The air in New York City in December was a different kind of cold, it wasn't the wet, clinging chill of the Vietnamese coast. This was an aggressive, metallic cold that seeped through the wool of his one good suit and settled in the bones of his bad leg.
Connor "Duke" Hauser stood on the corner of Park Avenue and 52nd Street, looking up at the sheer, impersonal cliff face of the building that housed Doubleday & Company. His breath plumed in the gray air.
He'd spent the long bus ride across the country steeling himself for this moment. He wasn't the scared kid from the VA hospital, nor the frantic writer churning out pulp in a desperate attemp at making it.
He was a veteran walking into a new kind of hostile territory, and his manuscript was his weapon.
He adjusted his tie, felt the faint, reassuring ache in his hip, and pushed through the revolving doors.
The warmth inside was oppressive, smelling of old money, lemon polish, and faintly of cigar smoke trapped in the walls. He was ushered into an office that overlooked a canyon of steel and glass.
The senior editor, a man named Mr. Aldrich, was in his fifties, with a carefully trimmed beard and eyes that inmediatly went into sizing him up. He was flanked by a younger, sharper associate editor named Miss Reacher.
"Mr. Hauser," Aldrich said, rising and offering a firm, dry hand. "A pleasure. We've been immensely enjoying your… Jaws."
"It's been enjoying your attention," Duke replied, sitting with a controlled descent, leaning his cane against the desk. He gave a respectful smile.
The meeting began with the usual pleasantries, but Duke could feel their scrutiny. They were trying to place him. The big Texan frame, the sharp blue eyes, the stillness that felt like patience.
He let them talk. He listened as Aldrich praised the book's "narrative velocity" and Miss Reacher complimented the "startling verisimilitude" of Quint's character.
"It's a remarkable piece of work for a debut," Aldrich concluded, tenting his fingers. "We'd like to make you an offer."
This was the moment. Duke didn't let him continue. "Before we discuss numbers," he said, his voice even and low, "I have a few points of my own."
Aldrich's eyebrows rose slightly. Authors, especially debut authors, didn't usually have "points." They had gratitude.
"I'm listening," Aldrich said.
"The advance needs to be significant," Duke began. "Twenty five thousand dollars." He saw Miss Reacher's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.
It was a bold, almost arrogant opening salvo. "I need to know you're invested in this, and that's how you show it. Second, I expect a marketing push. regional advertising at least. Copies sent to every major reviewer. This isn't a quiet literary novel. And since most peope are unfamiliar with sharks it will need a push to become well known."
Aldrich leaned back, a small smile playing on his lips. He was amused. "You're ambitious, Mr. Hauser. I admire that. But twenty five is… a substantial amount. We were thinking more in the neighborhood of five."
"The neighborhood of twenty five is where I live," Duke said, not blinking. "And finally, and this is non-negotiable: I retain all film, television, and dramatic rights. One hundred percent."
There was a beat of silence. This was the part he'd thought would be the fight, the line in the sand. But Aldrich just waved a dismissive hand.
"The subsidiary rights? My boy, that's hardly the point of contention. No one is going to make a movie out of a book about a fish. If it makes you feel secure, by all means, keep them. It's the advance that's the issue. Lets both take a step back and go for ten."
Duke felt a surreal sense of dislocation. They were giving him the crown jewels without a fight because they thought they were glass. They saw a book. He saw a blockbuster.
"The advance is the signal of your faith," Duke countered, shifting his weight, the ache in his leg a constant reminder of what was at stake. "This book will sell. It will sell millions. Fifteen thousand would be a down payment on your own success."
The negotiation stretched for an hour. It was a battle of attrition, fought with polite smiles and steely resolve. Duke was implacable. He wasn't angry, he wasn't emotional. He was stating facts.
He used the interest from Random House not as a blunt weapon, but as a subtle leverage. "I believe in this house," he said, lying smoothly. "I think you understand the book better. But my business sense requires me to consider the best overall offer."
He saw the flicker in Aldrich's eyes. It wasn't just about this book anymore; it was about beating Random House.
Finally, Aldrich sighed, a theatrical sound of a man being bested by sheer force of will. "Twelve-five. That's our final offer."
Duke looked from Aldrich to Miss Reacher. He let the silence hang in the air for a three-count, the tension thickening. He knew he could push for fifteen, but he also knew the value of letting the other man think he'd won.
He also was tired of arguing.
"I want the marketing commitment in the contract. Specifics. Not 'best efforts'," Duke said.
"Agreed," Aldrich said, a genuine smile now. He'd gotten his author for less than he'd feared.
"Then we have a deal," Duke said, and stood, shaking their hands.
A week later, in a lawyer's office, he signed the contract. The $12,500 advance was a fortune. A life-changing sum.
As he walked out of that office, the signed contract in his briefcase, he didn't feel elation. He felt the weight of a new mission. This wasn't prize money; it was a war chest.
He returned to Los Angeles not as a conquering hero, but as a general returning to his base to plan his next campaign.
The first thing he did when he got to LA was walk into a brokerage firm in downtown LA. The office was a whirl of ringing phones, ticker tape, and men in shirtsleeves shouting numbers.
He was assigned a young, eager broker named David, who couldn't have been older than twenty-five. David looked at Duke, this tall, quiet man with a cane, and tried to exude confidence.
"So, Mr. Hauser, looking to get into the market? We see a lot of opportunity in aerospace, maybe some of the new electronics firms…"
Duke cut him off. "Coca-Cola," he said.
David blinked. "Coca-Cola? It's a solid blue-chip, sir, very stable, but the growth is… well, it's not exactly exciting."
"I'm not looking for exciting," Duke said. "I'm looking for boring actually."
"Well, sure, it's a great company, but—"
"How much of it can I get for ten thousand dollars?"
David's jaw nearly hit the desk. "T-ten thousand? Sir, that's an incredibly concentrated position. The prudent thing would be to diversify—"
"The prudent thing," Duke said, leaning forward, his blue eyes locking onto David's, "is to follow orders. Now, can you follow the order or do I need to find someone who will?"
The sheer, unnerving certainty in Duke's voice left no room for argument. The young broker, flustered, simply nodded. "Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Coca-Cola."
In his past life he was a film and videogame buff, not a finance guy. He knew Warren Buffet would buy this stokc later on so this should go up
As Duke left the brokerage, the winter sun feeling weak on his face, he allowed himself a single, tight smile. The manuscript was the hook. The book deal was the line.
Now, he was beginning to reel in the future itself.