The new Ithaca logo Odysseus, bow taut, arrow flown watched over the office since it had been installed in the wall behind his desk.
Duke sat behind his desk, not working, just waiting.
There were no files spread before him on his desk, no reports to check. He was awaiting for a single meeting.
Peter Bogdanovich arrived ten minutes late, looking like a ghost. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot and swimming in a mixture of hangover and dread.
He moved with the careful stiffness of someone afraid of even making a sudden movement.
"Duke," he began, his voice a ragged whisper, "I'm sorry I'm late, the traffic on Sunset was a little tough-"
"Sit down, Peter," Duke said. His voice was not loud, it was flat, calm, and it cut through Bogdanovich's excuse.
Bogdanovich sat with his back straight but his head was looking a little down.
Duke let the silence stretch, a tactical tool he was trying out.
He watched the older man squirm, his eyes darting from the desk to the logo to the window, anywhere but Duke's gaze.
There was an age difference beetwen them, Duke was 20 years old and Peter had just turned 30 years old.
"We have committed two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars to the release of Targets," Duke began, his tone that of a professional reviewing a disappointing report.
"That sum represents the cost of thirty-five millimeter prints, a targeted marketing campaign in two major cities, and the salary of a distribution chief with thirty years of experience. Of course this does not include the initial production capital I provided when no other studio would return your calls."
Bogdanovich opened his mouth, a weak protest forming on his lips, but Duke continued, relentless.
"The New York opening, while not a commercial explosion, has provided a foundation of intellectual credibility. You are no longer just a director; you are to become the 'brilliant young scholar of cinema.' You will engage with film societies, we are building a specific, potent kind of buzz to ensure your film, and by extension your career, does not die a quiet death in a handful of art houses."
He leaned forward, his blue eyes locking onto Bogdanovich's. "This is the plan we have to save your film. It's a plan being executed by professionals, not amateurs."
The words hung in the air, Bogdanovich moves his hands a little in nervousnes.
"I was at a party the other night," Duke said, his voice dropping to a near whisper.
"I heard the most interesting things. A person told me you said I was throwing your film to the wolves. That my amateur operation was going to kill your unexistent career."
He recited the phrases verbatim, each one a precise strike. Bogdanovich's face crumpled.
All the defensive arrogance bled out of him, leaving only a raw, terrified shame.
"Duke, my God, I… I don't even remember half of what I said," he blurted out, his hands fluttering in a pathetic gesture of supplication.
"It was the scotch, pure liquid stupidity. In a certain way, I was scared! The numbers from New York came in and I panicked. It was the fear talking, I swear to you, it wasn't me!"
He leaned forward, his eyes pleading. "And then… and then Roger Corman called me this morning. He said he'd heard there were problems, that he's got a picture, something fast, he said I could direct it, get back on my feet if this all goes south…"
Duke's expression did not change. He didn't even blink. "Save it, Peter."
"But—"
"I said, save it," Duke repeated, the words like chips of ice. "I don't care about Corman's B-picture scraps. I don't care about your fear or your scotch."
"I care about facts and I care about loyalty. You have failed on the latter, so now i'll give you a choice, you can get with the program. You can become the brilliant young scholar this campaign requires you to be, you can do every interview, attend every screening, and we will see this through together. I will stand by this film and by you."
He paused, letting the alternative form in the space between his words, a touch of professional negotiation.
"Or," Duke said, his voice dropping to a deadly calm, "you can get to the streets. You can walk out that door right now."
Duke stood up and walked to the side of his desk. "But if you do, I will personally call every columnist, every producer, every studio head in this town. And I will tell them a very simple story. I will tell them how Peter Bogdanovich, in a fit of drunken petulance, actively worked to sabotage the release of his own debut film."
"I will detail every resource I poured into your vision and how you thanked me by trying to burn it all down in an unprofessional panic. You may not even be hired by Corman by then."
Bogdanovich color drained from his face, leaving a terrified white face. The bravado of the party, the fleeting hope of an escape route, were distant memories, replaced by the cold, hard calculus of survival in entertaintment.
"I… I'm in," he stammered, his voice thick with a devastating mix of emotion shame, fear, and a crushing resignation. "I'm sorry, Duke. Truly. I'll do whatever it takes, whatever you need."
"Good," Duke said, the word offering no absolution.
He opened a drawer and slid a contract across the desk. "Then let's formalize our partnership. A five-picture deal with Ithaca Productions. The terms are… favorable, considering the current circumstances. It ensures we have a shared future."
It was an offer Bogdanovich couldn't refuse.
Bogdanovich's eyes scanned the document, his face a canvas of disbelief.
He was shocked as he absorbed the numbers, the clauses, the sheer, unyielding totality of it. His fingers, which had been nervously tapping the armrest, went still.
He looked up, his expression a silent plea for some sign that this was a negotiation tactic, a brutal joke.
He found none.
Duke watched him from across the desk, his posture relaxed, his face an impassive mask.
There was no amusement in Duke's gaze, only the satisfaction of his objective being met.
Peter's eyes, still raw from hangover and humiliation, dragged across the page.
The number $75,000 stood out as his expected salary. More than what Corman was offering him.
Of course half of it was defered until profits arrived, It was a financial illusion, holding his own money hostage to ensure his good behavior.
But it was the next line that felt like a physical blow to the chest. 'The Director shall receive no profit participation.'
It meant that if he poured his soul into a project, if he crafted something as enduring and profitable as The Graduate, every single dollar of profit beyond the costs would flow into Ithaca's vaults.
His eyes flickered up, meeting Duke's for a fleeting second, searching for any hint of flexibility, and finding only the impenetrable calm of his younger boss.
He read on, the conditions piling up. Final cut. Duke would have the final say on every frame.
Then came a loan-out clause, and a bitter, incredulous laugh caught in his throat.
It was the most brazenly predatory thing he had ever read. Ithaca could essentially sell his services to the highest bidder Paramount, Fox, anyone and then pocket every single cent of the fee and toss him his meager $75,000 like a tip.
The contract was a legal instrument of absolute ownership, meticulously designed to transform Peter Bogdanovich from a rising auteur into a cost-effective, permanently indentured asset of the Ithaca empire.
A utterly defeated Bogdanovich took the pen, his hand trembling slightly, and signed without reading another clause. His signature was a final, total surrender.
As he left the office, he seemed to have physically diminished, the weight of his mistake and the heavy, long-term chains of his new contract settling firmly on his shoulders. He didn't look back.
The door clicked shut, leaving Duke alone with a smile on his face
---
The energy at the Crest Theatre in Westwood was a world away from the intellectual chill of New York.
It was an industry crowd, sleek and sharp-eyed, drawn by the curated buzz.
Larry Goldberg's "insider event" strategy had worked perfectly.
The lobby was a cacophony of deal-making chatter, air kisses, and agents scanning the room.
Bogdanovich, cleaned up and performing his role with a desperate, newfound professionalism, held court, earnestly explaining his influences to a captivated circle.
The film unspooled to an audience that appreciated craft above all else. They saw the clever editing, the homage to Karloff, the audacity of the premise.
The applause at the end was genuine, enthusiastic.
The reviews the next morning were a vindication of the new strategy.
The LA Times praised Bogdanovich's "fearlessly assured direction" and the film's "uncanny prescience about the random violence simmering beneath the American surface."
Variety, the industry magazine, called it a "sleeper hit in the making" and a "triumph for indie upstart Ithaca Productions."
The bi-coastal narrative was now complete: New York's brain had met Los Angeles's heart. It was no longer a niche product; it finally had 'buzz'.
Back in his office, Larry Goldberg allowed himself a rare, grim smile. "The phones are starting to ring," he reported.
"Not a flood of course, but a trickle. Bookers in San Francisco, Boston, D.C. They've seen the reviews. The momentum is real."
---
While the professional triumph of the Los Angeles premiere spread through the company.
The silence in Duke's own life had become deafening.
Valentine's Day arrived, a wednesday marked with commercialism and couples walking around.
He had seen some of the new hires bringing their partners to the company, he wrote their names down to lower their christmas bonuses.
Of course he meant jokingly, he was still a little bitter about the whole Katharine stuff.
He'd worked, of course, refining the rollout strategy for the next wave of cities, but his focus that day had been a forced thing.
The memory of Katharine's laughter, the specific way her eyes crinkled when she was truly amused, had been an unwelcome memory in his memory.
He'd told himself it was a trivial holiday, but the emptiness of the day felt like a judgenment on the path he had chosen.
The reckoning came not with a dramatic scene, but with a delivery the following morning.
A young messenger presented Eleanor, his secretary with a simple, elegant cardboard box.
Duke saw it and pondered whether to add her to the list of people with no bonuses. 'Only unprofesional people bring romance to their job.'
She surprisingly brought it in and placed it on his desk without a word.
Duke opened it.
Nestled in pristine light blue tissue paper, cool and faintly fragrant, was the bouquet of Blue orchids he had sent to Katharine's home.
They were still perfect, untouched.
Tucked beside them, stark against the soft petals, was the cream-colored envelope containing his conciliatory note. The seal was pristine, unbroken.
Later, Eleanor approached his desk, her expression a masterpiece of professional neutrality, betraying not a flicker of pity or curiosity.
"Sir, I've been in contact with Ms. Ross's agent regarding the potential Butch Cassidy reading you had suggested. The response was that Ms. Ross's schedule is 'indefinitely full' and that we should 'cease all future scheduling attempts at this time.'"
Duke nodded slowly, absorbing the information. His face, as always, was a placid lake, showing none of the turmoil beneath.
There was no anger, no visible disappointment, not even a flicker of regret.
"Thank you, Eleanor," he said, his voice even. "Note it in the file."
She turned to leave, the quiet click of her heels on the polished floor the only sound. Just as she reached the door, his voice stopped her, its tone shifting from passive reception to active command.
"Eleanor?"
She paused, looking back.
"If the Paramount producer calls," he said, his gaze already returning to the map on his wall, "put him through."
---
The call came an hour later, the raspy, authoritative voice on the line instantly recognizable. "Hauser. Producer Hal Wallis I just read this True Grit book, good stuff. I'll give you seventy-five thousand for the rights. Clean deal. You turn a tidy profit on your little publishing gamble, and I make a proper picture."
It was the old guard's playbook: a lowball, one-time buyout that ignored all future value, a tactic designed to remind upstarts of their place.
The same strategy Duke had just used on Bogdanovich.
Duke didn't hesitate, his voice a calm, flat counterpoint to Wallis's energy. "The rights aren't for sale, Mr. Wallis."
A stunned silence crackled over the line. "What do you mean, not for sale? Don't be naive, kid. Everyone has a price."
"I'm sure they do," Duke replied, the 'kid' hanging in the air, unacknowledged and dismissed. "But I'm not a seller. I am, however, open to a co-production."
He continued. "Ithaca Productions retains creative control and a fifty-one percent stake. We share costs and profits proportionally. We were thinking of John Wayne for Cogburn. We can discuss things."
The laughter on the other end was short, harsh, and utterly devoid of humor. "A co-production? With you? You're a child who got lucky with a sexy film. I don't do partnerships with kids."
"Then I suppose you won't be making True Grit," Duke said, his tone leaving no room for appeal. "The answer is no. Thank you for your call, Mr. Wallis."
He hung up, the definitive click of the receiver the only sound in the office for a long moment.
He expected this to be the end of it.
But ten minutes later, Eleanor's voice came through the intercom, a note of surprise in her usually unflappable tone. "Mr. Hauser, Mr. Wallis is here. He insists on seeing you."
Duke's eyebrows lifted a fraction. A personal visit was a significant escalation. "Send him in."
Hal B. Wallis strode into the office not like a visitor, but like a landowner surveying a new, poorly maintained property.
He was smaller than his legend suggested, but his presence filled the room, a force of nature in a meticulously tailored suit.
His eyes, sharp and miss-nothing, scanned the space, pausing on the new Ithaca logo before landing on Duke.
A man like Wallis was not well known during his time in 2025, but he did produce Casablanca and The Adventures of Robin Hood.
"Alright, Hauser. You've got my attention," Wallis said, dispensing with hello as he took a seat without being invited.
"Now, let's stop the nonsense. You're not a big studio, you don't have a lot either. You have a hit film, a bestseller, and a head full of ambition. That's a good start. It's not a foundation."
"You want a co-production? Fine then. We'll co-produce. But I run it with my people. Wayne works with me, not you. You get a credit, twenty percent of the net, and you get experience on how a real movie gets made."
Duke folded his hands on the desk. "The terms I stated on the phone are not a starting point for negotiation, Mr. Wallis."
Duke laid back slightly. "They are the only terms on which I will partner. Fifty-one percent and creative control. These are non-negotiable."
Wallis leaned back too, a slow, patronizing smile spreading across his face.
He looked at Duke not with anger, but with a strange, almost paternal weariness. "Kid in this industry, you can't just take, you have to give. You have to play the game."
He gestured around the office. "You're building your thing here. I can see it, but Hollywood isn't conquered, It's partnered with. It's a web of relationships, of favors owed and called in."
"With that personality of yours, you'll make a lot of enemies and very few friends. And in the long run, you need friends in this town more than anything else. Be more flexible, take the twenty percent. It's a fair offer, a lesson in humility, and God knows you could use one."
Duke listened, his expression unchanging. He heard the advice, recognized the small truth in it, and discarded the rest.
"The lesson I'm learning, Mr. Wallis, is that the only thing this town truly respects is capital and power," Duke replied, his voice still calm.
"I'm not interested in playing the game. The offer stands: fifty-one percent, creative control. If you'd like to leave the door is the same one you came in."
Wallis stared at him for a long, hard moment, he slowly stood up, his joints cracking audibly in the silent room. "You're making a mistake, Hauser. You're too young and too arrogant to see things clearly."
He shook his head. "Fine, keep your book. I'll find another one."
----
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