It was dusk in the Owlwood Estate. For the past week, Duke Hauser had been visiting and operating in Korea but he was now exhausted.
As the tires crunched to a halt on the gravel, Duke felt like a man whose bones were made of lead.
He pushed the heavy car door open, waving off the driver's attempt to assist him. When his right boot hit the pavement, a sharp, spike of pain shot up from his right ankle and tibia.
He gripped the roof of the car for a fraction of a second, steadying himself, before forcing his face back to normal.
He grabbed his cane from the backseat, leaned his weight onto it, and walked toward the front door.
He expected to find the house quiet. Empty.
Instead, as he pushed the door open, he was met with the warm, vibrant sound of a record playing Ain't No Mountain High Enough by Marvin Gaye and the smell of roasted chicken.
A pair of women's leather boots had been kicked off near the plant besides the entrance.
"Duke?"
Lynda Carter emerged from the hallway leading to the kitchen. She was wearing a pair of faded denim jeans and one of his oversized, white button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
"You're home early," she said, her face lighting up with a smile. She closed the distance between them, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him deeply.
Duke dropped his briefcase, his free arm wrapping around her waist, pulling her close.
"Flight caught a tailwind out of Seoul," Duke murmured into her hair. "God, it feels good to see you."
Lynda pulled back, her eyes excited. "I missed you too. Although, I had to keep a secret from you during this time."
Duke smiled, his fatigue momentarily forgotten. "Alright, lay it on me. What happened?"
Lynda practically beamed, picking up a script from the couch and waving it around. "My agent called yesterday. I booked a guest spot. A major one. Three sketches and a musical number."
"That's incredible," Duke said, "What show?"
"The Carol Burnett Show," Lynda said, her voice dropping into a whisper. "They want me on the CBS lot on Monday for table reads."
"Lynda, that is spectacular," Duke said, sincerely happy for her. "Burnett doesn't just put anyone on that stage. You earned that."
"I did, didn't I?" she laughed, "I've been rehearsing the script all afternoon. It's a comedy."
Duke watched her flip through the script. "We need to celebrate," Duke said, taking a step forward.
But as he transferred his weight, his right knee buckled a little. He caught himself heavily on his cane, a sharp hiss of breath escaping his teeth.
The script lowered. Lynda's triumphant smile faded.
"You're in pain," she stated.
"It's just the flight," Duke deflected, trying to force a reassuring smile. "Fifteen hours seated and the leg always gets a little stiff. A hot shower and I'll be fine."
Lynda walked over, gently taking his briefcase and setting it aside.
"A shower isn't going to fix it," Lynda said decisively. "I'm going to heat the pool. Come on."
On the pool house at Owlwood, Duke sat on the edge of the mosaic tiles, dressed only in a pair of swim trunks.
Lynda slid into the water first. She had changed into a simple, dark one-piece swimsuit, her hair tied up in a loose knot.
"Come on down," she said softly, extending her hands. "Let the water do the work."
Duke gripped the handrail and lowered himself down the steps. The moment the heated water submerged his hips, the relief was instantaneous.
He let out a long breath. Life was really all about the small things, whether it was a cold pillow at nigth or swiming in a luxury heated pool that relaxed your injury.
Lynda moved closer. "Better?" she whispered.
"You have no idea," Duke muttered, opening his eyes to look at her.
An hour later, they were sitting inside the house wrapped in thick terrycloth robes. The fire was crackling in the chimney, throwing a warm light across the room.
Duke reached for the duffel bag he had brought in. He unzipped it and pulled out a flat, rectangular box wrapped in exquisite, textured paper.
"I didn't just spend the whole week negotiating with bureaucrats," Duke said, handing the box to Lynda. "I had a few hours walking around. The silk market there is... well, it's something else."
Lynda looked at the box, surprised. "Duke, you didn't have to get me anything."
"Open it," he insisted gently.
She carefully untied the ribbon and lifted the lid. Inside, folded was a traditional Korean Hanbok.
Lynda let out a soft gasp as she brushed her fingers against the fabric. The silk was of a grade that simply didn't exist in American department store.
She lifted the garment. It was a vibrant royal blue, embroidered with a deep, radiant gold.
Duke watched her eyes widen.
"Duke, it's beautiful," Lynda whispered, holding the silk against her chest. "These colors... I've never seen anything like it."
"I saw it in the window of a weaver's shop," Duke said, leaning back on his elbows. "And I instantly knew it belonged to you. It takes a certain kind of presence to wear colors that bold."
Lynda leaned over and kissed him, the silk pooling gently between them. "Thank you," she said softly. "It's the most beautiful thing I own."
"Wait until you see what I have planned for the shoes," Duke joked.
___
The tranquility of Owlwood lasted exactly until ten o'clock the following morning.
The doors of the estate swung open to let in Barry Diller and Bob Evans. The two executives swept into Duke's home office directly.
"Hauser!" Bob Evans boomed, dropping into a leather armchair and tossing his oversized tinted sunglasses onto the desk. "Look at you. You survived the political circus? You look like you got some sleep."
"I survived, Bob," Duke said, sitting behind the desk, nursing a mug of black coffee. "And I secured the broadcast timeslots that i told you. Blue Beetle is going to be the biggest thing on Korean television by next year."
"You basically gave it away, Duke," Diller noted, crossing his arms. "Eisner told me about it."
"We're planting a seed, Barry," Duke said smoothly. "It's a loss-leader. In ten years, when the economy booms, we will have a monopoly on IP's. Trust the long game."
Diller sighed, conceding the point. "Fine. If you want to play Kissinger in Asia, that's your right. But we have a war to fight right here at home. Let's talk about Nolan Bushnell."
Duke leaned forward, his interest instantly piqued. "Atari."
"Atari," Diller confirmed, a rare smile breaking his expression. "I met with Bushnell yesterday and he's fully focused on the Home Pong release."
"Oh, and Eisner told me about Mattel being financially unstable. He wants to take over it."
Duke caught Diller's eye. "I know. He told me on the flight over. Keep Eisner digging into Mattel's books."
Bob Evans clapped his hands together, loudly breaking the corporate tension. "Alright, enough with the plastic toys. Can we talk about the real business? Next year slate?"
Evans unrolled a massive calendar sheet across Duke's desk. It was the Paramount theatrical slate for 1973.
Duke looked down at the paper.
"We are going to annihilate the competition this year, Duke," Evans said, his voice dropping into a dramatic whisper. "Look at this lineup."
Evans pointed a manicured finger at the top of the list. "The Exorcist. Friedkin is working on it and it will be our biggest advertisement focus."
"Make sure the marketing leans into the controversy," Duke instructed.
"Already on it," Evans grinned. His finger moved down. "American Graffiti. George Lucas. It doesnt look bad."
Duke nodded.
"Then we have the muscle," Evans continued. "Magnum Force. The follow-up to Dirty Harry. Eastwood is locked in."
"And what about Paper Moon?" Duke asked, pouring himself more coffee.
"Oh, Paper Moon. Bogdanovich is shooting it now. Ryan and Tatum O'Neal."
"Horror?"
"We have Black Christmas directed by Spielberg for Halloween."
"Then we have Serpico with Pacino, the guy from The Godfather. Save the Tiger with Lemmon. Bang the Drum Slowly with De Niro. We are going to drown in nominations for the Academy next year."
"It's a beautiful picture, Bob," Duke said. "But what about The Sting?"
Evans stopped, his enthusiastic smile faltering slightly. He sighed.
"The Sting," Diller supplied from the corner, "George Roy Hill's new picture. Redford and Newman teaming up. Universal snuck in and bought it out from under us."
"How did we lose a bidding war to Wasserman?" Duke asked, his tone sharpening. "I authorized whatever capital you needed."
Evans rubbed his face, suddenly looking much older than his tan suggested.
"It wasn't the money, Duke," Evans admitted, his voice tight. "It was the personnel. I couldn't get in the room cause they wanted to package Steve McQueen and Redford again after Butch Cassidy..."
Duke paused, connecting the dots. The volatile, messy reality of Hollywood that no spreadsheet could account for.
Steve McQueen was currently shooting The Getaway in Texas. He was also currently having a very public, very explosive affair with his co-star, Ali MacGraw.
Ali MacGraw was Evans' wife.
"I couldn't do it, Duke," Evans said, looking away, "I said some stuff and well, look... I dropped the ball."
Silence descended on the massive office. Diller looked at the floor, in an attemp to not interact with the subject.
Duke looked at Evans. He could fire him for letting personal drama cost the studio a guaranteed blockbuster. That's what Lew Wasserman would have done.
But Duke didn't care, Robert Evans was a man who cares about movies, Duke even considered him a sort of mentor.
Duke slowly stood up, walked around the mahogany desk, and leaned, looking directly at Evans.
"Bob. Look at me."
Evans slowly looked up, expecting the axe to fall.
"Fuck The Sting," Duke said.
Evans blinked, stunned. Diller's head snapped up.
"It's basically a b tier movie," Duke continued, waving a hand dismissively. "It'll make money, and it'll win awards, and next year, nobody will care. You know what people will care about? The Exorcist or Serpico."
"You are the best creative producer in the history of this town. Do not let one arrogant actor derail your momentum. You take the weekend. Go to Palm Springs. Clear your head. And when you come back on Monday, you are going back to producing. Do we understand each other?"
Evans took a deep breath, adjusting his collar and nodded.
"We understand each other, Duke," Evans said.
"Good," Duke smiled, clapping Evans on the shoulder. "Now, get out of my office. Diller and I have to figure out things."
As Evans strode out of the office, Diller murmured. "You do know he is cheating on his wife too, right?."
"Shut up, Barry," Duke said, walking back around his desk. "You're a friend of Dorothy and nobody says anything."
___
pickles are apparently zero calories, imma eat a tub of them