Duke Hauser sat across from Stanley Jaffe, a spread of financial ledgers between them while they were in New York.
They were deep into the strategy for the resurrection of Paramount Records.
"We're essentially starting from zero, Duke," Jaffe said, tapping a pen against a folder labeled Dot Records. "The current roster is a graveyard of orchestras and country singers."
"If we want to compete with Columbia or Atlantic, we don't just need a few artists, we need a complete label overhaul."
Duke leaned back, looking at the ceiling. "I know. We need a capable man to run it. But let's keep our perspective, Stanley. I want this label revived. By 1980, I want the Paramount logo on the spine of the most important albums of the decade."
"But in the hierarchy of the Ajax Group as a whole, music is a supporting pillar, not the foundation."
"How so?" Jaffe asked.
"Our foundation is the IP,, just like Disney" Duke said, leaning forward. "Video games, comics, films, and animation. Those are the engines that drive the merchandising, the repeat viewing, and eventually, the theme parks."
"The music label exists to capture and own the soundtracks and also to make us money. It's important, yes, but it's not the primary priority right now. We build it steadily, we hire a person to lead it, and we let it grow."
The conversation shifted from the abstract to the geographical. Duke had been spending a lot of time on planes lately, and the friction of the New York-Los Angeles commute was starting to wear thin.
"New York is the capital of finance, and LA is the capital of Film," Duke mused, looking out at the skyline.
"But both of them are becoming increasingly expensive and regulated. I've been wondering if we should keep the Ajax headquarters in California or move them to New York."
Jaffe shrugged. "California has the talent, but the unions and the taxes are starting to bite. Why not stay here? You're closer to the banks."
"Because I don't want to be near the banks," Duke said with a grin. "I want to be where the growth is. I've been thinking about Texas."
Jaffe laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Texas? You're a Dallas boy, so I get the sentiment, Duke, but there's nothing out there but cattle and oil. You can't run a movie studio from a ranch."
"Not yet," Duke replied. "But think about the math. No state income tax, cheaper land, and a government that stays out of your pockets. We could build a base in Dallas or Austin. We keep the production offices in Hollywood and the distribution hub in New York."
"It's a bold move," Jaffe admitted. "It would certainly make a statement. You'd be the first mogul to run a film company from Texas."
"And while we're talking about Dallas..." Duke's eyes twinkled. "Bluhdorn kept the Knicks and the Rangers when he sold me Paramount. He likes his toys. I think it's time I got one of my own."
"The Cowboys?" Jaffe asked.
"No, I want the Dallas Chaparrals," Duke said, referring to the ABA basketball team. "I want to rename them the Dallas Wings. The ABA is wild, it's fast, and it's hungry. It fits the Ajax brand perfectly."
Jaffe chuckled. "The ABA? Duke, that league is held together with duct tape and prayer. Half the teams can't pay their electric bills."
"Which makes them cheap," Duke countered. "I buy the Wings, I build them a state-of-the-art arena that doubles as a concert venue for our new record label, and I wait."
"Eventually, the NBA will have to swallow the ABA. When they do, I'll own a top-tier franchise for a fraction of what the Knicks would have cost."
"I mean," Jaffe joked. "At the rate you're going, you might as well just buy the whole ABA league and be done with it."
Duke stayed quiet for a moment. "Are you serious? I mean we could totally create an NBA competitor with our media resources, Stanley," Duke said.
Jaffe just shook his head.
Duke forgot about the ABA, stood up and walked to a large map of the United States pinned to the wall. He pointed his finger at a vast stretch of land north of Dallas.
"Have you ever heard of the concept of a 'Production City'?" Duke asked.
"Like a backlot?"
"No. Much bigger." Duke said, referencing a concept he had seen in the future.
Jaffe stood up to look at the map. "You want to build it in Texas?"
"Because in Texas, I can buy ten thousand acres and no one bats an eyelid. We build 'Paramount City.'"
"We create a permanent Western town, a permanent New York street, a permanent European village. We build them out of stone and steel. We rent them out to other studios when we aren't using them."
In China a project called Hengdian World Studio worked like that in his past life, part of the reason why Chinese short-term dramas become so popular was cause this infrastructure allowed them to record for cheap.
"It would be the largest private construction project in the history of the industry," Jaffe whispered, his mind racing through the logistics. "The cost would be astronomical."
"It's for the future, Stanley."
Duke left Jaffe behind, as he sat in a private executive conference room .
Across the table sat Archie Goodwin, looking revitalized, and Steve Ditko, who looked exactly as he had in Derby, unassuming.
Ditko was the first to speak. He didn't care for corporate small talk, he wanted to talk about the work.
He placed a series of character sheets on the polished mahogany table.
They were clean, kinetic, and possessed that unique Ditko geometry, characters who looked like they were caught mid-motion.
"I've been refining Ted Kord," Ditko said, his voice quiet but firm. "You were right about the 'Spider-Man' comparison, but only in spirit. This boy isn't a victim of a freak accident."
"He's a victim of his own curiosity. He finds the Scarab, yes, but he doesn't understand it. He has to use his brain to fill the gaps the magic leaves behind."
Duke leaned forward, studying the sketches. "And the control, Steve? Who has the final say on the line?"
"I do," Ditko said, looking Duke in the eye. "That was the arrangement you promise. I handle the Beetle. I handle the layouts for the flagship."
"If a script doesn't fit the character's moral internal logic, I fix it. No committees and no 'marketing' tweaks."
"Agreed," Duke said. "I want the Beetle to be the kid who does the right thing even when it's the hardest thing."
Archie Goodwin shifted in his seat, tapping a dummy copy of what would become PULSE Weekly. It was a thick, slightly oversized newsprint magazine, smelling of fresh ink and potential.
"The Weekly is going to be a monster to produce, Duke, but I see the vision," Archie said. "Sixty-four pages. Four stories. Fifteen cents. We're going to be the best value on the newsstand. If a kid has a quarter, he gets our magazine and still has a dime left for a soda."
Archie flipped through the dummy pages, pointing out the layout.
"We're splitting the sixty-four pages into four distinct fifteen-page segments, with four pages reserved for editorial, letters, and the news column. It's a tight ship."
"We're rotating the creative teams to keep the weekly schedule from killing the staff, but the format is locked."
As Ditko and Goodwin meeting with Duke finished.
They gathered their materials to head back to Conneticut.
"Steve," Duke called out as Ditko reached the door. "The Scarab. Make it look... alien. Not magical. Like it's a piece of technology so advanced it looks like magic."
Ditko gave a single, knowing nod. He understood.
The high-altitude strategy of the office was interrupted by a need for air.
Duke decided to spend the afternoon visiting the set of Shaft, which was currently filming on location in Harlem.
Moving through midtown, Duke traveled in a reinforced sedan, flanked by a security detail that was discreet but unmistakably professional.
The set was a hive of activity. Gordon Parks, the director, stood behind the camera, watching Richard Roundtree, strut down a gritty sidewalk in a leather coat.
"It looks great, Gordon," Duke said, stepping onto the sidewalk as they reset for another take. "The energy here..."
Parks shook Duke's hand, his eyes scanning the crowd of onlookers gathered behind the police barricades. "It's authentic, Duke. That's for sure. But authenticity has a price."
Parks pulled Duke aside, away from the hum of the crew. His voice dropped.
"We're doing well, but I need you to understand the climate here. We're in the heart of Harlem, and the neighborhood is... complicated."
"Yeah, I saw the police presence," Duke noted.
"The police are just one layer," Parks said. "We've had to make 'arrangements' with the local Black Panther Party chapter and some of the local street leaders to ensure we can film without interruption. We call it a 'community liaison fee.' It keeps the peace."
Duke nodded. He understood the "street tax." It was part of doing business in a fractured America.
"But here's the problem," Parks continued, glancing toward a group of men in black berets and leather jackets standing on a nearby corner.
"The Panther 21 incident has left the local party frustrated and cash-strapped. They see a major film production as a gold mine. And more importantly, they see you."
"Me?"
"A rich, young, white mogul standing on their territory," Parks said. "To them, you're the face of the 'System' they're fighting."
"If word gets out that the Chairman of Paramount is on-site, it could turn from a peaceful filming session into a political demonstration, or worse."
"They might decide to 'renegotiate' their fee with you directly, and they aren't known for their polite debating skills."
Duke looked over at the men. They were watching the set with curiosity.
He remembered that Ike and Tina Turner in his past life were forced to perform under threat and then got jumped by the Black Panthers in front of a crowd.
He felt the weight of his security detail shifting behind him, their hands near their jackets.
"Yeah, you're right, I'm not looking for a confrontation, Gordon," Duke said calmly. "I'm here to support the film, not to become a headline."
"Then my advice is to leave," Parks said. "You've seen the footage, you've seen the set. You know we're on schedule. Let us finish the day in peace. I'll go to your hotel tonight with the dailies."
Duke nodded. He wasn't a man who let ego get in the way of operations.
"I trust you, Gordon. Keep the cameras rolling."
Duke walked back to his car, his security team forming a tight diamond around him.
As he reached the door, he paused and looked back at the neighborhood, the crumbling brownstones, the vibrant street life, the palpable tension of a community on the edge.
He didn't see a threat, he saw a market. A demographic that had been ignored for decades, a people hungry to see themselves portrayed as heroes on the screen.
Blaxplotation was going to make Paramount a lot of money.
As the sedan pulled away, weaving through the crowded streets of Harlem, Duke watched the men in the black berets fade in the rearview mirror.
Back in the car, Jaffe was looking at his watch. "Everything okay? You were only out there for ten minutes."
"Parks thinks I'm a liability in Harlem," Duke said, leaning back into the leather seat. "And he's right. The country is a mess right now, Stanley. People are angry."
"All the more reason to give them something to watch," Jaffe said.
Duke pulled out his notebook and wrote two words at the top of a fresh page
Dallas Wings
He looked at Jaffe. "Tell the legal team to start looking into the ABA bylaws. I want to know exactly what it takes to buy a franchise."
___
Duke will not appear on the Epsteein Files