiled. It was a sledgehammer. Leo Walsh looked like he was going to be sick.
Duke felt the walls closing in. The man was a snake, but he held the only key to the gate. He couldn't build his own road in time. Not for Creedence at laest. This was the only way.
"Twelve percent," Duke said, the words a concession he hated. "Sixty thousand, non-recoupable. Full creative control, in writing. A three-record option with a twenty percent bump for the second album, thirty for the third."
Zaentz studied him, his eyes calculating. He saw the retreat. He saw the pragmatism winning over pride. He could ask for more, but a profitable, slightly humbled deal was ideal.
"Eleven," Zaentz countered. "Fifty thousand. The creative control stands. The option bumps stand." He extended his hand. "That's my final offer. Take it, and 'Proud Mary' is the song of the summer. Leave it, and you can press those records into coasters for this beautiful theater of yours."
Leo Walsh was practically vibrating, his eyes pleading with Duke. 'Take it. For the love of God, take it.'
Duke looked at the outstretched hand, then at Zaentz's triumphant face. He felt the weight of the band's future, of Walsh's hopes, of his own stalled momentum. It was a deal with the devil, but the devil was the only one with a printing press.
He reached out and took Zaentz's hand. The grip was firm, possessive.
"We'll have our lawyers draw it up," Duke said, his voice flat.
"Excellent," Zaentz beamed, the benevolent monarch once more. "A partnership. You won't regret this, Hauser."
As Zaentz and his aide swept out, the lobby fell silent. Leo Walsh let out a long, shaky breath. "Jesus, Duke. We did it. We actually did it."
Duke didn't answer. He turned and looked out the doors, watching Zaentz's car pull away. He had just secured his band's future. But as he stood in the lobby of his own kingdom, he had never felt more like a tenant. The serpent was inside the walls.
The finalized contract was a masterclass in brutal pragmatism.
For Ithaca Records, it secured the immediate future: Fantasy would handle the expensive, complex logistics of manufacturing, shipping, and securing shelf space in record stores across the country, all funded by their fifty-thousand-dollar, non-recoupable marketing budget.
Crucially, Duke had clawed back absolute creative control, ensuring Creedence's music and image would remain untouched by Fantasy's executives. In return, however, Fantasy had purchased a significant piece of their success.
The eleven percent royalty was better than standard but still left a massive amount of profit on the table.
An eleven percent royalty means that for every dollar made by Creeedence Clearwater Revival on the wholesale price, they get eleven cents.
Most importantly, the three-record option meant Fantasy owned the band's output for the next several years, locking them and Ithaca record's primary revenue stream into his distribution machine.
---
Later, in his office, the ghost of the cigar smoke seemed to linger. Duke had moved to his next battle, spreading the feasibility study for American Film across his desk.
David Chen stood opposite him, a pillar of calm analysis.
"The numbers are… challenging to say the least Mr. Hauser," Chen began, ever the master of understatement. "High-quality printing, paying top-tier critics, a small staff. We'd be lucky to break even in five years. Subscriptions will be slow to build. We'd be reliant on luxury advertisers car manufacturers, liquor brands, high-fashion. They will demand proximity to 'positive' content. The 'church and state' separation between editorial and advertising is a constant battle."
He then detailed the labyrinth of distribution: the national distributors, the local wholesalers, the cut taken by every newsstand and bookstore. "It's a system designed for volume, not influence. We would be a whisper in a hurricane."
Duke listened, but his mind was already leaping ahead. "Is a magazine the right tool? Or do we need a daily paper? Something with weight. Something that can set the record straight."
Chen didn't flinch. "You're describing an order of magnitude more complex and capital-intensive. Newspapers would mean talking about unions, printing presses, a fleet of delivery trucks, a war with the established players."
"Yeah but it would give us a voice that can't be ignored," Duke countered.
---
The things in his mind came to a head that afternoon.
First meeting.
Duke, a visibly anxious Leo Walsh and a group of lawyers from a private firm sat across from Zaentz and his lawyers in a private country club. The contract was thick, the terms as generous as promised.
"This is it, Duke," Leo whispered to him as Zaentz stepped away to take a call. "This is the deal. This is what we wanted. We can't build this ourselves. Not in time for CCR."
Zaentz returned. "So, have we reached a meeting of the minds? Let my machine serve your band. It's the course for things."
---
Second Meeting
Just two hours later, in a diner that smelled of old coffee and bacon grease, Duke sat with a grizzled, cynical newsman named Marty Croft, a thirty-year veteran of the Herald-Examiner.
"A new paper?" Croft barked a laugh that turned into a cough.
"Forget it, kid. You've got more money than sense. The Conglomerates have this town sewn up. The unions, the typographers, the delivery drivers they'll own you before you print your first edition. You want influence? Buy a minority stake in the Hollywood Reporter and leak your own gossip. Or better yet, and I'm only half-joking, since this could pay off, buy a TV station. That's where the real power is moving. The printed word…"
He shook his head, stubbing out his cigarette. "It's a noble fight, but it's a rear-guard action."
---
Later that night Duke stood alone on the roof of the Carthay that night, the city a vast, twinkling chessboard below him.
In a part of his mind was the Zaentz deal.
Safety. Success.
It was a guaranteed win for CCR and a steady stream of revenue.
It was the pragmatic choice, the one that would make Leo Walsh and the band eternally grateful. But it meant surrender. It meant his kingdom would rely on the roads built by others, roads that could be closed at a whim.
In the other part of his mind was the dream.
A fully integrated empire. His own distribution, his own media voice.
It was a path of monumental risk, with a degree of certain initial failure.
He thought of the rejection tours, the condescending reviews, the smug faces of the executives who wouldn't hear his band.
He thought of Zaentz's threat, a serpent's promise disguised as a lifeline.
A cold clarity settled over him. He couldn't build his own distribution now. He lacked the time and the capital. But he could not surrender his sovereignty.
Taking Zaents deal would be a temporary measure, a strategic retreat to fund the larger war.
He would sign the contract, get CCR launched, and bank the profits.
And every dollar, every ounce of credibility it brought him, would be funneled directly into building his own roads, his own presses, his own voice.