The air in Dan Tana's was a comforting warm. It smelled of decades-old red leather, and garlic in olive oil that was never fully scrubbed out.
It was May 1968, and the world outside was on fire with assassinations and protests, but in this booth, there was only the soft light catching in Blythe Danner's eyes as she laughed at Duke's jokes.
Duke, leaned back against the cool leather, felt a rare, unguarded peace settle over him.
It was a physical sensation, like slipping into a warm bath, and it was almost entirely her doing.
Blythe Danner, at twenty five, was a representation of beauty.
Her blonde hair fell in a gentle way, her smile was genuine, and the freckles across her nose were gorgeous, specially when compared with the heavy makeup favored by most starts.
Love Story had been her first play.
And now that The film was a phenomenon, a word-of-mouth monster that had girls weeping in lines around the block and boys awkwardly mimicking Harrison Ford's—tousled hair and gruff vulnerability, she had become a sort of american star.
"I couldn't feel my toes in Massachusets," Blythe said, taking a sip of her red wine. "Specially during that scene when Ford and me rolled in the snow. Remember the hockey scene? I remember just hearing this sliding sound and Lucas yelling."
"The camera sled," Duke nodded, smiling. "Lucas swore he could get a smoother track on the ice. He failed only once which hey, it was good enough."
"And then Harrison would appear," she continued, her eyes sparkling with the memory, "with two steaming coffees he'd somehow conjured from a craft services truck three miles away. Then he'd spend twenty minutes trying to help around set."
Duke chuckled.
Casting a 25 years old Harrison Ford as Oliver Barrett IV had been a risk, but he helped a lot on set to carry and move things around.
"I had to pull him aside all the time," Duke said. "I'd say, 'Harrison, you're not here to fix the set.' And he'd just tell me something like, 'The set is not looking good, Duke."
Blythe shook her head, a fond smile playing on her lips. "It's so strange. People stop me now. On the street, at the market. They call me Jenny. A few of them… even start crying in front of me while i'm doing my groceries."
"You were great in the role," Duke said, his voice softer than he used in boardrooms. "In a bad time, you gave them something pure to love. That's a good thing."
"It's scary," she corrected, but without bitterness. "One day I'm doing off-Broadway plays, then next I'm America's sweetheart. My agent wants me to do a romance comedy or melodrama again next.'"
"You like Chekhov right? You should do that but on film," Duke said, the 2025 part of his brain automatically thinking on art-house studios. "On your terms."
She looked at him, her gaze searching. "You say things like that. Like it's simple. Like the rules don't apply. Also the only place where Chekhov is getting an adaptation right now is in the Soviet Union"
Before he could answer, the waiter arrived with a monstrous slice of Chocolate Cake. They'd agreed to share it.
As they dug in, their forks clinking in the quiet booth, Blythe nodded toward a table across the room where a famous aging leading man was dining with a woman half his age.
"Look at him, so old yet young girls have to suck up to him in this town."
"Things will probably change in the future" Duke found himself saying, "A 'new' Hollywood is coming and a lot of the old people will have to be replaced."
"Spoken with the confidence of a man who just had a box office hit," she teased.
He laughed, but it was sarcastic.
The peace of the evening lingered as his Cadillac went up into Hollywood Hills the next afternoon.
He was shocked the moment he stepped into the vast Steve McQueen's private hangar filled with the smeñl of gasoline, and welding fumes.
McQueen was bent over the exposed engine of a Triumph motorcycle, a tool in his hand, wearing faded jeans and a smeared white t-shirt.
The hangar was filled with motorcycles in various states of assembly lined on one wall, a couple of racing cars, including a sleek Porsche and a Ford GT40.
Bullitt was done shooting.
The world hadn't seen it yet, but Duke knew, and McQueen knew, that it was a career-defining movie.
The King of Cool would soon be at his peak of fame when it released, and he wanted to take advantage of it.
"Duke," McQueen finally grunted.
"Steve. Thats the TR6 Trophy?"
A pause. McQueen's blue eyes, icy and assessing, flicked up for a nanosecond. "'Yeah i took it from the set of The Great Escape. You ride?"
"I appreciate mostly," Duke said, careful.
(I once tried to get on a motorcycle and couldnt stand so i fell to the side in front of several girls, i was also like 14)
He'd done his homework. "That GT40, Is that the one from Le Mans?"
"Replica." McQueen straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag so greasy it seemed to make them dirtier. He didn't offer a handshake.
"Heard you're the guy with the golden touch right now."
"I have been very lucky," Duke said evenly. "Which means I can afford to bet on something different. Like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."
McQueen tossed the rag onto a workbench. William Goldman's script, bound in plain card, sat there next to a can of motor oil. It had been read, the pages slightly ruffled.
"It's a good script," McQueen admitted, his voice a low rasp. "Funny. But it's a two partner picture."
"And you don't like partners."
"I actually don't mind partners. Just not pretty boys from Yale."
Duke had the power to give Newman the script and cast him as the Sundance Kid, to force the perfect, charming duo into existence.
Of course, he knew McQueen had some kind of issues with Newman, in his past life the Butch Cassidy project was originally his but he left it after problems with his partner.
"I'm not thinking Newman," Duke said, and watched the first flicker of real interest cross McQueen's impassive face. "I'm thinking Redford. Robert Redford."
McQueen scoffed, picking up a wench, turning it over in his hands. "The kid from Barefoot in the Park? He's an idol."
"Exactly," Duke pressed, stepping closer. "He's the charm, and you'll be the rugged masculine one."
McQueen was silent for a long minute, his eyes fixed on the motorcycle. Duke could see the calculus behind those cool blue irises, the ego and the ambition.
"Redford's getting hot," McQueen conceded. He looked directly at Duke, "I want top billing. Above the title. Sole star. And I do my own stunts on the horse. No double."
There it was. The demand that had supposedly shattered the original pairing. Duke's mind raced through the consequences.
Redford's ego would be bruised, but the young actor was smart, ambitious. He'd see the potential. The script was strong enough for two stars to shine, even if one's name was in bigger size.
He looked at McQueen for a second.
"Done," Duke said, the word hanging in the air.
A ghost of a smile, touched McQueen's face. He gave a single, sharp nod. "Talk to my agent."
He turned back to the engine, the meeting clearly over.
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