Duke Hauser sat on his desk, leaning back.
Spread across the desk were dozens of hand-inked concept sketches that George Lucas had shipped down from San Rafael earlier that week.
Duke's fingers traced the black ink lines of retro-futuristic rocket ships, sprawling alien cityscapes perched on jagged cliffs, and the menacing silhouette of Ming the Merciless.
A half-empty can of Dr Pepper sat beside the artwork, condensation pooling around its base and leaving a glistening ring on a stack of unrelated production budgets.
He reached out, lifting the receiver, and dialed the long-distance Arizona number.
It rang twice, before the receiver on the other end was lifted, cutting off the third ring.
Duke leaned forward, resting his forearm.
"Hello Lynda," he said, his voice dropping the quietness between them.
On the other end of the line, a sharp, momentary catch in her breath traveled through the receiver before her response came back. "Hello Connor."
The words hung in the air, neither of them willing to break the formal distance first.
Lynda cleared her throat, shifting the subject to the 90 degree forecast in Scottsdale and the local charity drives her mother was organizing. D
There was no mention of their shouting match in the Lot, nor the political arguments, instead, they traded small observations of their lives with one another.
She noted that the Arizona papers had run the latest production details from the Young Frankenstein set, commenting on how absurd the greasepaint looked on Duke's face.
Duke let out a low chuckle, "The Academy Awards are next Tuesday night, Lynda," Duke said, his fingers tracing the edge of George Lucas's ship sketches, "Paramount is looking at a very big night, and... well i just want to know if you're coming, I havent made arragements for my clothes but we could always find some last minute thing to put on."
The long-distance call went completely silent, Lynda let out a slow breath. She explained that the Scottsdale charity required her presence through the weekend, she had commitments to her mother's committee keeping her anchored to Arizona until March when the Production of Wonder Woman would start again.
"I'm still sorting through things out here, Duke," she murmured, Duke nodded to the empty office.
"The invitation stays right where it is, open, Lynda. No pressure." They exchanged a lingering goodbye.
Duke had barely placed the receiver back when the office door swung inward, the abrupt movement signaling the arrival of Robert Evans.
He carried a silver tray bearing a chilled bucket of imported champagne and two cream-colored invitation cards to an exclusive pre-Oscar gala.
Evans slid the tray onto the edge of the desk, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a glossy fashion spread from a European magazine, tossing it onto the deask so that it landed directly on top of George Lucas's drawings. The pages featured a full-page photograph of Margaux Hemingway.
"The entire town will be watching you, Duke," Evans said, pouring himself a glass of champagne without asking and leaning casually against the edge of the desk. "If you walk into the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion next Tuesday night without a woman on your arm, the press sharks are going to write a narrative that you're gay again, which will take us months to clean up."
Evans tapped his manicured finger against the photograph of the young Hemingway heiress, "Margaux is dynamite, a thoroughbred from a legendary literary family, and she's a beauty too."
Duke didn't look down at the magazine spread, "I gave you definitive answer yesterday, Robert, I certainly don't want to play games with my personal life to please a pack of gossip columnists. Take the champagne and get out."
Evans raised his hands in a defensive, theatrical gesture, taking a slow sip of his drink as he backed toward the door, though he intentionally left the two invitation cards resting on the corner of the desk. "Have it your way, boss,"
The dry evening air of April second arrived with a frantic energy on the exterior of the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, idling studio limousines lining the curb.
Silver flashbulbs erupted along the velvet ropes. A midnight-black Cadillac pulled up to the red carpet, its polished chrome catching the reflection of the neon signs overhead. The rear door swung open, and Duke Hauser stepped out into the bright glare of the media, his broad six-foot-five frame looking imposing in a custom-tailored, midnight-black tuxedo that sat perfectly against his shoulders.
Turning back toward the door of the limousine, Duke extended a hand to assist Margaux Hemingway as she stepped out onto the asphalt.
At a striking six feet tall, she stood at a good height with the studio chief, her beauty drawing the attention of camera lens along the barrier.
She wore a simple gown of stark white silk. Her dark hair was pulled back from her face, emphasizing the sharp bone structure that reminded Duke of those Bone-smashers people that would be popular in the future.
Duke had ultimately made the decision to invite her himself, refusing to let Evans engineer a fake romance, but recognizing that entering the Oscars alone would invite a different kind of speculation.
As they stepped forward together, their combined height looked grat together.
The press became loud as they moved down the carpet, with dozens of journalists leaning over the velvet ropes to thrust microphones toward Duke's face.
Reporters shouted over one another, asking to know if Duke believed The Exorcist would dominate the awards despite its controversies.
Duke handled the creative questions with a smooth pr talk, keeping his answers focused always on the hard work of his production crews and the strength of the studio's slate.
Then, a veteran society columnist squeezed through the front line, her eyes locked on Duke. "Mr. Hauser! Where is Mrs. Carter tonight? Have you and Hollywood's Wonder Woman officially living apart?"
Duke's face remained a poker face, as he offered a polite, silent nod to the press. He placed a gentle hand on the small of Margaux's back, smoothly guiding her past the reporters and through the glass doors of the pavilion without uttering a word about his private life.
Inside the massive auditorium, Paramount secured an early, historic victory when ten-year-old Tatum O'Neal was announced as the winner for Best Supporting Actress for her brilliant performance in Paper Moon.
The entire room erupted into a standing ovation as the small girl walked down the long aisle in her oversized tuxedo jacket. Duke stood along with the rest of the crowd, applauding genuinely as he watched the youngest competitive winner in Academy history accept the gold statue.
'Another piece of Film History for Paramount' Duke noted in his mind, after all, Paramount even without him had an illustrious history being the second-oldest major film studio in the United States, and being the top dog in the early times of Hollywood. And well now with Duke, things were looking better than ever.
However, Paramount tide shifted dramatically as the evening entered its final hour and the major creative categories arrived.
For Best Director, the academy voters favored the traditional craftsmanship of George Roy Hill for Universal's box-office juggernaut The Sting, leaving William Friedkin sitting in his aisle seat with a tight smile.
Moments later The Sting swept the field to claim the prize for Best Picture, completely shutting out both The Exorcist and American Graffiti from the top honors of the night. A few rows down, Robert Evans turned in his seat, his face filled with frustration as he muttered a audible complaint about institutional robbery, Lew Wasserman power and corruption to anyone within earshot, earning several death stares by people in the crowd.
The stage curtains muffled the applause of the auditorium, replacing it with the clatter of backstage.
Security guards in blue blazers pushed back a wall of photographers, while waiters balanced silver trays loaded with bubbling grasses of champagne.
Duke used his shoulder to clear a path through the bottleneck, his eyes tracking the glitter of gold plating through the air.
Margaux followed closely in his wake, her long stride matching his pace effortlessly without tripping on her white silk dress.
Near the concrete entrance of the press interview room, ten-year-old Tatum O'Neal stood under a television light, her small, thin fingers wrapped around the base of a Best Supporting Actress statuette. Her father, Ryan, stood over her, deep in a conversation with two network executives.
Duke dropped to one knee on the floor, bringing his eyes level with the girl's face. He reached out, gently tapping the Oscar with his index finger.
"They're going to have to put up a trophy stand at your house, Tatum," he said, his voice dropping below the noise of the crowd. The girl's smiled, her cheeks dimpling as she tucked the award against her ribs and gave him a silent nod.
Duke stood up and threaded his way past a rolling RCA television camera toward a stretch of the corridor, where William Peter Blatty leaned against a brick fire wall.
The writer's bow tie was completely undone, and his fingers trembled slightly as he uncoiled a fresh pack of Benson & Hedges cigarettes.
In his left hand, he gripped the Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar for The Exorcist by its golden neck.
Duke stepped into his line of sight, gripping Blatty's right shoulder.
"Relax Bill, it's been years since I got the rights for The Exorcist, and I'm telling even from back then i knew it would win an oscar at least," Duke said, nodding toward the gold figure.
Bill looked at him and nodded looking like he was about to vomit, speaking of which, Annie Hall had won Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay, a result pretty dissapointing considering his past life huge award success, but it was still clear to Duke that the academy was not going to award anyone his age with the major awards, of course there was one major exception.
Down by the auxiliary exit doors, where the cool night air cut through, Francis Ford Coppola stood tucked into a recessed alcove.
A neatly trimmed beard covered his jaw, his tuxedo jacket hung slightly loose on his frame, the result of months of erratic editing room meals. Beside him, Eleanor Coppola stood quietly, her arms cradling two-year-old Sofia, whose small head, covered in fine dark curls, rested against her mother.
Duke stepped into the alcove, Coppola blinked up at him, "I'm looking at two hours and forty minutes of film, Duke, and the transition from 1917 Sicily to 1958 Nevada feels like a major issue," Coppola muttered, "The trades are already setting up the guillotines. They know the sequel doesn't have the same blood as the first."
Duke leaned back against the concrete wall, as he realized Coppola was speaking about The Godfather 2, "The winter printing presses are already locked in, Francis. We just signed off on a four-hundred-theater baseline for the December opening weekend, and the print advertising budget has an extra seven hundred thousand dollars sitting in the ledger,"
Coppola turned back toward the lights of the ballroom and left. Leaving Duke standing there with a quiet Margaux, wondering why was everyone so nervous around him, after all Duke was a nice boss, drinking beer and aproving weird creative decisions.
The ballroom hosting the Governors Ball had towering ice sculptures that dripped slowly into silver trays which Duke found fascinating.
Duke circulated through the crowded room, Margaux remained comfortably nearby as they held hands, striking up effortless conversations with passing designers and actors. As Duke paused near the edge of the dance floor to exchange a few words with a senior distribution executive, he noticed a silver-haired groomed man in his mid-seventies separating himself from a circle of financiers and moving directly toward him.
Armand Hammer, the chief executive of Occidental Petroleum.
How did Duke knew him? He was the grandfather of the future disgraced actor, Armie Hammer who was alleged to be a cannibal.
Hammer bypassed the standard Hollywood pleasantries, stepping into Duke's personal space and extending a hand that, despite his advanced years, retained a firm grip.
He didn't waste a single breath discussing the evening's victories or the glamour of the red carpet, choosing instead to address Duke with direct efficiency. He stated clearly that his network had been tracking the substantial profitability of Vanguard Petroleum.
Hammer explained that Occidental was looking to expand its domestic reserves before the next phase of the federal energy regulations took effect, and he viewed Vanguard's strategic leaseholds in western fields as a perfect addition to his corporate portfolio.
"Name a sensible price for the entire asset, Hauser," Hammer said, "Occidental is fully prepared to absorb Vanguard by the end of the current fiscal quarter, and we can structure the entire transaction in liquid cash or blue-chip corporate stock to minimize your tax exposure."
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Supposed to be a longer chapter, but i ran into issues, will publish another chapter in a few hours, exploring things more in depth