The air on the private track was thin and sharp, carrying the scent of gasoline and dry California grass.
Leaning against the gleaming, curvaceous flank of a silver Porsche 911, Steve McQueen was leaning on the car while he wore a simple crewneck sweater and jeans, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.
His agent, Freddie Fields impeccably dressed in a blazer stood a few feet away, a human shield and negotiator.
McQueen pushed his sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing eyes of a startling, cool blue. He offered a hand and a slight, acknowledging nod as Duke and Jensen approached.
"Hauser," McQueen said, his voice polite. "Heard your film is a hit."
"McQueen," Duke replied, matching his tone. "The Graduate seems to have resonated with the audience."
McQueen gestured with his chin towards the script Jensen was holding. "I read it. It's a good script. Funny. Sharp."
He paused, letting the compliment hang before his complain arouse. "But Butch is a talker, a charmer. I usually play the man of action."
"The one who lets the other guy do the talking in a way."
Duke stood his ground, hands in his pockets, his gaze locked on McQueen's. He spoke not as a star-struck producer, but as a fellow strategist analyzing a campaign.
"You're looking at it wrong," Duke stated, his voice calm and even. "Yeah, Sundance is the gun and Butch is the brain. But Butch Cassidy is one of the greatest charismatic roles."
"He's not a blowhard; he's a visionary. He sees the end of the West coming and he's trying to outrun it with wit and charm. He's the one who carries the theme. He's the leader, the planner, the tragic figure. It's the part that is more likely to win an award."
He took a half-step closer, his tone dropping, becoming more confidential. "This isn't just a lead role. it's a part that proves your range. It's the part Paul Newman was fighting and looking for."
He saw a flicker of interest in McQueen's eyes, a slight tilt of the head.
Duke pressed his final, calculated advantage, aiming straight for the competitive heart he knew beat beneath the cool exterior.
"Warren Beatty is currently the biggest star in Hollywood specially since Bonnie and Clyde became a hit," Duke said, the name hanging in the air like a challenge.
"As one of the faces of Hollywood you have to show everyone you're not just the King of Cool. I hear rumors that several members of the Academy plan to vote for his film."
A slow, genuine smile spread across McQueen's face. "You're not bullshitting me, do you, Hauser?"
"I'm just giving advice, you know 'The Graduate' is a critic darling, 'Targers' is also a critical hit. I know how to make an award focused movie," Duke replied.
McQueen chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "I like it. I like the part and the script's smart." He looked over at Freddie Fields. "Freddie you talk numbers."
This was the signal. Fields stepped forward, his demeanor shifting from observer to principal.
"Steve's time is valuable, Mr. Hauser. A project of this scale, with the commitment required… we're looking at a seven-figure guarantee against a significant percentage of the gross. Let's say eight percent."
Jensen, who had been holding his breath, almost choked. It was an astronomical, almost insulting ask for an actor, even of McQueen's stature.
Part of the reason why agents exist in Hollywood is because of this. They are supposed to be shameless people who will only look for the biggest monetary gain for his client.
Duke didn't even blink. "The guarantee is negotiable. The gross points are not. Ithaca retains its profits. We can offer a million-one. Flat, No points."
Fields shook his head, a practiced gesture of disappointment. "A man of your business acumen, Mr. Hauser, must understand that Steve isn't just an employee."
"He's a partner in the success of this film. His name on the marquee is what will drive the box office. At least five percent is the industry standard for a star of his caliber driving a project of this nature."
"The industry standard is a suggestion, not a rule," Duke countered, his voice hardening slightly. "Ithaca is building a new standard. The million-one is more than fair. It's a premium for a premium asset. But the backend stays with the company that is assuming all the financial risk."
"Four point five percent," Fields countered, leaning in. "A show of good faith."
"Two," Duke said, the number landing like a hammer. "Not a fraction more. And that's my final offer on the points. We can discuss the guarantee."
The negotiation was a tense, rapid-fire duel. Fields, the seasoned agent, fought for every dollar and every percentage point, using every tool of persuasion and pressure he had.
Duke was an immovable object, his logic cold, his position unassailable. He wasn't arguing; he was stating facts. The million-one and two points was the same salary Mcqueen got for Bullit.
Through it all, McQueen watched, saying nothing.
He leaned back against his Porsche, arms crossed, his gaze moving between Duke and Fields as if watching a particularly interesting tennis match.
Finally, as Fields was preparing another volley, McQueen spoke, his voice cutting through the tension. "Freddie."
Fields stopped, turning to his client.
McQueen's eyes were on Duke. "A million-two. and the two points." It wasn't a question.
Duke gave a single, sharp nod. "Yes."
McQueen pushed himself off the car and extended his hand to Duke.
The handshake was firm, dry, and decisive. "You've got your Butch Cassidy, Hauser. Now find me a Sundance who can keep up. I hear Redford's good."
"I have someone in mind," Duke said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
As they walked back to their car, Jensen let out a long, shaky breath. "My God, Duke. I thought he was going to walk."
"He wasn't going to walk," Duke said, his gaze fixed ahead. "He's competing against Newman and Warren and he needs this type of role. The script of Butch Cassidy was almost acquired by Warren but he rejected it at last minute cause he feel it was too similar to Bonnie and Clyde."
---
Within the offices of Ithaca Productions, however, the atmosphere was one of disciplined preparations with most people making plans about the Night of the Living Dead release and their advertisement plans, contracts about distribtuion and all that jazz.
The success of The Graduate was no longer a question; it was a fact, and the Academy Awards were its most significant event.
Mike Nichols, ever the brilliant, neurotic maestro, had taken up semi-permanent residence in Duke's conference room, using it as his own meeting room.
"Best Picture is ours to lose," Nichols declared, pacing before the large map of the United States that Goldberg and Duke normally used for distribution.
He pointed a finger at an imaginary opponent. "In the Heat of the Night is a great film, but it doesn't have the cultural footprint. We are the conversation. Best Director…"
He paused, a flicker of genuine anxiety crossing his face. "That's trickier. The Academy loves to spread the wealth. They might give us Picture and give Director to someone else to be 'fair.' It's idiotic, but it's what they do."
Duke sat at the head of the table, listening to Nichols ramblings. "The objective is Best Picture," he stated. "That is the best award for our box office. Best Director is a secondary objective. The acting categories are tertiary."
Nichols stopped pacing and stared at him. "Tertiary? Duke, for Christ's sake, it's Hoffman's career! It's Bancroft's! It's Kate's!"
"With the exception of Bancroft, their careers are barely starting," Duke replied calmly. "The nominations alone have increased their film quotes. Our primary campaign resources will be allocated toward securing the votes for Best Picture and Best Director."
"You talk about people as if they're stocks and bonds," Nichols said, a note of exasperation in his voice.
"I'm talking about the project you entrusted me to produce," Duke countered, his gaze level. "My responsibility is to maximize its success. A Best Picture Oscar does that more effectively than any other single award."
Nichols sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew Duke was right, even if the methodology was chilling. "Fine, but i want to throw a party to speak to some members of the academy, with my little charm maybe i can make some strides."
"Charm is your specialty," Duke agreed. "Just ensure it works."
Later, in the quiet of his office, the phone rang.
"Hello?" Barbara Hershey's voice was a soft, melodic contrast to the day's of executive discussions.
"Barbara," Duke said, and for the first time that day, his posture imperceptibly relaxed.
"I was just finalizing my… well, I suppose night dress is the wrong term for the Oscars," she said, her tone lightly teasing.
"My evening gown, It's navy blue. Very simple. I don't want to look like I'm trying too hard."
"I'm sure it's perfect," he said, and he meant it. He had no visual for the dress, but he trusted her innate, bohemian elegance implicitly. It was one of the few things he didn't feel the need to manage.
"Have you thought about what you're wearing?" she asked. "Or do you have Eleanor just issue you a standard-issue tuxedo from a secret warehouse?"
A faint smile touched his lips. "Something like that. It's black. It fits. Apparently the academy dislikes when men wear other colors cause its bad luck."
She laughed, that warm, unforced sound that seemed to dissolve the tension in the room. "Of course it is. I just… I wanted to check in. This is a big night. For you. For the film. I know it's just a party to you, but it's a very loud, very public party. Our first public party."
He understood the subtext. She was navigating the same minefield he was, but from the other side. He found her nervousness cute.
"It's ok, nobody will care about our appearance," he affirmed, choosing his words with uncharacteristic care. "And you- I mean, the person on my arms is kind of the only part of the night I'm genuinely looking forward to."
The line was quiet for a moment. "That was sweet, Duke," she said, her voice softening. "Did it hurt to say?"
"A little," he admitted.
"Good. A little pain is good for the soul. Or so my yoga instructor says."
She took a breath. "Okay. I'll see you Sunday. Don't be late. And for God's sake, try to look like you're having fun. It won't kill you."
"I'll take that advice."
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I CANT PUBLISH CHAPTERS