Duke Hauser and David Chen arrived early at the Brown Derby on Vine Street.
Duke drank water; Chen got himself a black coffee, his foot tapping a nervous rhythm against the table leg.
They were there to settle their acquisition, but the man they were meeting treated it more like a casual drop-in.
Steve Ross arrived exactly on time.
The head of Kinney National didn't look like the funeral home and parking lot magnate he was on paper.
He looked like the movie mogul he desperately wanted to be tall, tan, and carrying a smile. He walked to their booth with a rolling, easy walk, shaking hands with the floor manager as if they were old friends.
"Connor. David," Ross said, sliding into the leather booth. "I appreciate you making the drive. I know the traffic must have been a nightmare."
He signaled the waiter without looking. "I'll have the grapefruit cake and a southern iced tea. Gentlemen, order whatever you want. The steak tartare is safe today."
For the first twenty minutes, Ross didn't mention Marvel, or stock prices, or hostile takeovers.
Instead, he talked about the industry. He talked about the shift in audience demographics, the collapse of the studio system, and the rise of the independent producesr.
"I saw Targets yesterday," Ross said, leaning back as his tea arrived.
"Bogdanovich. He's interesting but I didnt loved it. I did fell in love with The Graduate... You have a hell of a resume for a guy who just started his own company."
"I have been very lucky," Duke said, keeping his voice neutral.
"You have a nose for the cultural moment," Ross corrected. "That's rare. Most people look at Kinney and they see parking garages. Maybe a cleaning service. They don't see where I want to take it."
Ross leaned in, his elbows on the white tablecloth. "I'm not building a parking lot company, Connor. I'm building a Media Machine."
"We have an agency Ashley-Famous, we have DC Comics and frankly, I'm looking at Warner Brothers-Seven Arts. I'm going to own a big studio soon."
He paused, letting the ambition sit there. "And I want you inside the tent. Not outside throwing rocks."
Duke took a sip of water. "I'm listening."
"The counter-offer on Marvel," Ross said, waving a hand dismissively. "That's just noise. My people at Independent News got nervous because you threatened to leave."
"They crunched the numbers on losing your distribution fees and panicked. But if you want the truth, I don't care about Spider-Man, Connor. I don't read comic books. I care about talent."
Ross lowered his voice, the salesman switching gears. "Here's the reality. I want a relationship with Ithaca Productions."
"I know you're pre-producing True Grit. I know you have that Mcqueen Project, Butch Cassidy. Those are movies I want Kinney associated with."
"I'm offering you a first-look deal, we finance your slate. You get access to the Warner lot once the deal closes."
"And the price?" Duke asked.
"You stop this nonsense about moving Marvel to Charlton Distribution," Ross said. "You sign a five-year extension with Independent News."
"We keep the revenue flowing, you get your little publishing company, and we start making some real movies together. I'd even drop the counter-offer today."
It was a seductive pitch. Ross wasn't trying to destroy him; he was trying to absorb him.
"The current deal with Independent restricts our growth," Duke said, shifting from listener to negotiator.
"You cap the number of titles we can publish. You limit our shelf space to protect DC. If I stay, that ends. The cap is gone. The distribution fee drops to twenty-five percent."
Ross didn't flinch. "The fee we can discuss. But the cap is impossible. Look, the newsstands are crowded."
"We manage the ecosystem. We can give you maybe two more titles a year. But I can't let you flood the market and hurt DC's sales. I need stability on Kinney Industries until the Warner deal closes."
"Two titles isn't growth, Steve. It's the bare minimun," Duke said. "Marvel has the characters to double its line. You're asking me to strangle my company to keep yours comfortable."
Ross smiled, but the warmth didn't reach his eyes. "I'm asking you to be a partner. Look, you need friends in this town."
"Warner Brothers is soon going to be the biggest game in town. Do you really want to be the guy who fought them over a printing contract? or do you want to be the guy producing their blockbusters?"
Duke glanced at Chen. Chen was perfectly still, his face a mask of polite interest.
They had anticipated this. Ross really didn't value Marvel.
"It sounds generous," Duke said. "Capital. Distribution. A studio lot."
"It's the smart play," Ross urged.
"The problem," Duke said, "is that I don't want to be an employee, Steve. I want to be an owner."
Duke nodded to Chen.
Chen lifted his briefcase, clicked the latches, and pulled out a single document. It was thin just ten pages, staple-bound in blue.
He placed it gently on the table, next to the grapefruit cake.
"What's this?" Ross asked.
"That," Chen said, his voice crisp, "is a draft complaint we are prepared to file with the Department of Justice tomorrow morning."
Ross picked it up. Sherman Antitrust Act. He looked up, an amused smirk playing on his lips. "You're going to sue me for monopoly? Duke, that's aggressive. I'm just a suitor to Marvel."
"You own DC Comics," Duke said. "You own Independent News, the distributor. Between DC and Marvel, those two companies control eighty percent of the market."
"If you acquire Marvel, or if you force Marvel into a restrictive contract that limits output to protect DC, you are creating a vertical monopoly."
Duke leaned forward. "Section 1 and Section 2. Restraint of trade. If we file this, it triggers a probe. Not just into Marvel, but into Independent News."
"They'll subpoena pricing structures. They'll look at how you leverage shelf space. They'll look at the parking lots. They'll look at the funeral homes."
Ross went silent.
The mention of the cash businesses hit a nerve. Kinney was trying to go legit, to become a glamorous media company.
Federal auditors digging through the receipts of parking garages in New Jersey was the last thing he needed.
Duke remembered some rumours of Steve Ross from a Hollywood book where they explained how he was very involved with the New York Mafia. He wanted to take advantage of that to get him to back off.
The reason Kinney was able to spend so much money and wave around was cause of their mafia connections.
Even Kinney's founder, Manny Kimmel was an "underworld figure" and illegal bookmaker in New Jersey and New York.
"You'd tie up your own acquisition in court for years," Ross said, calculating. "You'd kill the company you're trying to buy."
"No," Duke said. "We have the tender offer. We have the board. The only thing stopping us is you."
"In other words, If you persist, we file."
"Maybe we'd lose Marvel. But you lose the Warner deal because your stock tanks under an investigation. Is that a trade you want to make over Spiderman?"
Ross stared at Duke. He wasn't angry. He looked genuinely impressed for a moment.
Ross laughed a short, dry sound. "You're a son of a bitch, Duke," he said, shaking his head.
"You'd really do it. You'd bring the fed's down on the whole industry."
"I have a duty to my shareholders," Duke said, deadpan. "I need a free market."
Ross dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "First of all, you don't have shareholders."
"Second, well okay. You win. I'm not going to let the DOJ dig through my filing cabinets over comic books. I don't care about them enough."
He took a gold pen from his pocket and scribbled Withdrawn on the corner of the draft.
"I'll pull the counter-offer. And go to Charlton. Of course if their trucks break down in New York, don't call me complaining."
"I won't," Duke said.
Ross stood up, smoothing his suit. The charm slid back into place instantly. "The offer on the films stands, by the way. If you ever get tired of the small time and want to make real movies at Warner, call me. I like a guy who knows how to close."
"I'll keep it in mind," Duke said.
"Enjoy the cake," Ross said. "It really is excellent."
He walked away, shaking hands with a man at the next table as if he hadn't just lost a game of chicken.
Three days later, the air in Santa Monica smelled of salt, diesel fumes, and cheap frying oil.
The pier was a living mess a chaotic crush of families, teenagers, servicemen, and tourists.
Duke Hauser was wearing unicolor blue shorts and wore a plain white t-shirt.
"You look tense," Barbara said, linking her arm through his.
Duke forced himself to stop staring at the ocean. "I'm not. I'm relaxing. This is me relaxing."
"What are you scared a shark will come out of the water?," she teased, pulling him toward a food stand. "Lets try some Peruvian food." (GOATED FOOD)
"I was actually thinking about Jaws," Duke admitted. "I don't know when it will be adapted."
Barbara stopped walking. She turned him to face her, her expression amused but firm. She put both hands on his shoulders.
"Duke. Look at me. No movies for now." She smiled. "We are here to eat beach food, a salmon pizza, and we are going to walk until our feet hurt. That is the plan. Can you handle a it?"
Duke looked at her. The sun was catching the loose strands of her hair, turning them gold. She looked happy not the polite happiness of a dinner party, but real, messy joy.
"Of course," Duke said.
He bought ceviche with rice with algea on top and some fried giant squid."
He ate it without an issue, actually loving the taste, leaning against the railing and watching the surfers bob in the gray water below.
For the first hour, it was hard work. Duke's mind was an engine that didn't have an off switch.
He found himself looking at payphones. He wondered if the paperwork for the Charlton distribution deal was being written.
He wondered if Steve Ross was planning a reprisal. Every time the conversation lulled, his brain tried to fill the silence with company matters.
But Barbara was patient.
She pointed out the ridiculous things a seagull stealing a tourist's fish and chips, a teenager trying to impress a girl at the ring toss and failing miserably, an old couple sharing a bag of popcorn.
"Look at that," she said, nodding toward a bench near the carousel.
A young boy, maybe eight years old, was sitting cross-legged on the dirty wood planks.
He was holding a comic book. It was battered, the cover torn, clearly rolled up in a back pocket a hundred times.
Duke squinted. It was a The Amazing Spiderman Issue.
The kid was reading it with a focus that blocked out the entire world. His lips moved slightly as he read the dialogue bubbles.
Duke watched him.
He had fought a legal skirmish with Steve Ross over the right to distribute that paper.
He watched the way the kid turned the page carefully, treating the cheap newsprint very carefully. He saw the way the boy's face mirrored the tension of the story.
"That's nice," Duke murmured.
"What is nice?" Barbara asked, following his gaze.
"That" Duke said. "A kid loving his storybook."
Barbara squeezed his arm, leaning her head on his shoulder. "We should go walk."
Duke nodded slowly and stood up with her.
"Come on," Barbara said. "Let's go lose some money at the milk bottle toss."
They walked to the carnival games. Duke approached the booth with grim determination.
He analyzed the weight of the baseball, the center of gravity of the aluminum bottles. He threw three times. He missed three times.
"Rigged," he declared, frowning at the carnie. "The base is weighted."
"Or maybe you just have terrible aim," Barbara laughed, pulling him away before he could demand an inspection.
They ended the day at the edge of the pier as the sun began to dip below the horizon. The sky turned a combined purple and orange.
The air grew colder, and the lights of the Ferris wheel flickered on, painting the water in neon streaks.
Duke leaned against the railing with Barbara beside him relaxed, He needed this type of day after being involved in his company for so long.
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