The side entrance of the Loew's State Theatre was tucked away in an alley that smelled of damp cardboard, and grease.
It was a world away from the searchlights and the screaming fans on Broadway, where Joe Levine was currently basking in the glow of a thousand flashbulbs.
Duke stepped out of the black sedan, his cane finding surface on the pavement.
"I feel like we're sneaking into our own film," Harrison Ford muttered, stepping out behind him.
He looked handsome in a tuxedo he clearly borrowed, tugging at the collar to give himself some air.
"I'm too tired to apear on front, Harry," Duke said, adjusting his own coat. "But you should go."
George Lucas scrambled out of the front seat, clutching a notebook.
He wasn't wearing a tuxedo, he was in a slightly ill-fitting dark suit while constantly checking his watch.
"George," Gary Kurtz said, placing a calming hand on the younger man's shoulder. "The print is fine, sound is fine, things are fine. Breathe."
Blythe Danner was the last to emerge, wrapped in a white fur coat. She looked radiant, but her eyes were darting toward the noise of the main street.
"Are we really skipping the red carpet?" she asked, her breath misting in the alley light. "Mr. Levine is going to have an aneurysm."
"Joe is doing his part," Duke said, offering her his arm.
"We're just here to check things out. I want to see this theater from the inside, before the lights go down."
The theater manager, a sweating man in a red blazer, ushered them through the heavy steel fire door. The transition was instant.
The cold, wet silence of the alley was replaced by the muffled sound of a thousand people finding their seats.
The air inside smelled of popcorn.
They moved quickly, keeping their heads down. Duke led them to a reserved block of seats in the middle.
It was the perfect vantage point. Close enough to see the screen clearly, and far enough back to see the audience.
Duke settled into his seat, leaning his cane against his knee, as he looked at the people.
Directly in front of him, a woman in her forties was settling into her coat.
In her lap, clutched like a prayer book, was a copy of Love Story.
Two seats down, a young couple were arguing in whispers about something he couldn't really hear.
To his left, an older man was already waiting for the film to start.
"They're ready," Gary whispered, leaning in close to Duke. "Look at them."
"We gave them a good book," Duke murmured, nodding at the woman with the novel. "Now we have to see if they like the film version of it."
The house lights began to dim. The murmur of the crowd died down, replaced by a hush that felt heavier than usual.
The Embassy Pictures logo flickered onto the screen. Then, the first image appeared, the grainy, blue gray shot of a park in winter.
"What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?"
The voice, Harrison's voice, but stripped of all its bravado, carried over the audience while the Piano sounded in the back.(The piano was sampled for 'Dance with The Devil' later)
Beside Duke, Harrison was vibrating. His leg was bouncing up and down in nervouseness.
Duke placed a hand on Harrison's forearm, squeezing firmly. Harrison looked at him, eyes wide in the dark, and Duke just nodded.
The film moved into the Cambridge scenes. The library meeting. The banter.
"What makes you so sure I went to prep school?."
"You look stupid and rich."
"I'm smart and poor."
"Actually, I'm smart and poor."
"What makes you so smart?."
"I wouldn't go for coffee with you."
"Well, I wouldn't ask you"
"Well, that's what makes you stupid"
A ripple of laughter moved through the room. It was warm, genuine laughter.
"Focus was soft there," George whispered from two seats down. "That angle-."
"Shut up, George," Duke whispered back, without heat.
"Look at the shoulders, people are leaning in. They don't care about the focus. They care about the girl."
The "Snow Frolic" scene played.
The music, the haunting piano score, which Duke had fought to keep simple.
On the big screen, the handheld camera work didn't look amateur, it looked like a home movie found in an attic.
Duke's leg began to throb.
The phantom ache of Cambridge coming back, the hours spent running in the slush pulling George on the sled.
He rubbed his knee, grounding himself in the pain.
Then came the shift. The hospital. The diagnosis.
The atmosphere in the Loew's State Theatre changed. The atmosphere felt cold.
Duke watched the woman in front of him, the one with the book. She had reached into her purse, and was pulling out a handkerchief.
Beside him, he felt movement.
Blythe Danner was staring up at the screen, watching her own face, pale and lit by the harsh hospital lights.
She looked vulnerable, both on screen and in the seat next to him.
Slowly, instinctively, her hand found his in the dark.
Her fingers were cold. She squeezed his hand, hard.
Duke didn't look at her. He kept his eyes on the audience, on the rows of silhouettes that were now trembling with emotion.
But he squeezed back.
A faint smile touched his lips in the darkness.
On screen, the confrontation with Jason Robards played out. The man sat in his leather chair, immovable. Harrison stood before him, broken.
"God, he's good," Harrison whispered, his voice cracking slightly.
He was watching Robards, seeing the scene fully assembled for the first time. "He ate me alive."
"You did good, don't worry about it" Duke whispered back.
The third act finally came on. The hospital room. The IV drip. The pale winter light.
The sound of weeping in the theater were no longer low, with some people even giving tissues to people around them.
Blythe squeezed his hand again, harder this time, as her character on screen took her final breath.
Then, the final scene. Oliver walking out of the hospital. The sounds of the city muffled by the snow. The long walk to the bench. The flashback to the ice skating rink.
The screen faded to white. Then black.
The silence that followed lasted for five seconds.
Then, a single person started clapping. Then another. And then, the dam broke.
People were wiping their eyes and cheering through the tears.
The house lights flickered up, revealing a sea of red eyes and streaked mascara.
Duke blinked against the sudden brightness. He gently released Blythe's hand.
She looked at him, her own eyes shining, a mix of exhaustion and exhilaration on her face.
"We did it," she mouthed.
"Yeah," Duke said, his voice rough. "We did."
He stood up, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked at Gary Kurtz, who was checking his watch again, but this time with a grin that threatened to split his face.
"That's a four-minute ovation, Duke," Gary shouted over the noise. "And they haven't even seen the cast yet."
Duke looked at George. The young filmmaker was staring at the screen, stunned.
"There were some tecnical issues on the snow scenes," George mumbled, shaking his head. "But... I don't think they noticed."
Duke laughed. It was a dry, sharp sound. "George, look at them."
He turned back to the crowd. He saw the woman in the row ahead. She was hugging the person next to her a stranger, while holding her copy of Love Story.
Harrison turned to him, looking exhausted. "Joe wants us down front. We have to bow."
Duke shook his head. "You go. You and Blythe. This is your moment. They need to see the couple."
"What about you?" Blythe asked, touching his arm.
Duke tapped his cane on the floor. "I'm going to walk around, my heart is treatening to burts out of my chest."
He watched them walk down the aisle, the crowd parting for them, the cheers reaching a pitch.
Duke turned and walked back toward the side exit, slipping into the quiet of the corridor.
He found a payphone near the manager's office. He fished a dime out of his pocket and dialed a number he had memorized weeks ago.
"Sol?" Duke said when the line clicked open.
"Duke? It's midnight," Sol Berg's voice croaked. "Are you drunk?"
"Not yet," Duke said, listening to the muffled roar of the applause through the theater walls. "I just wanted to tell you to prepare the paperwork."
"For what?"
"For everything," Duke said. "The equipment company. The Studio structure. We're going to need all of it."
"The screening went well?"
Duke looked down the hall, where an usher was weeping softly into a tissue while guarding the door.
"You could say that," Duke said, a smile finally breaking across his face.
He hung up the phone and walked out into the alley.
The cold air hit him, sharp and clean. He took a deep breath of the New York winter, feeling the mental exhaustion on his body.
Duke started walking, he needed some air.
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