The late-night silence of the office laid before Duke, on the polished expanse of his desk, the Wallis offer.
He analyzed them under the light a single green-shaded lamp that pooled on the documents.
Before him there were two paths:
First Path: Independence.
This was the pure, hard road. It meant clinging with absolute resolve to total creative control over True Grit and the distribution of The Producers.
He could see the path clearly: years of slow, grueling expansion for Ithaca Distribution, a brutal war of attrition fought city by city, theater by theater.
The cost was quantifiable and staggering immense and continuous financial risk, a perpetual drain on capital, and the psychic toll of a thousand small negotiations against a system designed to crush independence.
Second Path: Collaboration.
This was the pragmatic, cynical road, specially since he knew that purity rarely won battles. It meant surrendering creative control of True Grit to Wallis and Paramount.
The reward was a $2.5 million cash infusion a number that could erase a mountain of risk and the chance to use The Producers as a battering ram to open a better path to Nigh Of The Living Dead.
He didn't mind conceding to Wallis the man, he saw in the old producer a genuine, love for the craft of cinema.
His own life, he realized, was a stark testament to the hidden cost of the First Path.
The returned flowers from Katharine, still sitting in their box in a drawer, were a monument to his inflexibility.
Bogdanovich's fearful obedience, a dynamic that created followers, not allies.
He had bent once before, for the CCR distribution deal with Fantasy, and the feeling of having his hands tied, of relying on another's machinery, felt like having sand in his mouth.
Still
---
The call to Hal Wallis was brief and devoid of sentiment, a transaction between two powers who respected each other's strength too much for pleasantries.
"Wallis. I'm in," Duke said, his voice a flat line. "Your terms. Fifty-fifty, Paramount gets creative control on True Grit. And you get the national distribution for The Producers for two-point-five million."
Wallis began to speak, likely with a rehearsed line of victory, but Duke cut through it. "With two non-negotiable conditions. John Wayne plays Cogburn. And we have a meaningful consultation on the script. Not control, but we have a say."
There was a pause on the line, the silence filled with the whirring of Wallis's recalibrating expectations. He had braced for a fight over the core deal, not a specific, logical stipulation.
"Wayne's the only man for the part, that was never in doubt," Wallis conceded, his tone shifting from triumphant to businesslike.
"And I can live with you having a voice in the room. You have a good eye for material, I'll give you that." He then moved to the next order of business. "As for the director, I'm thinking Henry Hathaway or Roman Polanski. We need someone that knows how to handle Wayne, and knows how to shoot a landscape."
"Hathaway sounds good," Duke replied, filing the name away.
The man was a proficient studio craftsman, not an auteur, which suited Duke's purpose the film would be well-made, and his influence on the script would carry more weight.
"Good. Then we understand each other," Wallis said. "You've made the smart move, Hauser. The prudent one."
His tone then shifted, becoming almost avuncular, a far more dangerous guise than his usual bluster. "This doesn't have to be a one-off, you know. A picture-by-picture basis is for amateurs and gamblers."
"Paramount could offer a long-term distribution pact. A five-picture deal. It would give your little company stability. You know how things are in this town one bad picture, one runaway budget, and all this," he said, the gesture towards Duke's empire palpable even over the phone, "goes up in smoke. You need a solid foundation, not just to release movies by using your instinct."
"I'll consider it," Duke lied smoothly. "My lawyers will be in touch with yours to work out the details. When can we expect the initial contracts?"
"My people will have something for your people by the end of the week," Wallis confirmed.
"Good. We'll be waiting." Duke hung up without another word, the click of the receiver as final as a judge's gavel.
He immediately buzzed Eleanor. "Get Larry Goldberg in here now."
Within minutes, his distribution chief stood before the desk, his expression one of grim readiness.
Duke pointed to the phone.
"The two-point-five million from Paramount," Duke stated, his voice regaining its sharp, commanding edge. "It's not going into a bank account. It's our war chest for Ithaca Distribution's next distribution campaign. We're taking the next film wide nationally."
Goldberg's eyes narrowed, calculating instantly. "With what? Targets doesn't have that kind of legs."
"Night of the Living Dead," Duke said. "George Romero's picture. We release it October 1st. I want it in every drive-in and grindhouse in America in time for Halloween even if we have to do four-walled distribution again."
This was his real purpose for accepting the True Grit deal.
In this year 1968, he commited to distributing three films, Targets, The Producers and Night of the Living Dead. But they're not equal.
Historically, Targets was a box office flop, mostly cause it got distributed into grindhouses and drive-ins by American International Pictures and Corman.
But even in this time where they applied a different marketing scheme, Target didnt look like it was going to make it big.
The Producers sold so little in it's original 1968 run that there's no records of it selling any tickets.
To sell that kind of film for 2.5 million is a great deal for a company with a low risk capacity like Ithaca.
That 2.5 million also allows Ithaca Productions to focus on the most important movie of its slate.
Night of the Living Dead.
Night of the Living Dead made 30 million during the span of it's release, with 12 million coming from the domestic market and a whooping 18 million coming from the international market.
That was the goldmine he needed to focus on.
Goldberg processed this, his mind moving from production costs to print quantities to shipping logistics.
"A black-and-white horror picture. Niche. But low cost, a modest return if it finds its audience."
A grim smile, the first genuine one Duke had ever seen on the man's face, touched his lips. "I like it. The Paramount deal gives us credibility. We can walk into any theater owner's office and say we're that we just closed a major deal with Hal B. Wallis. Makes us look a hell of a lot bigger than we are."
"Exactly," Duke said, his gaze turning to the map on the wall. "Use their reputation as our way of expanding our distribution."
__
Leo Walsh's entered his office with a smile.
He didn't just walk in; he made an entrance, a triumphant grin splitting his face as he held aloft a square of black vinyl like a warrior presenting a hard-won trophy.
"It's here, Duke. It's real," Walsh announced, his voice buoyant with excitement as he carefully placed the record on the desk, handling it with the reverence of a holy relic. "The first pressing, fresh off the line. Smell that? That's the smell of a hit."
Duke picked it up, feeling its substantial weight, his fingers tracing the edge of the sleeve. This was it. The first tangible fruit of his music division.
"Fantasy is working out the last details for the release," Walsh continued, pacing slightly in his enthusiasm. "The PR machine is greased and ready. Here's the play: we target the album-oriented rock stations first, college kids, and people like taht.
"We build that credibility, that bedrock. Then, just as that starts to simmer…" He slammed a fist into his palm. "We unleash 'Proud Mary' on the top-40 stations. We're starting by flooding the Bay Area. If it catches fire there and Fantasy believes it will, they'll have to take it national."
"Good," Duke said, a flicker of genuine anticipation breaking through his usual reserve. The compromises and confrontations of the film world felt distant.
This was a clean, pure product, its potential untarnished by boardroom deals and fragile egos. "This is the model, Leo. Find the talent, build the strategy, and execute. Make it happen. Let's see if we can make as much noise with this as we do with our films."
As if summoned by the very mention of their creation, Eleanor's voice came through the intercom. "Mr. Hauser, the members of Creedence Clearwater Revival are here. They'd like a moment."
Walsh raised his eyebrows. "Right on time."
A moment later, the four members of the band filed in, looking like they'd stepped straight out of the album cover in their casual, almost workmanlike clothes. John Fogerty led them, his posture a mix of nervousness and quiet determination.
"Mr. Hauser," Fogerty began, his voice earnest. "Leo said we could stop by. We just… we wanted to thank you. In person."
Doug Clifford, the drummer, chimed in, his energy more effusive. "Yeah, man. After all the doors that got shut, you were the one who actually listened, and we're really grateful for it."
"We saw the plan Leo laid out," Stu Cook added, gesturing with his chin towards Walsh. "The radio strategy, the push… it's the first time anyone's had a real plan for us."
Duke looked at them, these four men from El Cerrito who held the power to define the sound of an era.
He saw their gratitude, but more importantly, he saw their readiness.
"The trust was easy," Duke replied, his tone firm but not unkind. "The most important part of the campaign is you. Be ready to work. Be ready to play. This is just the beginning."
Duke relaxed a little and laid his back on the chair, "Remember all the Ithaca Records resources will be available for you guys."
Fogerty met his gaze and gave a single, sharp nod. "We've been ready. We've been ready for years."
As the band filed out, their quiet excitement lingered in the air.
Duke felt a sense of uncomplicated purpose.