On the cold in New York City in April of 1970, Duke stood on a street corner in Brooklyn, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of a heavy wool overcoat.
Above him, the elevated tracks of the BMT loomed. Every few minutes, a train would pass overhead.
In the center of the intersection, William Friedkin was a man possessed.
He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks despite the fact that shooting for The French Conection only started 3 days before.
"It's not enough, Gary!" Friedkin screamed over the roar of a passing train. He was clutching Gary Kurtz arm by his sleeve. "The city too little! I can't build tension if i can't control the scene. I need the whole goddamn road for a while."
Kurtz looked at Duke, his expression a mixture of exhaustion and "I told you so."
He had been on the ground for two weeks, trying to navigate the labyrinth of New York City bureaucracy.
"The Transit Authority won't budge, Billy," Kurtz shouted back. "The Mayor's office is worried about liability. If we clip a civilian at sixty miles an hour, the NYPD and the press will come bite us."
Friedkin turned to Duke, his face twisted in desperation.
"Duke, look at this place. Look at the light. It's perfect. I want to guerrilla it. I want Gene Hackman behind that wheel, and I want him driving like he doesn't care if he lives or dies. We need to go ninety through traffic. No permits. No bullshit."
Duke didn't flinch. In the "original" timeline, Friedkin had actually done this. He had put a siren on top of the car and just prayed.
It was one of the greatest sequences in cinema history, but it was also a miracle no one died.
Duke reached into his pocket and pulled out a small radio. "Holloway. Come in."
A moment later, a man arrived. Holloway was a former Green Beret and the new head of Duke's Security detail.
"Sir," Holloway said, his voice a low, steady rumble.
"William wants to get some shots," Duke said, nodding toward the Pontiac. "He needs some blocks. He needs the traffic to be 'predictable' but not gone. And he needs the NYPD to be busy elsewhere for at least ten minutes."
Holloway looked at the street.
"It's a difficult problem," Holloway said. "But not impossible."
"What can you do?"
"I have some friends at the 62nd and 66th precincts," Holloway said, "I can coordinate a perimeter. My team will take the key intersections."
"We'll use the radios to time the lights. We won't stop traffic, but we'll buffer it. We'll create a pocket for the stunt car. And if a real patrol car wanders in, we'll have a charitable donation ready for the sergeant on duty."
Duke looked at Friedkin. "You hear that, Billy? You get your blocks. But you follow Holloway's timing. If he tells you to cut, you cut. I'm don't want the Ithaca logo associated with a manslaughter charge."
Friedkin's face lit up with joy. He grabbed Duke's hand and shook it with strength. "Thats amazing, Duke!"
For the next four hours, Duke and Kurtz watched from a chase car as cinema history was forged. It was the most harrowing thing Duke had ever seen.
The LeMans tore through the streets, dodging city buses and screeching around corners.
That evening, Duke and Kurtz sat in a darkened, smoke-filled editing suite in Midtown. The smell of old film stock and stale coffee was thick.
The editor, Jerry Greenberg, hit the switch on the Moviola.
The footage was amazing. The camera shook with the vibration of the car, the elevated tracks blurring overhead like a strobe light. Hackman's face filled intensity.
"God," Kurtz whispered, leaning forward. "The pace... it's great. I've never seen anything like this."
"Friedkin understand pace way better than most directors.'" Duke said, watching the frames flicker.
"And now with the distribution network we just took from Allied, Gary, we can sell this as the most exciting Action movie ever made."
Duke returned to his suite late that night. He was exhausted, but his mind was still spinning.
He poured himself a glass of mineral water and sat at the mahogany desk. The phone rang almost immediately.
"Long distance for Mr. Hauser," the operator said. "A Mr. Kubrick calling from London."
Duke straightened his back.
"Put him through."
There was a series of clicks and the hum of a trans-Atlantic cable.
"Mr. Hauser. I hope I'm not calling at an inconvenient hour. I understand you are in New York."
"Never too late for you, Stanley," Duke said. "I'm a big fan of your work."
"Yes, well," Kubrick said, dismissing the flattery. "I've heard interesting things about your... studio, and since your slate of films are all very original films, maybe you´ll like my movie."
"I am currently... reconsidering my Napoleon project. MGM has decided to back out. They say it's too expensive."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Duke said. "What do you need?"
"I need a partner who doesn't tremble at a budget," Kubrick said.
Duke felt a thrill of anxiety for a moment, after all he wasn't as rich as to fully invest on a Project like Kubrick's Napoleon that was cancelled several times in his past life cause of budget.
"Send me your notes, Stanley," Duke said. "I'll fly to London next month. We'll talk about it. And we'll talk about how Ithaca can help."
"I look forward to it, Duke. Goodnight."
The next morning, Duke felt a different kind of restlessness. He put on a nondescript trench coat and a baseball cap and stepped out into the New York morning.
Duke walked a few blocks until he found a small, independent bookstore in the West Village. He lingered by the window, watching the pedestrians. He saw a woman in a business suit stop, look at a display, and walk inside.
He followed her, staying near the back in the "Fiction" section.
There, on a central table, was a mountain of copies of Big Fish. The cover was simple, a silhouette of a man carrying a heavy suitcase, walking toward a setting sun.
"Is this the one everyone's talking about?" the woman asked the clerk.
"That's it," the clerk said, ringing up another customer. "The Blackwell book. I've sold twenty copies since we opened at nine."
"Is it as good as they say?"
The clerk paused, his expression softening. "It's better. It's... it's about a father. It's the first thing I've read in years that feel like it. It feel a little like home."
Duke watched as the woman handed over her cash, clutching the book to her chestas she left.
He stepped out of the bookstore and walked toward the park. He found a newsstand and bought a copy of The New York Times. He flipped to the Arts section.
"A HOMETOWN AMERICAN EPIC"
By Anatole Broyard
Big Fish, the third novel by C.H. Blackwell, whose real identity is producer Connor Hauser, is a work of startling, luminous grace. In an era defined by the reality of Vietnam and the smog of political cynicism, Blackwell has given us a myth for the modern age.
It is a story of the 'Big Lie', the tall tales our fathers tell us not to deceive us, but to give us a world worth living in.
Duke sat on a park bench and let the paper rest on his lap.
He thought about his status. He thought about the $100 million in assets.
He had started 4 years ago and even though he had struggled at the beginning, he was in a completely different position now.
He stood up, tossing the paper into a trash can. He had a meeting with the Ithaca Distribution members in a day, and he needed to get back to California.
___
Duke and Harrison emerged from the exit doors of a cinena into the blinding afternoon light, when they were met with a wall of noise.
They had just watched the Trailer of Hacksaw Ridge, with the team of Paramount and Ford was basically tagging along for the trip.
A group of about fifty students from UCLA had gathered outside the cinema. They weren't violent, but they were loud. They carried placards painted with red and black lettering:
HOLLYWOOD PROFITEERS OF DEATH
NO MORE WAR MOVIES
ITHACA = PROPAGANDA
They were chanting, the rhythm familiar to anyone who had turned on a television in the last three years. "Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?".
Ford flinched, instinctively reaching for his sunglasses to hide a little. "Should we call the cops? Or what?"
Duke stopped him.
"No cops," Duke said.
He watched the students. They were passionate. They were angry and they were convinced that Hacksaw Ridge was a glorification of war
"They're doing exactly what we need them to do," Duke said quietly.
"Protesting us?"
"Validating us," Duke corrected. "Harry, who is the target audience for this movie? The Silent Majority. The dads in Ohio.""
"The guys who think Hollywood has been taken over by commies and hippies. If they see these kids protesting the movie, what are they going to think?"
Ford paused, the gears turning. "They're going to think that since it's a movie that pisses off the hippies. They're going to think it's their movie."
"Exactly. These kids are the best marketing team money couldn't buy."
Duke buttoned his jacket and smiled.
"Get Jeffrey on the phone," Duke said.
"What for?"
"I want to send coffee, sandwiches and donuts to the protesters," Duke said. "Let's keep them there as long as possible. The evening news cycle starts in three hours."
Ford gave a hint of a smile, while shaking his head. "You're crazy, Duke."
"I'm a producer, and this is free publicity."