The air in the high-rise offices of Century City always felt cooler than the rest of Los Angeles.
Duke sat in a plush leather armchair.
Across from him sat Marcus, a pale white man who was also Duke wealth's manager.
He had been Duke's shepherd through the labyrinth of the 1969 tax year, and now, in early 1970, it was time to look at the results.
"You're a little bit of an anomaly, Duke," Marcus said, laying out a series of leather-bound ledgers. "Usually, men in this town spend it as fast as they make it. They buy a yacht, get a cocaine habit. You? You're living like a monk."
Duke leaned back, a small smile on his face. "I'm not really interested in the lifestyle, Marcus. I'm more interested in building something."
"Well, you've built a fortress," Marcus replied, tapping a pen against the first page.
"Let's talk about the 'Hit' revenue. Your participation deals on Love Story, Butch Cassidy, and Midnight Cowboy have cleared."
"Between your fifteen percent share on your weepie and the backend on the other two pictures, you're sitting on roughly forty-two million dollars in realized liquid capital."
Marcus paused to let that number settle.
In 1970, forty-two million dollars was an astronomical sum.
"But," Marcus continued, "we've been aggressive. To avoid the seventy-percent top marginal tax rate, I've moved the bulk of that into gold futures which are looking very healthy given the global instability and real estate"
"We've been buying up land in the Sun Belt. Phoenix, Houston, Orlando. It's a tax write-off for now, but in ten years, those lots could be worth ten times what we paid."
Duke nodded. He knew the history Marcus didn't.
He knew that the gold standard was about to collapse under Nixon, and that the Sun Belt was where the next American boom was headed.
"And then there's Atari," Marcus said, his brow furrowing slightly. "Your 'Toy' company in Santa Clara. On paper, it's an R&D sinkhole. You've poured millions into these... arcade cabinets."
"Most analysts would value the tech at five or ten million. I think it's higher, but the market doesn't understand it yet."
"They will," Duke said softly.
"I hope so. Because when we add the IP vault, the rights you hold for The Godfather, The Exorcist, Jaws, and these new ones you just snagged your net worth, if we liquidated today, is somewhere north of ninety million dollars. Potentially even a hundred million."
Duke looked out the window at the hazy sprawl of the city. A hundred million dollars.
"Keep the gold where it is," Duke instructed. "And keep buying the land. I want to be cash-heavy for the next six months. I'm going shopping."
___
Later that afternoon, Duke sat in a sun-drenched office at Columbia Pictures. The vibe here was different less sterile, more desperate.
Columbia was an old-guard studio struggling to find its footing in the era of the hippie and the anti-heroes.
The executives across from him were men in their fifties, wearing suits that felt slightly too tight for the changing times.
They looked at Duke with a mixture of resentment and awe. He was the man who had delivered three of the biggest hits of the previous years.
He was thirty years younger than them, and he was winning.
"We like the Klute script, Duke," one of the executives said, tapping a cigar into a crystal ashtray. "We own the rights, as you know. It's a solid thriller. But we have some concerns about your... casting suggestions."
"Julie Christie," Duke said, his voice flat.
"She's brilliant, don't get us wrong," the executive replied. "But we were thinking of Jane Fonda. She's got that 'New Hollywood' energy. She's edgy and you know her brother is popular right now."
Duke felt a flash of irritation.
He knew Fonda would eventually do a great job in the role in the original timeline, but he had made a promise to Julie, he also sort of disliked Jane Fonda in his past life.
"Jane Fonda is a political lightning rod," Duke countered. "Julie Christie is an icon. She brings a European sophistication to the movie that Fonda can't match. If we're going to co-produce this, it's Julie. Or I take my participation and my deals elsewhere."
The executives exchanged a glance. They couldn't lose him. Duke was a golden producer now, with banks not being stingy when it came for loans for his films.
"Alright, alright," the head of production said, waving a hand. "We can talk about Julie later. Let's look at the preliminary deal. Ithaca and Columbia share the cost, we handle the distribution, and we split the back-end."
"And the creative control," Duke added. "I choose the director. I choose the Director of Photography. You get the logo at the front of the film and a healthy return."
The conversation went surprisingly well. Duke leaned on his track record, speaking with the quiet confidence of a man who didn't need their money.
He explained the audience he was going for, the urban, cynical young crowd that loved his past films.
As they were wrapping up, Duke's eyes caught a production sheet on the corner of the desk.
"What's this?" Duke asked, pointing to a project titled Watermelon Man.
"Oh, that?" the exec laughed, and swooped towards the project trying to get it out of his hand.
"It's a gimmick comedy. A white bigot wakes up and finds out he's turned black. We've got this black guy, Melvin Van Peebles directing it. It's cheap, should make a few bucks at the drive-ins."
Duke's memory bank flared.
Melvin Van Peebles.
The man who, in the real timeline, would take the money from this very movie to fund Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song and ignite the entire Blaxploitation movement.
"I want in on that," Duke said.
The room went silent. "On Watermelon Man? Why?"
"Liked the concept," Duke said. "I'll put up forty percent of the budget for a co-production credit. I want Ithaca's name on it."
The executives looked at each other as if Duke had just asked to buy their trash. "If you want to throw your money away on a race comedy, be our guest, Duke. We'll add it to the deal."
Duke smiled.
___
The final stop of the day was far less glamorous.
The Allied Artists offices were located in a building that felt like it was being held together by hope and peeling wallpaper.
Emanuel Wolf, the CEO, looked like a man who was scared of visitors.
His suit was expensive but worn at the cuffs, and his desk was a chaotic mess of unpaid invoices, legal threats from preferred stockholders, and desperate telegrams from foreign distributors.
Allied Artists was a death spiral company. Their stock had been kicked off the big board and was currently trading on the penny markets.
They were surviving on Italian imports and the memory of their days as Monogram Pictures.
"Mr. Duke," Wolf said, his voice thin. "I'm surprised you'd come down here. We're a small company. Not quite your speed, I imagine."
Duke didn't sit. He walked to the window, looking at the faded logo on the building across the street.
"I like history, Emanuel," Duke said. "And I specifically like the story of the Poverty Row Studios. You've got a good distribution system and a library of B-movies that people still watch. Yet your company is drowning."
Wolf sighed, but still looked at Duke straight in the eyes. "We've got the rights to this musical, Cabaret, that if we could get the financing to film it. It would turn the studio around."
Duke turned around. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. He slid it across the mahogany desk, right over a stack of legal notices.
Emanuel Wolf looked down at the check. His eyes widened.
Two million, five hundred thousand dollars.
"I know the books, Emanuel," Duke said, his voice calm and predatory. "I know you're on the verge of being delisted. You're behind three hundred thousand."
"And I know the board is one meeting away from firing you. I'm offering you two and a half million. Right now. No banks. No red tape. No long-winded negotiations."
Wolf looked at the check as if it might disappear if he blinked. "What... what do you want for it?"
"I take on the debt," Duke said. "And I takeover the company. Ithaca becomes the parent company. You get to keep your chair, you get to keep your title, but you report to me. We use Allied's distribution to push Ithaca's films."
Duke leaned over the desk, his eyes locking onto Wolf's.
"I save your company, Emanuel. I save your reputation. And in return, you give me the distribution, we're could even begin to film Cabaret."
Wolf's hand trembled as he reached for the check. He looked at the amount again, then back at Duke.
"You're serious," Wolf whispered.
"I'm deadly serious," Duke said. "Sign the papers by Monday, and the first million hits your account before the banks close."
Wolf didn't hesitate. He pulled a pen from his pocket. "I'll have the board ready by noon."
Duke walked out of the office, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway.
He had the money. He had the movies. And now, he had the distribution.
---
Choose one:
Acquire Paramount and buy mgm(fold it into Paramount)
Acquire mgm and buy Paramount (fold it into mgm)