On the fourth floor of a nondescript building on Madison Avenue, the headquarters of the legal team representing Cadence Industries, the parent company of Marvel Comics.
Archie Goodwin sat on a folding metal chair that was doing a poor job of supporting his frame.
Across from him, behind a desk that seemed too large for the small room, sat two lawyers. One was thin and balding, tapping a yellow pencil against his teeth. The other was heavyset, sweating slightly in a polyester suit, flipping through a contract.
"So, let me get this straight," the heavyset lawyer, Mr. Klein said, looking up over his half-moon spectacles. "Your client, this... Ajax Group... they want the 'mutants'?"
"That is correct," Archie said, keeping his voice steady.
"The whole lot?" the thin lawyer, Mr. Miller, asked. "The school? The bald guy in the wheelchair? The one with the eye shooting thing?"
"Yes," Archie confirmed. "We want the copyright, the trademark, the character likenesses, and the publishing rights for the title The X-Men and any associated characters introduced within its pages up to the date of February 12, 1971."
Miller smirked. "I honestly didn't even know we still owned the trademark. I thought Mr. Lee let it lapse after the cancellation last year."
"It's in reprints," Klein corrected, tapping a document. "Issue #67 to #70. They're just re-running old Kirby stories because they have the plates and it costs nothing to print."
He turned his gaze back to Archie, his expression shifting from amusement to curiosity.
"Look, Mr. Goodwin. We represent Cadence. Our job is to maximize value for the shareholders. But between us professionals? Nobody likes the mutant angles."
"My boss has a sentimental attachment," Archie lied smoothly. "He thinks the property has... niche potential."
"Niche," Miller snorted. "That's one word for it."
Klein leaned forward. "Alright. The offer is $250,000. Cash. Immediate transfer of rights."
"And the royalty clause," Archie reminded him, pointing to paragraph 14. "We're offering a 5% royalty to Marvel on any reprints of material produced before the sale. But all future derivative works, films, television, merchandise, games or new comics, belong solely to Ajax."
The lawyers exchanged a look.
"We can live with that," Klein said, pulling a fountain pen from his pocket. "Honestly, if you wanted Daredevil, I'd probably throw him in for a pastrami sandwich."
"We'll stick with the mutants for now," Archie said, sliding the check across the desk. It was a cashier's check, drawn from the Ajax Group's private account.
As the lawyers signed the papers, PULSE was transfered the ownership of Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Hank McCoy, Bobby Drake, and Warren Worthington III, and others along with a little-known villain named Magneto.
Ten minutes later, Archie walked out into the bright sunlight of Madison Avenue. A black limousine was idling at the curb. The rear window rolled down, revealing Duke Hauser.
He was wearing sunglasses, looking at a copy of Variety.
"Done?" Duke asked, not looking up.
"Done," Archie said, climbing in. He handed Duke the signed contract. "They laughed at us, Duke. They think we just bought a sick horse."
Duke took the contract. He ran his finger over the signature line.
"So, what now?" Archie asked. "We own them. But the book is dead. We need a writer."
Duke looked at Archie over the rim of his glasses.
"There's a kid," Duke said. "He's working as an editorial assistant over at Marvel right now. His name is Chris Claremont."
"Claremont?" Archie frowned. "I know him, he's barely out of college. He's never written a monthly book."
"He's the one," Duke said with absolute certainty. "Hire him. Double his salary. Give him the keys. Tell him to have a plan ready by next month."
___
Back in California, the air was different from New York, it felt fresh.
The executive boardroom of Paramount Pictures in Los Angeles was bathed in golden afternoon light.
At the head of the massive table sat Duke Hauser.
To his right was Stanley Jaffe, the newly minted Vice-Chairman of the Ajax Group.
To his left were Barry Diller, President of TV and Frank Yablans President of Paramount, Marketing and Distribution).
Rounding out the table was the legendary Robert Evans, the CEO of Ithaca.
On the wall behind Duke was a chalkboard. Written on it in bold white chalk were the titles that would define 1971.
SHAFT
THE FRENCH CONNECTION
DIRTY HARRY
WILLY WONKA & THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY
KLUTE
HAROLD AND MAUDE
A NEW LEAF
"Gentlemen," Duke began, his voice calm but commanding. "This is Our 1971 Slate and release schedule"
He pointed to the list.
Robert Evans leaned back, lighting a thin cigarette. "It's a hell of a lineup, Duke. But how are we gonna market a black detective to the south theaters."
"The theaters in the South aren't our target, Bob," Duke said.
"The cities are. New York, Chicago, Detroit, Los Angeles. There is an entire audience that has been ignored by Hollywood for too long, our marketing needs to be focused on black neighborhoods."
Frank Yablans nodded, scribbling furiously. "We can do a cross-promotion with the radio stations."
"Exactly," Duke said. He moved his finger down the list. "The French Connection. I saw the dailies of the chase scene. Friedkin made a great movie."
"He wrecked three cars without a permit," Jaffe muttered, looking pained.
"And it looks incredible," Duke countered.
"And Willy Wonka?" Diller asked. "It's a musical and the market isn't responding to those anymore."
Duke corrected. "It appeals to the kids, and even if it fails, it wont lose us money."
He paused, looking at the faces around the table. They were brilliant men, but they were nervous. They knew the financial reality.
"I know what you're thinking," Duke said, his voice calm. "You're thinking about the debt. Look the loans we took to privatize the studio and the capital we're pouring into the Animation division is not going anywhere."
He stood up, walking to the window that overlooked the lot. He had choosen only winners for its slate to improve his credit.
"And I'm telling you, right here, right now, These films will not fail."
Duke turned and placed his hands on the table.
"If we execute this slate, if we market these films with the aggression they deserve, we don't just survive. We refinance."
"By October, we pay off the high-interest notes. By Christmas, we are one of the most liquid studio in Hollywood. I'm not asking you to hope it works. I'm telling you it works. Now, go out there and sell it."
The room was silent for a moment. Then, Robert Evans smiled.
"You heard the man," Evans said, snuffing out his cigarette. "Let's go make some work."
___
The recording studio in Greenwich Village was a different experience for Duke. It was dark, soundproofed, and smelled cologne.
Duke sat on a leather couch in the control room. Next to him was Clive Davis, the man with the golden ears.
Clive was currently working hard at the revitalization of the Paramount Records label, a dormant asset that Duke was determined to wake up.
Through the glass of the isolation booth, a scruffy kid from New Jersey was tuning a guitar. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week. He was wearing a leather jacket that had seen better days and a t-shirt that was more hole than cotton.
"And the other one?" Duke asked. "The piano player from Long Island?"
"Billy Joel," Clive nodded. "Already signed him."
"Well, just wanted to check up on you, Clive," Duke said, closing his eyes and letting the music wash over him. "Seems like you're doing a great job."
He didnt want to speak with this man much.
___
The penthouse was quiet. The only light came from the desk lamp, casting long shadows across the room. It was 4:14 AM. The city of Los Angeles was asleep.
Duke Hauser sat at his typewriter. His back ached, his eyes burned, but his mind was crystal clear.
He was rewriting the ending of the novelization for Star Wars: A New Hope. He wasn't just transcribing the movie he remembered. He was smoothing out the dialogue that George Lucas would have made clunky.
He was deepening the lore, adding subtle references to the Clone Wars, the Jedi Council, the fall of the Republic.
Seeds that wouldn't bloom for decades, but which he hoped would make the universe feel ancient and lived.
He typed the final paragraph.
Duke stopped. He pulled the page from the roller with a satisfying ziiip.
He placed it on top of the stack.
__
Sort of difficult chapter to write