Passing by the gates of Paramount Pictures on Melrose Avenue In February 1968, the arches looked the same as they always had white, regal, and imposing.
Duke steered his car toward the kiosk, his hand already reaching for his wallet to show his ID, but the guard just motioned for him to pass.
"Morning, Mr. Hauser! Great work on the movie!" the guard hollered.
Duke offered a smile, a small wave and rolled past. He didn't even need a pass anymore. In Hollywood, success is the best type of ID as long as it doesn't expire.
As he drove slowly down the narrow streets between the massive soundstages, Duke felt the weight of the history around him.
To anyone elses eyes, Paramount was a titan.
But to Duke, who held the future in his head, Paramount was a wounded studio. Right now, the studio was a mess of aging executives and safe, boring choices.
They were sliding toward a cliff, desperate for a hit that would prove they still mattered in a world that was becoming increasingly obsessed with the New French Wave than the old times of Paramount.
The box office receipts for Love Story right now, were proving Duke right.
They had already reached Fifteen million dollars in the first few weeks of 1968 which represented an astronomical figure.
At Embassy, Joe Levine was likely throwing gold coins at his reflection in the mirror, but here at Paramount, the mood was surely one of profound regret.
Duke parked in a spot that was quite close to the executive building. He grabbed his cane, adjusted his jacket, and stepped out into the California sun.
He wasn't here to beg for them to consider hhis project. He didn't need their money now, Ithaca Productions was already on its way to get more cash than they needed.
He was here because he wanted to see the look on Robert Evans's face and he wanted to talk about a book that most of Hollywood thought was pulp trash.
When Duke walked in, Evans stood up, and practically glided across the room, his arms open as if he were welcoming a long-lost brother back from the trenches.
"Duke! The man of the hour! The man of the year!" Evans's voice was a calm yet slightly nervous tone.
He gripped Duke's hand, his eyes searching Duke's face for any hint of emotion. "Sit, sit. Can I get you a drink? A scotch? A soda? Name it, and it's yours."
"I'm fine, Bob," Duke said, settling into a leather chair that was too soft. He propped his cane against the side of the desk. "You look well."
"I look like a man who took a giant, steaming dump on his own doorstep," Evans said, dropping into his chair and shaking his head with a theatrical sigh.
He didn't bother with the usual Hollywood fluff; he went straight for the jugular.
"Passing on Love Story... Duke, it's the kind of mistake that keeps a man up at night. I watched it at the Bruin last night. I sat in the back. I loved it, Duke, and then I went home and wanted to fire everyone in my creative department."
"Joe Levine is happy," Duke said simply.
Evans made a face as if he'd just swallowed a lemon. "Joe Levine. A hawker. Embassy doesn't have the infrastructure for you, Duke."
"They can't give you the resources that you need. They're a boutique, meanwhile here at Paramount we are the oldest studio in Hollywood."
Evans leaned across the desk, his eyes locking onto Duke's with intensity.
"I want to make things right between us," Evans said.
"I want Ithaca Productions at Paramount. I don't want to talk about one movie. I want to talk about the future."
"I'm prepared to offer you a three-picture distribution and financing deal right now. Total creative control, a piece of the gross that would make Cary Grant blush, and the full weight of the Paramount marketing machine behind you."
"We want to be in the Duke Hauser business, exclusively."
It was a staggering offer. It was the kind of deal that directors spent thirty years chasing. To have it handed over at twenty was the biggest recognizition of his path.
Duke didn't blink. He reached out and picked up a heavy crystal paperweight on Evans's desk, turning it over in his hand.
"That's a generous offer, Bob," Duke said. "But I'm not sure I'm ready to settle down yet. I like being independent."
"In Hollywood, people who stay independent either make B tier movies or they go broke, Duke," Evans countered with a grin. "Partnering is the best thing we could do."
Duke set the paperweight back down. He leaned back and looked Evans in the eye.
"Speaking of owning things... I heard you guys picked up an option on a manuscript by a guy named Mario Puzo. I think the working title is Mafia."
Evans blinked. The gears behind his glasses shifted. He hadn't expected the conversation to pivot to a pulp novel about gangsters.
"Puzo?" Evans asked, leaning back. "The guy who writes for the men's adventure magazines? Yeah, we got the option. Why? You like mob movies, Duke?"
"I like good stories," Duke said.
Evans laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Duke, let me give you some advice. Mob movies are semi-dead."
"Well, who knows if The Brotherhood with Kirk Douglas, will be a hit and revive the genre."
He paused, looking at Duke curiously. "Are you Italian, Duke? You don't look Italian."
"I'm not," Duke said.
"Then why do you care about a book about the Five Families?" Evans asked, waving a hand dismissively.
"The problem with mob movies is that nobody ever makes one that feels real. It's always some actor with a fake accent. And quite frankly, the genre feels slightly exhausted."
"I think the genre hasn't even been born yet," Duke said quietly. "Puzo's book isn't about crime. It's about family. It's about a father and his sons."
Evans studied him. He was a shark, and he could smell blood in the water.
If Duke Hauser, the boy wonder who just turned a $900,000 melodrama into a $15 million juggernaut, was interested in a manuscript, then that manuscript coould be of some value.
"I'll tell you what," Duke said, keeping his voice casual. "Take the burden off your hands."
"Sell me the option. I'll pay you what you paid Puzo, plus twenty percent. You get your money back, and also get a project with no expectations off your books, and I take the risk."
Evans smiled. It was a slow smile. He reached into a humidor, pulled out a long, thin cigar, and took his time lighting it.
Evans spoke through a cloud of white smoke. "If you want it badly, there's something that we could do. But I'm not selling the rights."
"Bob—"
"No," Evans said, raising a hand. "But... I'll make you a counter. You want to make the gangster picture? Fine."
"Make it here. Sign the three-picture deal, and I'll put the Puzo project at the top of the list. You produce it, you direct it, you do whatever you want with it. But it stays at Paramount."
Duke looked around the room, the leather, the awards, the smell of power.
In the original timeline, Francis Ford Coppola had nearly been destroyed mentally by the making of The Godfather.
The studio had fought him on every casting choice, every location, every cent of the budget. Duke didn't want to fight that war, specially since he's not an italian nor does he knew anything about the mafia.
Duke stood up, reaching for his cane. He felt the familiar throb in his leg, a reminder of the physical cost of his journey.
"I appreciate the offer, Bob," Duke said, his tone perfectly neutral. "But I haven't decided on my next move yet. I'm still enjoying the air out here."
Evans stood up, looking surprised. "Duke, don't be a fool. This is the biggest deal on the lot. You won't find better terms at Fox or Warner."
"It's not about the terms," Duke said, walking toward the door. "It's about the weather. I like being able to change directions whenever I want."
He stopped at the door and turned back to Evans.
"I don't want to sign with anyone for now. I value my independence too much. But," he paused, offering a small, enigmatic smile, "call me if you have any interesting projects. Or if you change your mind about selling the Puzo option. My door is always open."
Evans watched him, the cigar smoke curling around his head like a crown. He looked more frustrated than anything. "You're walking away from a three-picture deal? Just like that?"
"Not walking away, Bob," Duke said. "Just walking out for the moment."
Duke stepped out of the executive building and back into the blinding glare of the afternoon sun. The heat of the pavement radiated through the soles of his shoes.
He didn't have the rights to The Godfather.
But as he walked back to his car, he felt a sense of immense satisfaction. He had seen the desperation in Evans's eyes.
He knew that the more Love Story climbed at the box office, the more desperate the studios would become. And desperation was the ultimate leverage.
Now, he would wait for the industry to do what it always did, overthink it, panic, and eventually, give in.
He climbed into his car and started the engine. He didn't head back to the office.
Instead, he drove toward the coast, toward the dusty warehouse in Malibu where Gary and Sol were currently cataloging a mountain of surplus equipment.
"The Godfather," he whispered to the wind. "I will get it soon, one way or another."
He pulled out of the lot, the guard waving him out, Duke nodded before speeding off.
---
The next day, in Joe Levine's office, Levine was celebrating.
He was a man who had caught lightning in a bottle twice.
Duke sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, his cane gripped between his knees.
The box office reports for Love Story were sitting on the coffee table neatly arranged.
"Paramount called me," Levine said, his voice a triumphant rasp.
He was pacing the length of the room, his silk vest straining against his chest. "Evans, that tanned scumbag. He called to congratulate me. He sounded like he was passing a kidney stone. He knows he blew it. The whole town knows."
Levine stopped in front of Duke, pointing a thick, jewel-encrusted finger at him.
"You're the talk of the town, kid. But i'm the one who invested on you, don't forget."
"I haven't forgotten, Joe," Duke said quietly. "You took the bet when nobody else would."
"And I'm ready to double down," Levine boomed.
He walked over to his desk and picked up a folder, tossing it onto the coffee table next to the box office reports.
"I want to lock in Ithaca Productions for the next five years. Five pictures. Total autonomy on the creative, provided the budgets don't go overboard."
"We handle the distribution, and we split the merchandising."
"Five pictures," Duke mused, looking at the folder but not touching it. "That's a long time to be tied up to one studio, Joe."
"It's not being tied up!" Levine argued.
"Look at what we did with one weepy book and a handful of stolen shots in Cambridge."
"Imagine what we do with five years of momentum. You want to make war movies? Make 'em. You want to make more romances? The world is yours."
Duke stood up slowly, using the cane to leverage his weight. He walked over to the window, looking down at the street.
He could see a line forming at the theater across the way, a midday matinee, and people were already waiting in the cold.
He thought about the warehouse in Malibu. He thought about the Arriflex cameras Gary was currently buying up.
He thought about the three-picture deal Evans had offered him at Paramount.
"I like you, Joe," Duke said, turning back to face the mogul. "And I like the way you sell."
"So sign the damn papers," Levine urged, the cigar smoke swirling around his head. "Let's go to Romanoff's and drink until we can't see."
Duke didn't move toward the table.
He just looked at Levine with a calm, unreadable expression. "I'm not saying no, Joe. But I'm not saying yes today, either."
The smile on Levine's face faltered slightly. "What do you mean? What's to think about? It's five pictures! It's security! I'm the one running a risk here!"
"Security is just another word for cage," Duke said.
He picked up his cap from the sofa. "I need to see how the wind blows. I need to see the final numbers on the first quarter."
"And I need to see what else the world has to offer before I commit the next few years of my life to one place."
Levine stared at him, genuinely stunned. In his world, people didn't walk away from five-picture deals
"You're playing a dangerous game, kid," Levine warned, though his voice held a note of grudging respect.
"The heat doesn't last forever. One flop and that Evan guy won't even take your calls."
"Then I'll just have to make sure I don't flop," Duke said.
He walked toward the door, his cane clicking rhythmically on the polished floor.
"Duke!" Levine called out as he reached the handle. "What am I supposed to tell the board? They think you're already in the bag."
Duke turned back, his hand on the brass knob. He offered a small, sharp smile, the smile of a man who knew exactly what his time was worth.
"Tell them I'm still available if they have any interesting projects," Duke said.
He walked out, leaving the five-picture contract sitting untouched on the table.
As the door clicked shut, he could hear Levine already barking into the telephone, probably trying to spin the delay into a narrative of "complex negotiations."
Duke walked through as he made his way out of the lobby, his head held high.
---
Tomorrow double chapter.