On the private dining room on the second floor of a restaurant, Duke arrived at noon, having spent the morning in a production meeting about The Godfather's post-production schedule that had run forty minutes long because Coppola had opinions about the color.
He was wearing a navy suit, no tie, his hair slightly longer than the corporate standard because he'd been in Sicily and Tokyo for the better part of a month and hadn't found a barber he wanted to trust on either continent.
Jaffe was already seated at the head of the table, his briefcase open, his documents arranged.
Beside the documents, was a collection of objects that looked wildly out of place in a dining room, a plastic watch prototype, several character sketches on heavy card stock, a miniature die-cast car, and what appeared to be a small action figure whose limbs could be repositioned into various poses.
Across from Jaffe sat the Mattel delegation.
Elliot Handler was sixty years old, co-founder of Mattel, and one of the most successful toymakers in American history.
He and his wife Ruth had built Mattel from a garage workshop into the largest toy company in the world, powered by two inventions that had redefined childhood, the Barbie doll and the Hot Wheels car.
His face was curious.
Alongside Handler were two product designers, younger men in sport coats and turtlenecks who had the slightly disheveled look of creative professionals who spent more time in workshops than boardrooms.
"Elliot," Duke said, shaking Handler's hand. "Thank you for coming."
"You said you had something I'd want to see." Handler settled into his chair and glanced at the objects on the table with the sharpened attention of a man whose entire career was built on recognizing the next great toy. "So. Show me."
Duke sat down, unbuttoned his jacket, and leaned forward. "Elliot, I'm going to present something today that I don't think has ever been done before in this industry."
"I'm listening."
"Most studios sell toy rights as an afterthought. The movie comes first. If it's a hit, somebody licenses the characters to a toymaker, and eight months later there's a plastic figure on a shelf at Sears. By then the movie's out of theaters, the momentum is gone, and the toy catches whatever residual interest is left."
"That's the standard model," Handler agreed. "It works. Not spectacularly, but it works."
"I want to build a system where the toy and the story are developed simultaneously. Where the character hits the shelf the same week."
Handler's eyebrows rose slightly. "Crossmedia synergy."
"That's exactly what I'm calling it. And I have three properties that are ready to demonstrate it."
Duke reached for the first object on the table, the plastic watch prototype. It was crude but recognizable, a chunky wristband with a circular face, and on the face, a rotating dial with small icons arranged around its circumference.
Each icon represented a different alien creature, stylized, colorful, instantly identifiable.
"This is the Omnitrix," Duke said. "It's the central device in our highest-performing comic book property, Ben 10. Published in PULSE Weekly, currently reaching over a million readers per month."
"The premise is that a ten-year-old boy finds this watch, and it allows him to transform into ten different alien heroes. Each alien has unique powers, unique abilities, unique visual design."
He rotated the dial on the prototype. It clicked through each position with a satisfying mechanical snap.
He spread out a set of character sketches, ten alien designs, each one rendered in bright, distinctive colors with the kind of exaggerated proportions and bold silhouettes that translated perfectly from the comic page to a three-inch plastic figure.
"Ten aliens. Ten figures. Each one sold separately. Plus the watch."
Handler picked up the Omnitrix prototype and turned it in his hands. Duke watched his fingers work. Clicked it. Rotated it again.
"The click," Handler said. "That's good. Kids love a click."
"We can refine the mechanism. Add sound effects. A light in the face that activates when you select an alien. Make it feel like a real piece of alien technology on a child's wrist."
Handler set down the prototype and looked at Duke. "What else?"
Duke reached for the second set of materials, the character designs from Madhouse. The Blue Beetle sketches were stunning, the Scarab armor rendered in sleek, angular detail that looked like nothing else on the American toy market.
"Blue Beetle," Duke said. "Currently in pre-production as a sixty-four-episode animated series at our Tokyo studio. The character wears an alien armor that transforms, adapts, and generates weapons. The design aesthetic is sleeker, more dynamic, more cool than anything in the current action figure market."
"It's designed to be something new. A high-tech action figure line that positions itself above G.I. Joe in sophistication and coolness. Every figure has interchangeable armor pieces and Scarab accessories. The kid builds the Beetle's loadout. Different configurations for different missions."
"Customization," Handler said. "Kids love customization."
"Kids love animation."
Handler was nodding now, his hands moving unconsciously. Duke pressed forward.
"One more thing," Duke said. "This isn't a finished product. This is another property from PULSE weekly that I want you to see before anyone else."
He picked up the car, held it in front of Handler, and with a series of precise folds and rotations, transformed it into a robot.
The dining room was silent.
Handler stared at the figure. The designers stared at the figure.
Even Jaffe, who had seen the prototype before, watched with the quiet satisfaction of a man who knew exactly how this moment was going to play.
"Sentient machines," Duke said. "Robots that disguise themselves as everyday vehicles. A car becomes a warrior. A truck becomes a commander. A jet becomes a scout."
"My God," Handler said softly. He reached for the figure, and Duke handed it over.
Handler transformed it back into the car. Then back into the robot. Car. Robot. Car. Robot.
"What do you call them?" Handler asked.
"We're calling them Transformers."
The word filled the room. The two men held each other's gaze across the table, across the toy prototypes and the character sketches and the blueprints of a future that was being built one conversation at a time.
"I want a license," Handler said. "On everything."
"And in exchange?"
"An advance. A substantial one. You'll have cash in the door before a single unit ships."
Duke looked at Jaffe. Jaffe gave an almost imperceptible nod.
"Draw up the term sheet," Duke said.
Handler grinned.
___
Moody Coliseum in Dallas smelled like popcorn,and floor wax.
The arena seated eight thousand.
Tonight, for the Dallas Chaparrals' home game against the Utah Stars, approximately fifteen hundred people had turned up scattered across the lower bowl in clusters that left vast, empty expanses of blue plastic seating stretching into the upper reaches.
Duke sat in the front row, center court.
Beside him, Barbara Bouchet looked stunning in a cream cashmere sweater and dark slacks, her blonde hair pulled back, her green eyes tracking the action on the court with the confusion of a European woman encountering American basketball for the first time.
"So they run back and forth," she said.
"That's the general idea."
"And the object is to throw the ball through the circle."
"The hoop, yes."
"This sport doesn't sem to be that popular. You should invest in Football instead."
"When there's more people, its more exciting." Duke gestured at the sparse crowd, a little remorseful of bringing her.
"Im just joking." Barbara laughed.
On the court, the Chaparrals were actually playing well.
Tom Nissalke's coaching was evident. They were trading baskets with the Stars, keeping the game close through the first half, the squeak of sneakers on the hardwood echoing through the mostly empty arena.
"You didn't buy this team for the ticket sales," Barbara said. It wasn't a question.
"No."
"Then why?"
Duke looked at the court.
A Chaparrals guard drove the lane, elevated, and put up a floater that hit the glass and dropped through the net. The small crowd offered a polite cheer.
"I bought the territory," Duke said. "Dallas is going to be one of the great American cities. The oil money, the real estate boom, the tech corridor, this place is going to grow in ways that most people can't imagine yet. And when it grows, it's going to want major professional sports. With a world-class arena with corporate suites and national television contracts and a brand that means something."
"And you'll build that?"
"I'll build that. New arena. New brand. A team that Dallas identifies with. The way New York identifies with the Knicks, the way Boston identifies with the Celtics."
"That takes time. It takes investment. And it takes nights like this, sitting in a cold arena with fifteen hundred people, watching a good team play in front of nobody."
Barbara studied him. Her expression was curious, by the patience. Most ambitious men she'd known wanted results immediately. Duke was talking about building something that might take a decade to bear fruit.
The game ended. The Chaparrals won by seven. The crowd filed out with the quiet satisfaction of people who had gotten their money's worth.
Duke made his way to the locker room. The hallway was concrete, poorly lit, and smelled of sweat and industrial cleaning solution. Security let him through without hesitation, the owner's privileges, such as they were.
Tom Nissalke was standing near the coaches' office, still in his game clothe, dark slacks, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, a whistle around his neck.
He'd been named ABA Coach of the Year the previous season, which was the kind of honor that also meant that other teams, like NBA teams, were now interested in hiring him away.
"Tom," Duke said, extending his hand.
Nissalke shook it with the distracted grip of a man whose mind was already on the next game, the next practice, the next adjustment. "Mr. Hauser. Good game tonight."
"Good game. I been hearing things about you that worry me."
Nissalke's expression tightened. "I've also heard rumours about the team moving to San Antonio. Maybe somewhere else. And I've had calls from Seattle."
"The SuperSonics." The future Oklahoma City Thunder, OKC.
"They're looking for a head coach and It's the NBA, Mr. Hauser. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted."
Duke put his hand on Nissalke's shoulder. "Don't pack your bags for Seattle or anywhere else, Tom. We're going to dinner."
"Dinner?"
"Dinner. Tonight at the Old Warsaw. There's someone I want you to meet."
The Old Warsaw was a converted mansion on Maple Avenue.
Duke's private booth was in the back, separated from the main dining room by a velvet curtain. The lighting was dim, candlelight, a single wall sconce, and the table was set for four.
J. Walter Kennedy was already there. The current NBA Commissioner was fifty-nine years old, silver-haired.
"Duke," Kennedy said, rising. "A pleasure, as always."
"Walt. Thank you for making the trip."
"When the owner of a professional basketball team and the chairman of one of the largest media company asks me to dinner in Dallas, I clear my schedule."
They sat. Nissalke arrived a few minutes later, showered and changed. Barbara had graciously excused herself for the evening, understanding, that certain conversations required privacy.
Wine was ordered. Pleasantries were exchanged. The first course arrived.
Then the plates were cleared, and Duke set down his wine glass.
"Tom," Duke said, looking at Nissalke. "I know about Seattle. I know the SuperSonics are offering you a three-year contract at a significant raise. I also know that the reason you're considering it isn't the money, it's the league. You want to coach in the NBA."
Nissalke didn't deny it. "I'm an ABA coach, Mr. Hauser. I've proven what I can do in this league. But the ABA isn't where the future of basketball lives. The future lives in the NBA. And every day I stay in the ABA is a day I'm not building my resume where it matters."
"I understand that. And I'm going to give you what Seattle can't."
He turned to Kennedy. "Walt, I'm going to be direct. I believe the ABA and the NBA are going to merge. The economics demand it. Both leagues are spending themselves into oblivion competing for the same players, and the television networks are tired of splitting the basketball audience across two products."
"A merger is inevitable. The question it's when and who survives."
Kennedy's expression didn't change, but his martini glass paused halfway to his lips.
"That's a significant assumption," Kennedy said carefully.
"It's a significant market. Dallas is the seventh-largest media market in the United States. It's growing faster than any major city in the South. And the ownership group behind the Chaparrals, controls Paramount Pictures, Atari Electronics, PULSE Comics, the Paramount Music division."
He let that inventory settle.
"If the NBA and ABA merge, Dallas needs to be among the surviving franchises. Not because the current attendance justifies it, we both know it doesn't. But because the market justifies it, the ownership justifies it, and the media infrastructure justifies it."
"I can put basketball on screens that no other owner can reach. I can create content around the sport that no other owner can produce. And I can build an arena in Dallas."
Kennedy sipped his martini. "And what do you want in return?"
"A guarantee. Informal. Nothing on paper, but that in any merger scenario, a Dallas franchise backed by this ownership group is a lock for survival."
The table was quiet. The candle flickered.
Kennedy looked at Duke. He looked at Nissalke. He looked at his martini.
"The NBA doesn't make guarantees about merger scenarios that haven't been formalized," Kennedy said.
"But I can tell you this," Kennedy continued. "The NBA's expansion strategy depends on strong ownership, strong markets, and strong media partnerships."
"A Dallas franchise with your ownership profile would be... very difficult to exclude from any future configuration of the league."
It was as close to a guarantee as a sitting commissioner could give without putting his job at risk.
He turned to Nissalke. "Tom, the path to the NBA for you can be through Dallas, the man coaching the Dallas team will be an NBA coach, with an NBA contract, in an NBA arena."
Nissalke looked at Kennedy. Kennedy's expression was neutral but, Duke noted, not contradictory. The Commissioner didn't disagree. That was enough.
"I need a commitment," Nissalke said. "Not just tonight. A real commitment. Investment in the roster. Scouting. Player development. I can't build an NBA-caliber team with ABA-caliber resources."
"You'll have everything you need. Better facilities. Better scouting. And a front office that supports your vision instead of undermining it."
Nissalke studied Duke's face for a long moment. "Alright," Nissalke said. "I'm staying."
They ordered dessert. The conversation shifted, lighter, warmer, the relief of men who had reached an agreement and could now enjoy each other's company.
Kennedy told stories about the early days of the NBA, when the league was so broke that the Commissioner sometimes drove the team bus.
Duke listened, and ate, and drank.
__
The night air in Preston Hollow was cool and clean. The neighborhood was old money by Dallas standards, wide lots, stone walls, and massive live oaks.
Duke and Barbara walked slowly, side by side, their footsteps soft on the pavement. They'd left the restaurant an hour ago, and instead of taking a car back to the hotel, they'd started walking.
Barbara's arm was linked through his. She was wearing a coat over her sweater, the Texas November night was cold enough to justify it, and her breath made small clouds in the air that caught the streetlight and vanished.
They walked in silence for a while, past the stone walls and the oak trees and the warm, distant windows.
"I want to tell you about something," Duke said. "A new project."
"That Sword and Sandals project?"
"The opposite of it actually. The smallest thing I've ever conceived. A film about two people. A man and a woman. He's an okayish comedian."
He paused, thinking about the character, seeing her in his mind. "She's unlike anyone he's ever met. She wears ties and vests. She's scattered and brilliant and completely herself in a way that makes him realize he's never been completely himself. They fall in love."
"And then, because this is what happens, they fall out of love. Not because they stop caring, but because people grow in different directions, and sometimes love isn't enough to keep two people aimed at the same point on the horizon."
"What's it called?" she asked.
"Annie Hall."
"It sounds sad."
"It is sad. But it's also funny, and honest."