The mud of Kauai finally released its grip on the first week of December.
The wrap of Hacksaw Ridge was a small celebration.
The massive escarpment set, which had been the site of so much violence and warfare, was already being dismantled. The bunkers, built from reinforced timber and sandbags, were being demolished by the same local crews who had built them.
Duke stood by the airstrip. He watched the last of the equipment cases being loaded.
Liselotte Pulver stood next to him near the boarding stairs. She was dressed for travel, a cream-colored linen suit, oversized sunglasses, and a silk scarf tied to protect her hair from the wind.
She looked nothing like Bertha Doss, the weathered mother she had been for the last two months.
"You are going back to America," she said, her voice carrying that playful, European lilt that Duke had come to rely on.
"And you're going back to Switzerland," Duke said.
"To my husband," she corrected gently. "And Bern, it must be snowing now."
There was no sadness in her voice, only the pragmatic acceptance of a professional.
Duke took her hand. "You were great in this picture, Liselotte."
"I did my job," she smiled, squeezing his fingers. "And you did yours." She leaned in, kissing him softly on the cheek.
She turned and walked up the stairs, never looking back. Duke watched the plane down the runway and lift off.
He felt a sudden, sharp hit in his chest.
The film was over, now came the part Duke was truly built for.
He was going back to Los Angeles to design the 1970s.
Los Angeles in December of 1969 was a city trying to convince itself that everything was fine.
The radio played Motown and The Beatles, but underneath the pop sheen, there was a tension.
The Manson murders were still fresh, with some people still grieving for Sharon Tate.
The "Summer of Love" was officially dead, rotting in the gutter.
Duke drove his Corvette down Sunset Boulevard, the engine purring. He didn't feel the fear. He felt the exhilaration of a poker player who knows exactly what cards are coming next.
He parked at a nondescript diner on Ventura Boulevard, near the Universal lot. It was a place where writers gathered to drink coffees and complain about script notes.
He walked to the back booth. A young man was already there, fidgeting with a packet of sugar.
He was twenty-two years old.
He had a mop of dark, unruly hair, a patchy beard, and huge glasses. He was wearing a windbreaker that looked two sizes too big.
Steven Spielberg.
In 1969, Spielberg was not yet the "Boy Wonder" of Universal. For now, he had only directed a segment of the Night Gallery pilot, working with the legendary Joan Crawford.
"Mr. Duke," Spielberg said, half-rising from the booth, "I... I wasn't sure you were serious about meeting. I know you just got back from Hawaii."
"Sit down, Steven," Duke said, sliding into the booth. "Call me Duke. And I'm always serious about meetings."
Spielberg sat, his hands still moving, reconstructing a sugar packet pyramid. "I heard about Hacksaw Ridge. The word is... well, the word is you're crazy. Shooting in the mud. No cover sets. Unknown actors."
"The actors fitted the characters," Duke smiled. "That's why it will work."
Duke ordered a black coffee. He watched the young director.
"So," Duke said. "How's television treating you?"
Spielberg sighed, slumping slightly. "It's... it's a job. I'm grateful. But it's not movies, Duke. I want to compose. I want to shoot. I tried to do a continuous master shot on The Psychiatrist last week and the line producer nearly had a stroke."
"I know," Duke said. "I saw Amblin. The short you did last year."
Spielberg's head snapped up. "You saw Amblin?"
"I saw a filmmaker who understands his story," Duke lied smoothly, he had seen it in the future, on a DVD bonus feature, but the sentiment was at least true. "You don't belong on a TV set, Steve."
"I have a company," Duke said, leaning in. "Ithaca Pictures. We are a studio, with a director centric aproach. I answer to no one but the audience."
"Like United Artists back in the day?" Spielberg asked, his encyclopedic knowledge of film history kicking in.
"Better. Because I have a war chest that United Artists never had." Duke took a sip of coffee. "I have a division up north, in Santa Clara. We're building games. It's going to fund the movies."
Spielberg frowned, confused. "Games? You mean pinball?"
"Something like that. But with screens." Duke waved it away. "So, Steven, I want you to come make movies for me. Not TV movies. Feature films."
"I'm about to sign a contract with Universal," Spielberg said, "Seven years."
"I offer you my own contract," Duke said.
Duke paused, letting the silence hang.
"I'll get you the opportunity to direct," Duke said casually.
"And down the road," Duke continued, "I have a concept I'm developing about the ocean. About a shark that stakes out a territory and won't leave."
Spielberg laughed nervously. "A shark movie? Sounds like a B-movie monster flick."
"It could be," Duke agreed. "Or... in the hands of the right director... it could be a great film, it would be based in my book "Jaws". It could be the reason people are afraid to go in the water."
Duke reached into his bag and pulled out a business card.
"Come visit me next week."
Spielberg stared at the card. His hand stopped fidgeting.
"I'll be there," Spielberg whispered.
___
Two days later, the setting was darker, richer, and smelled of expensive steak and cigar smoke.
Musso & Frank Grill on Hollywood Boulevard was the oldest restaurant in Hollywood, a place where deals had been made since the old days.
Duke sat across from Jeffrey, his agent, he had already finished his contract with him but they still spoke and were on a good standing.
Jeffrey looked tired.
"The wire transfer cleared," Jeffrey said, slicing into a rare filet mignon. "William Peter Blatty is a happy man. And a confused one."
"He took the offer?" Duke asked, swirling his scotch.
"He took it. But he thinks you're out of your mind, Duke. The book isn't even finished. He's got maybe two-thirds of a draft. He's broke, living on unemployment, and suddenly you swoop in and offer him $50,000 for the film rights to a novel about a possessed twelve-year-old girl?"
Jeffrey shook his head. "Warner Bros was sniffing around, but they offered him only an option deal. You bought it outright. Why? Horror is dead and the story sounds like drive-in trash."
Duke smiled. "Horror isn't dead, Jeffrey."
Duke knew the timeline.
Blatty's novel, The Exorcist, would be published in 1971. It would stay on the New York Times bestseller list for 57 weeks. It would cause mass hysteria. People would faint in the aisles.
It would become the first horror film to be nominated for Best Picture.
By buying the rights now, in late 1969, Duke had secured a gold mine for a small price.
"Blatty is a good writer," Duke said. "He's putting theology into a thriller. People feel like there's evil in the world. They want to see it defeated."
"If you say so," Jeffrey sighed. "But you're collecting quite a mess. A pacifist war movie, a memoir about a lying father, a video game factory, and now a demon possession story."
"They are good properties," Duke said. "I want Ithaca Pictures to not be a single genre label."
Jeffrey wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. "Speaking of feelings... Paramount is feeling neglected. Evans called me four times today. He knows you're back. He knows you didn't sign with Warner. He wants a meeting."
"Let him wait," Duke said.
___
Short chapter