The air in Los Angeles on September 20th, 1972, was a thick smog.
Driving from LAX to the Paramount lot, Duke rolled down the window of his Mercedes, letting the hot, dry wind wash over him.
He severely disliked driving for some reason ever since he came on to this time period.
The American film industry was in the middle of a shift this year.
The old studio system, originally built on rigid contracts, bloated musicals, and out-of-touch executives was dying.
In its place, a wave of young, bearded, talented filmmakers were taking over.
The press was already calling them the "Movie Brats."
Coppola, Friedkin, Bogdanovich. They were kids who had grown up with cinema, and they were now on the comeup.
Surprisingly before Duke took over Paramount, Charles Bludhorn, the previous owner had already propose to these future stars a place in The Director Company, a short lived director centered production company.
Now The Godfather had proved that a gritty, director centered production could also be a commercial juggernaut.
Every studio in town was suddenly desperate to find the next lightning bolt in a bottle. But the executives were stumbling in the dark, guessing at what the people wanted.
Duke wasn't guessing, at least. He had a blueprint of Hollywood in his mind.
Of course his mind map didnt included every film, but he had the AMC Stubs A-List so he knew a lot.
When he walked into his wood-paneled office on the Paramount lot, the exhaustion of the flight from Germany was a weight on his shoulders. His right leg, throbbed with a dull, small persistent ache.
He dropped his briefcase and got on his mahogany desk, forcing the pain into the back of his mind.
Robert Evans was already pacing the room.
He was wearing a bespoke, wide-lapelled peach suit, an open-collared silk shirt, and a pair of oversized, amber sunglasses. His skin tanned.
"You look like hell, Duke," Evans noted cheerfully, not missing a beat as he poured two glasses of iced sparkling water.
"Good to see you too, Bob," Duke rasped, taking the glass and sinking into his leather chair. "Did you keep the lot from burning down while I was playing in Germany?"
"Barely," Evans grinned, sitting on the side of Duke's desk. "We have a meeting in five minutes. And you need to be awake for this one."
"Who?"
"Some kids from New York," Evans said, waving a manicured hand. "One of them you know. Robert De Niro. He played the lead in that war picture you did a couple of years ago. Hacksaw Ridge."
Duke nodded slowly.
"He's bringing a director," Evans continued, checking and shaking his gold Rolex. "A kid named Martin Scorsese. And another actor. They've been knocking on every door in town. Nobody wants to touch the script. I figured since De Niro is your guy, we'd give them the meeting."
"What's the picture?" Duke asked.
"It's called Mean Streets."
Duke nodded. Mean Streets. The film that would officially launch Martin Scorsese into the scene.
"Send them in," Duke said.
A minute later, the oak doors swung open.
Robert De Niro walked in first. He was twenty-nine years old, lean, and wore a simple jacket and a baseball cap, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
He saw Duke behind the desk, and a brief, respectful smile touched his face.
"Mr. Hauser," De Niro said, his voice soft.
"Bobby," Duke greeted warmly, gesturing to the seating area. "Good to see you. Pull up a chair."
Behind De Niro came Harvey Keitel, looking deeply uncomfortable in the Hollywood office.
And then came Martin Scorsese.
Scorsese was small, Duke estimated he must not be taller than 5'5, and had a thick, dark beard, heavy-rimmed glasses, and talked fast.
"Mr. Hauser, Mr. Evans, thank you, thank you so much for the time," Scorsese fired off, sitting on the edge of the leather sofa. His hands were constantly moving, gesturing, slicing through the air.
"I know you're busy. I loved The Godfather and it's cinematography. We actually came for what would be pennies to an Studio like Paramount-"
Duke leaned back, letting Evans do his job.
"Take a breath, Marty," Evans said smoothly, taking the armchair opposite the trio. "Tell us what you've done. Why should Paramount write a check?"
"Right, okay, credits," Scorsese nodded rapidly, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"I did Who's That Knocking at My Door? back in 1967. Harvey was in it. It was student film stuff, but it played at Chicago."
"And I just finished a picture for Roger Corman. Boxcar Bertha. Barbara Hershey, David Carradine. We shot it in twenty-four days. Blood, train robberies, things like that."
"I saw it," Evans interrupted, his tone turning into the classic studio executive. "It was an exploitation picture, Marty. It probably made a few bucks at the drive-in, but that's not enough... for us a least."
Scorsese winced, "That's why I'm here. That's what this script is. It's a good story, i swear."
Scorsese reached into his battered leather satchel and pulled out a thick script. He placed it on the glass coffee table.
"It's called Mean Streets," Scorsese said, his voice dropping slightly, "It's about Little Italy. It's about growing up in the shadow of the Church and the shadow of the Mob. It's about a guy who is trying to reconcile his Catholic guilt with the fact that he works for the local loan sharks. And it's about his best friend, Johnny Boy."
Scorsese pointed a finger at De Niro, who was staring quietly at the floor.
"Bobby is Johnny Boy. He owes money to everyone. He doesn't respect the rules. He's self-destructive, and Charlie is trying to save his soul while losing his own. It's not a glamorous mafia movie, Mr. Hauser. There are no mansions. No dons holding court. Just punks in bars."
"If it's so good," Evans pushed, playing the necessary role of the bad cop, "why hasn't anyone bought it? Why are you sitting in my office?"
Scorsese sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Because nobody wants to make a movie about Italian street trash unless it has Marlon Brando attached to it. I went to Corman and he offered to fully finance it."
"So... why not take Corman's money?" Evans challenged.
"I can't," Scorsese shot back, his voice rising with defensive pride. "Corman said he'd only give me the budget if I changed the script. He said the market right now is Blaxploitation. You guy's movie Shaft is making a killing."
"Corman wants me to change the characters to black characters and shoot it in Harlem. He wants to call it Dark Streets."
Scorsese pleaded, leaning forward, directly addressing Duke. "I don't know Harlem. I can't compromise on this. I need a studio that will let me shoot it even if it is on a micro-budget. I can do it in for half a million dollars. I swear to God."
The room went completely silent. Evans looked at Duke. The ball was in Duke's court.
Duke looked at the three men.
"Half a million dollars," Duke said, his voice breaking the silence.
Scorsese nodded. "Yes."
"You can keep it Italian," Duke ordered, pointing a finger at the script. "We got a deal."
Scorsese's eyes widened behind his glasses.
"Paramount isn't going to release this," Duke continued, watching the brief flash of panic return to Scorsese's face before putting it out.
"We have a small label. It's called Ithaca. We use it to fully finance and distribute films that are too raw for Paramount. It's an independent ecosystem inside the studio. Evans and I won't interfere with your set. We don't demand script changes. You deliver the cut, and Ithaca puts it in the theaters."
"You... you're serious?" Scorsese stammered, looking at Evans for confirmation.
Evans grinned, his white teeth flashing against his tan. "We'll have the legal department draw up the contracts by Friday."
De Niro stood up first. He walked over to Duke's desk and extended his hand.
"Thank you for the meeting, Duke," De Niro said quietly. "We won't let you down."
"I know you won't, Bobby," Duke said, shaking his hand firmly.
Scorsese practically leaped off the sofa, grabbing his satchel. "Mr. Hauser, I don't know what to say. We start location scouting next week!"
"Get out of here, Marty, before we change our minds," Evans laughed, waving them toward the door.
Keitel gave a respectful nod, and the three men from New York cinema piled out of the office, the heavy doors closing behind them.
Once they were gone, the room felt suddenly empty.
Evans walked over to the wet bar, pouring two fingers of scotch over ice for himself. He didn't offer one to Duke, knowing the Duke rarely drank liquor when he was tired.
"Half a million bucks on a kid," Evans mused, taking a sip. "You really believe in that script?"
"I believe in the director," Duke corrected, leaning back and resting his bad leg on a low velvet stool.
"You have always been a good scout," Evans nodded, he walked over and sat in the chair Scorsese had just vacated. "Speaking of the future, how was Munich? You look like you got put through a lot."
Duke reached into his pocket and pulled out the small Waldi keychain he had bought with Barbara. He tossed it across, Evans caught it effortlessly.
"I bought a dog," Duke said dryly.
Evans looked at the bright dog. "What a cute Beagle. Good merchandising potential. But seriously, Duke, the news over there. The Olympic Village. The massacre. We watched it on the news and it looked like a nightmare."
Duke's expression darkened slightly. "It was. They locked down the hotel. I luckily had private security that could set a perimeter up."
Evans shook his head, and tossed the keychain back onto the table.
"Tragic. It really is," Evans said smoothly, taking another sip of his scotch. "But, you know, Israelis always get attacked, Duke. It's the way of the world."
Duke looked at Evans.
A geopolitical tragedy had played out on the world stage, and Evans had already filed it away as an unfortunate, unavoidable plot point in the grand movie of life.
Before Duke could respond, the oak doors swung open again.
Ali MacGraw, Evans wife stood in the doorway.
She was breathtaking. She wore a simple, white peasant blouse, high-waisted flared jeans, and a silk scarf tied in her dark straight hair.
"Am I interrupting?" she asked, as she stepped into the office, carrying a scent of jasmine.
"Never, darling," Evans said, walking over and kissing her softly on the cheek. He wrapped his arm around her waist, turning back to Duke. "Duke, look at this woman. Tell me I am not the luckiest man in Los Angeles."
Duke stood up, leaning on his cane, and offered a polite smile. "You are definitely punching above your weight class, Bob. Hello, Ali. It's wonderful to see you."
"Welcome back from Europe, Duke," Ali smiled brightly. "Bob has been a nightmare without you here to tell him 'no' every once in a while. I'm taking him to lunch at Ma Maison, you should join us."
"I appreciate the offer," Duke said, "but I'm buried in paperwork from the trip. You two go. Enjoy the afternoon."
As they stood there, Evans and Ali looked like the perfect picture of success. They were rich, beautiful, and standing at the absolute pinnacle of the entertainment industry.
But Duke looked at them with weird thoughs.
Before Duke had left for Germany, Evans had been complaining about McQueen having an undeniable affair with the woman standing right in front of him.
Duke just shrugged in his mind, and briefly complained about weird Hollywood relationships.
Evans winked at Duke over Ali's shoulder, to let him relax, "We'll see you tomorrow, Duke. Don't work too hard."
"Have a good lunch, Bob," Duke replied softly.
He watched them walk out, Ali's arm linked through Evans'. The door clicked shut.
Duke slowly sat back down in his chair. He let out a long breath.
Duke had absolutely no intention of getting involved. Hollywood divorces were messy events.
Getting caught in the crossfire between Robert Evans and Steve McQueen was bad for business and bad for the soul. Although he did admit he leaned more towards Evan's side, if push came to shove.
Duke thought to himself, picking up a pen and spinning it between his fingers.
'Maybe I can ask Lynda if she knows anyone nice who would want to date a Head of Production of a mayor studio.' The thought of Lynda brought a genuine, unforced smile to his face. He missed her.
A sharp knock at the door broke his chain of thoughs.
"Come in," Duke called out, putting the pen down.
The door opened, and Stanley Jaffe walked in.
Jaffe was a stark contrast to Evans. He was pragmatic, grounded, and possessed a analytical mind that had helped Duke tear Paramount down and rebuild it. He was carrying a small cardboard box filled with framed photos and a few desk ornaments.
"The car is waiting downstairs," Jaffe said, his voice tinged with a complex mixture of sadness and excitement. "I figured I shouldn't leave without saying a formal goodbye to you."
Duke stood up immediately. He walked around the desk, and met Jaffe in the center of the room.
"Columbia Pictures," Duke said, shaking Jaffe's free hand firmly. "What's the title?"
"I will be using my own production company, Jaffilms, to make films first for Columbia Pictures," Jaffe chuckled ruefully. "They're hemorrhaging money, their slate is too weak, and the board doesn't trust us. It reminds me a lot of what we walked into here a couple of years ago."
"Which is exactly why you're a good fit there," Duke said, his voice ringing with absolute sincerity. "You're a builder, Stanley."
Jaffe looked around the massive, luxurious office. He looked at the posters of The Godfather and the upcoming American Graffiti leaning against the wall.
They had successfully taken a dying studio and turned it into a strong one.
"We did good work here, Duke," Jaffe said softly. "I'm proud of what we built."
"So am I," Duke agreed. "But the rules have changed now. Yesterday, we were friends. Today..."
"Today, we are competitors," Jaffe finished, a competitive spark igniting in his eyes. "I'm coming for your market share, Duke. Don't think I'm going to pull my punches just because we share a history."
"I would be insulted if you did," Duke smiled, not really taking it seriously.
Jaffe laughed, "I'll see what I can do."
He adjusted his grip on the cardboard box. "Before I go, I have to ask. Have you made a decision on my replacement?"
"I have," Duke said, leaning back against the edge of his desk.
"Evans will reject it," Jaffe said guessing Duke's thoughs.
"Evans is omnipotent in my eyes," Duke said, shaking his head. "But, he wants to be hands-on. He wants to run the Ithaca banner. He wants to be in the editing bays at three in the morning. I'm keeping him exactly where he is."
"So who runs Paramount?" Jaffe asked.
"Barry Diller," Duke stated clearly.
Duke opened his arms, and the two men embraced.
"Give them hell, Stanley," Duke said as they broke apart.
"We will still see each other aroung town, Duke," Jaffe replied.
Jaffe turned and walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him.
Duke Hauser stood alone in the silence of his office.