On Hollywood Boulevard, inside Pickwick Books, the air conditioning hummed as Duke sat behind a oak table near the front display window, a mountain of mass-market paperbacks to his left.
On the cover, a shark rose from the depths of the ocean toward a swimming target.
A line of readers snaked through the aisles, spilling out the glass doors, and on the city block outside.
Duke picked up his black pen, the cheap plastic already slick against his fingers.
He looked at the first kid in line, a scruffy teenager clutching a dog-eared hardcover and messy hair. The boy's eyes were wide.
Duke offered a practiced smile. "Who should I make it out to?"
The boy swallowed hard. "Richard Linklater."
Duke scribbled a quick inscription, thanking him for appreciating the story, and slid it back.
Next was a young couple, giggling about how they were canceling their Maui trip cause of fear of sharks.
Duke chuckled, assuring them the ocean was perfectly safe and sharks were actually really nice, even if his bank account preferred they didn't think so.
He kept the rhythm going for an hour, but his energy was wearing thin.
He felt a cramp forming in the meat of his thumb.
A few feet away, with his eyes glued to this part of the store, was Russell.
The security chief's eyes scanned the crowd over and over again.
When a fan lingered a second too long, Russell would appear near them, and the fan would suddenly find the motivation to keep walking.
At two o'clock, a woman stepped up without a book, wearing a beige trench coat despite the heat, with a press badge dangling from her neck.
"Sarah Goldstein, LA Times," she said, not waiting for an invitation. "Just a few quotes for the Sunday entertainment layout, Mr. Hauser?"
Duke didn't stop signing. "Make it quick, Sarah. There's people behind you."
"The transition from novelist to Paramount Owner," she started, her eyes darting over his face. "Purists say you sold out the soul of your books to the studio system. Is it hard letting go of the text?"
"Books and movies are different mediums," Duke said smoothly, handing a signed copy to a woman in a floral dress. "I trust the cinematic medium to tell a story in the same way i trust Books."
Sarah scribbled, then stopped. She leaned over the oak table, dropping her voice. "Speaking of the studio, you've become a bit of a ghost, Duke. A young mogul-in-the-making, yet your seat at yesterday's Oscars was empty. Is there anything to worry about?"
The pen in Duke's hand paused for a fraction of a second. Across the room, Russell's eyes locked onto Sarah.
Duke met the reporter's gaze, "I'm working, Mrs. Goldstein. The lot demands 12 hours a day. Now, if you'll excuse me, these people have been waiting for their moment."
He flashed a final smile. Sarah held his stare for a moment, before flipping her notepad shut and dissolving into the crowd.
Duke grabbed the next book, making a mental note, to get that woman fired. He didn't want people snooping around his private life.
___
A week later, Duke sat in the green room of the NBC studios.
The executive producer of the Tomorrow show had already stopped by twice to personally ensure the temperature was to Duke's liking.
A young production assistant knocked gently, holding up two fingers. "Two minutes, Mr. Hauser. Can I get you anything else? Fresh coffee? A different brand of water?"
"I'm perfect. Thank you," Duke said, giving her a smile that made her blush as she stepped back.
Duke stood, adjusting the cuffs of his charcoal blazer. He left the tie off, keeping the top two buttons of his silk shirt open.
He looked exactly like what he was, a young man who had succeded in Hollywood.
He walked down the hallway and stepped onto the brightly lit set.
Tom Snyder stood up, extending a hand before Duke even reached the desk.
The studio audience was filled with whispers and enthusiastic applause rolled through the crowd.
"Now, Duke, you are making the rest of us look bad," Snyder began, leaning back and gesturing with his cigarette.
"You wrote the book, you're running the studio, and now I hear you're in the music booth. You won an Oscar for Love Story for Score a few years back. Why get your hands dirty with the music on a shark movie?"
Duke smiled, leaning forward and resting an elbow on the armrest, completely at home. "Because, Tom, my only job is to entertaint the audience, I will run a company, write books or enter a music booth, all to make the stories I want."
Snyder chuckled, taking a drag from his cigarette. "Well, speaking of entertaining stories, word around town is in your new movie Jaws, your mechanical shark spent more time acting like an anchor."
The audience laughed, waiting to see how the mogul would handle the rumor of a troubled production.
Duke let out a laugh, shaking his head. "An anchor implies it stayed in one piece, Tom. We named her Susan, after the first victim in the movie, and Susan sank to the bottom of Atlantic ocean several times."
"We had guys out there in the salt water trying to dry out million-dollar electronics with Sears hairdryers while the tide was coming in."
The studio audience laughed.
"But you know what?" Duke continued, "In my opinion, this was the best thing that could have happened, and it improved the movie in a lot of ways."
Snyder nodded slowly, blowing a ring of smoke, "That's great you feel like that."
He shuffled his note cards, a smirk forming under his eyebrows. "Let's pivot. You're a studio boss for a while now. But some eagle-eyed fans noticed a familiar face playing Leatherface in The Texas Chain Saw Massacre."
Duke offered a modest shrug, locking eyes directly with the camera. "I'm a fan of cinema first and foremost, Tom. I love horror."
"When you see a group of young, independent filmmakers doing something like that, you can't just watch from the sidelines. You jump in and help them carry the chainsaw."
He paused, letting a grin spread. "But to the mothers watching at home, I promise I leave the power tools at the office."
The audience erupted in laughter, won over by the contrast of his high-society success and his regular-guy passion. This was going better Duke had even expected, It feel even nicer than his Johnny Carson interview since the audience was clearly on his side.
Snyder leaned forward, tapping his cigarette out. "Let's talk about that office. Orphan from Dallas, came out west, and built his company."
"Wealthy, powerful, and remarkably single." A few women in the audience cheered loudly, and Snyder gestured toward them. "See? The public wants to know, Duke. What kind of woman catches the eye of Hollywood's most eligible bachelor?"
Duke laughed, letting the applause swell before answering.
"Well, Tom, despite what the columnists write, I'm a pretty simple man. Give me a woman who can bake a decent pie, and who thinks a Friday night with a bucket of popcorn and a double feature is a good plan. If she can handle that, she can handle me."
___
Later that week, Duke sat at his desk in his Paramount office.
Spread out over the desk were the full-page print advertisements scheduled to run in Time and Newsweek.
Duke gathered the proofs, stacking them into a neat pile on the corner of his desk when his private phone line began to ring.
Only a handful of people had this specific number.
Duke reached over and picked up the receiver, leaning back into his chair. "Hauser,"
The voice on the other end was loud, and fast, It was Robert Evans, calling fresh off a plane from London.
To Duke's surprise, Evans did not sound drunk or altered in any way. He sounded normal, clear even.
"Duke, you have to listen to me," Evans started, skipping any polite greetings. "I found something. I found a script. A boxing script."
Duke rubbed his tired eyes, listening patiently as Evans rambled. "It is raw, Duke. Has energy, and its great. But there is a catch. The writer refuses to sell the script unless he is allowed to star in the lead role."
Duke sat forward slightly, his interest piqued by the demand. "Who is the writer, Robert?".
Evans let out a short laugh. "Sylvester Stallone, a nobody. Part time actor. He has a face like a bulldog that attacked a nest of wasp and is recovering. But Duke, the script is called Rocky. I sat down and read the whole thing in one sitting. You are going to want to meet this guy."
Duke paused, holding the phone in contemplation.
Of course, he knew the name Rocky. In his past life, that very movie had gone on to win Best Picture and launch a billion-dollar franchise.
A cultural touchstone.
He nodded slowly, even though Evans could not see him. "Alright, Robert,"
"Set up a meeting with him. Bring him to my office tomorrow morning." Evans laughed enthusiastically on the other end of the line. "Already done, boss. I knew you would trust my gut on this one. He will be at your door at nine o'clock sharp."
___
Mom is doing great for anyone worried.
imma go to sleep, bye