The air in Atlanta, Georgia, possessed a thick, humid feeling.
Duke Hauser sat in a sturdy rocking chair. In his hand, the condensation on a cold glass bottle of local lager was slowly gathering, dripping onto his knuckles.
Sitting in the rocking chair next to him, wearing a simple, light blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up past the elbows, was James Earl Carter Jr.
The current governor of Georgia and future President of the United States, Jimmy Carter.
The Governor of Georgia had a genuine smile on his face.
Jimmy Carter was a peanut farmer, a nuclear engineer, and a man who understood the American South better than anyone Duke had ever met.
There were no press secretaries hovering in the background. There were no cameras. It was just two men with a pair of cold beers
"I have to admit, Duke," Carter said, "When my staff told me the Chairman of Paramount Pictures wanted to come down and drink a beer, I expected a man in a three-piece suit flanked by a dozen lawyers holding clipboards."
Duke laughed. He took a slow sip of the beer. "Lawyers don't like the humidity, Governor. And frankly, I spend enough time playing the studio mogul. Sometimes you just need to get out of the shark tank and sit on a porch."
Carter nodded appreciatively, "Well, you are always welcome here. But I imagine you didn't fly all the way from the Pacific coast just to compliment our weather. Though, I will say, I've been following your work and wanted to thank you."
"Thank me?" Duke asked, genuinely curious.
"For Shaft," Carter said simply. "And for Sweet Sweetback. The press likes to call it 'Blaxploitation.' It's an ugly word. It dismisses what's actually happening."
Duke stared at Carter for a moment, not knowing whether to tell him that he was technically the creator of the term or not.
"You see the economic angle," Duke noted softly.
"I see the civil rights angle," Carter corrected, gesturing with his beer bottle. "True equality doesn't exist until there is economic parity and cultural representation. When you financed those pictures, you proved to the world that a Black hero can generate millions of dollars in revenue."
"It's good business," Duke said humbly, "The audiences have been starved for a good film, the studios ignored an entire demographic because they were afraid of alienating the traditional theaters."
"And by doing so, you gave them power," Carter smiled. "It matters down here more than you know. Which brings me to the other reason I'm glad you're here. The representation of our home."
Duke nodded, his expression turning serious..
"The media treats the South like a place of backward thinking," Duke said, "If a script has a southern character, they're either a corrupt sheriff, an uneducated farmer, or a cartoon villain. I've been fighting my own executives at Paramount to stop greenlighting that kind of lazy writing. The South it's industrializing and it's culturally rich but the screens don't show it."
"Exactly," Carter agreed, leaning back in his chair. "A few weeks ago, the executives at MGM called my office. They wanted to shoot a picture down here. Lolly-Madonna XXX."
Duke winced slightly, recognizing the title from the industry trades. "The feuding hillbilly script. Rod Steiger and Robert Ryan."
"That's the one," Carter sighed, looking out over the lawn. "They wanted tax breaks, police escorts, no local employment options, they wanted all of that to film a movie that essentially depicts us as violent savages shooting each other over a patch of dirt. I read the script, and I rejected their permits immediately."
"It was a good move," Duke said. "A lot of governors would have just taken the Hollywood money and ignored the cultural damage."
"I don't want that kind of money," Carter said firmly. "I want the kind of industry that builds up the prospects of Georgia. We have a booming economic sector that i would love to showcase."
Duke reached into the inner pocket of his linen jacket and pulled out a simple, sealed white envelope.
"This isn't studio money, Governor," Duke said quietly. "This is personal, there are no strings attached. I just happen to believe that the country needs a new voice."
Carter looked at the envelope. He didn't reach for it immediately. He looked at Duke, his eyes searching for a hidden catch.
He found nothing.
Carter slowly reached out and took the envelope. "You're a long way from an election year, Duke. And I'm just a governor."
"For now," Duke smiled, raising his beer bottle in a silent toast. "But I have a very good memory for the future, and the future looks bright."
___
The next day, the thick humidity of Georgia was replaced by the sprawling scale of Texas.
Duke Hauser stood in the center of a private, glass-enclosed luxury suite perched high above the fifty-yard line of Texas Stadium.
Down on the field, the Dallas Cowboys were engaged in a brutal match.
But inside the suite, the room smelled of catered barbecue, leather, scotch.
Duke stood near the glass wearing a Roger Staubach jersey, watching the game, but his attention was mostly focused on the man sitting slumped on the plush leather sofa behind him.
Robert Evans looked terrible.
The unoficcial Head of Production of Pramount and CEO of Ithaca, had aged five years in the span of a few weeks.
He was wearing his signature oversized sunglasses, even indoors. His trademark tan looked yellowish in the stadium lighting. He was holding a scotch, staring into the amber liquid.
"They're getting married, Duke," Evans said.
Duke didn't turn around immediately. He kept his eyes on the field.
"Ali is a bad woman, a Runaround Sue. The ink on the divorce papers isn't even dry," Evans continued, taking a long drink of the scotch.
"She's living at his place. Ali and Steve. The new golden couple of Hollywood. They're telling their friends they're going to tie the knot the second the judge finalizes the divorce."
Duke slowly turned around, the contrast between his own life, the quiet, stable partnership he shared with Lynda Carter at Owlwood and the horror of Evans' marriage was something Duke pondered at times.
"I'm sorry, Bob," Duke said, and he meant it. "It's a brutal thing to go through."
Evans let out a bitter, humorless laugh. "The trades are going to have a field day. 'Evans Loses the Girl.' I can already see the headlines. I gave her everything, Duke. Even some roles she wasn't good for on Paramount, I got it for her."
As Evan's immediate boss, Duke decided to ignore that last part.
"You can't buy the weather, Bob," Duke said softly, walking over and taking a seat in the armchair opposite the sofa. "Ali was always going to look for the new one. McQueen just happened to be around. They'll get divorced too."
Evans rested his head against the back of the sofa, letting out a sigh. "The worst part is Josh."
Duke nodded slowly. Joshua Evans, their young son.
"How is he handling it?" Duke asked, with gentle concern.
"I don't know," Evans admitted, "I really don't know, Duke. He's staying with Ali now. Mcqueen is probably buying him gifts too. He's too young to understand why his father isn't there in the morning. And I'm... I'm too buried in this, to know how to fix it."
Duke reached out and rested his hand firmly on Evans' shoulder.
"You can't fix things in a day, Bob," Duke said firmly. "When the dust settles, you will still show up for your son. That's all you can do."
Evans looked at Duke, the tension in his shoulders seemed to fractionally release. He took a deep breath, visibly pulling the scattered pieces of his persona back together.
"You know what your problem, Duke?" Evans managed a weak smirk, trying to pivot away from his sadness. "You're too damn stable. It's unnatural for this industry. You need to get married so you can get divorced. Experience the misery. Build some character, this industry is about emotion."
Duke smiled, warmly accepting the deflection. "I think I'll pass on the misery, Bob. I'm quite happy sticking to my writing and making my movies. My character is tested enough on a day to day basis."
"Right, your writing," Evans latched onto the topic. He sat up, placing his empty glass on the coffee table. "Let's talk about that. How is the art? Because from where I'm sitting, you seem to be losing your touch with the typewriter."
Duke chuckled, stretching his bad leg out in front of him. He didn't mind the transition from personal tragedy to professional banter as long as ti helped Evans stay relaxed.
"I wouldn't call it losing my touch," Duke mused, "If anything i'll call it being slightly ahead of the curve."
"Ahead of the curve?" Evans laughed, "Duke, the reports I'm getting from the publishing houses on your new manuscript... Neuromancer. They say it's unreadable. They say it's full of made-up words. 'Cyberspace.' 'Matrix.' The literary critics are calling it a confusing mess."
Duke just smiled. He knew how Neuromancer was. He was basically inventing the cyberpunk genre a decade early. It was natural that the publishers in 1972 were confused by it.
"They said the same thing about Star Wars," Duke pointed out smoothly.
"And they were right!" Evans exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Duke, you wrote a space opera about laser swords and giant dog-men, and nobody bought it! You are literally the only guy in the history of the world who can write several best sellers, and then follow it up with two massive flops."
"I prefer the term 'delayed best sellers,'" Duke corrected, his eyes twinkling with confidence. "Besides, the books are just a creative exercise. The film side is running perfectly. Annie Hall is locked."
Evans paused, his professional curiosity piqued. "You finished the cut? The Diane Keaton picture?"
"I did," Duke nodded, "And i hope the academy finally appreciates my efforts."
"I'll have the Ithaca marketing team start prepping a campaign," Evans said automatically, his mind clicking into gear. "We'll position it for awards season. But Duke... Annie Hall is a nice little picture. I want to talk about 1967."
Duke looked at Evans. "1967 was a long time ago."
"1967 was the year we met," Evans corrected softly. "1967 was the year you dropped Jaws. For fifty-two weeks, it was number one. One of the greatest piece of commercial fiction ever written. And it's been sitting on a shelf for five years."
Evans leaned forward, the producer in him completely overriding the broken husband. "Every studio in town would kill for the rights to that book, Duke. Universal has been calling me once a month begging to buy it from us. Let me produce it, I can get Friedkin for it."
Duke looked at Evans for a long moment.
He had written Jaws specifically to secure it's rights, relying on his Future Memory of Peter Benchley's original concept but executing it with his own voice.
He had intentionally held off on making the movie. The special effects in the late 1960s simply hadn't been good enough to capture the vision. But now, it was late 1972. The technology was catching up. The time was right.
"You can't produce it, Bob," Duke said quietly.
Evans frowned, "Why not? I just delivered the biggest movie of all time. You don't trust me?"
"I trust you," Duke said. "But you can't produce it, because I'm not handing it over to anyone else."
"I'm directing it, Bob. I'll take it to the open Ocean."
Evans stared at him, "You? Duke, it's a logistical nightmare. You're talking about shooting on the open ocean... unpredictable weather, saltwater destroying cameras... It's not what people call an art-house picture."
"I know," Duke said.
"I'm going to take a crew to Martha's Vineyard either next year or in 1974," Duke declared with absolute certainty in his voice.
Evans slowly broke into a wide smile.
"You magnificent, crazy son of a bitch," Evans whispered. "You really want to do it. I'm close with Roman Polanski, he can help you write the script."
"It's okay, i'm bad at collaborating with people anyways, lets not bother Mr. Polansky," Duke smiled.
The creative energy in the suite was suddenly broken by a sharp knock on the door.
"We ordering more barbecue?" Evans asked, looking over his shoulder.
"No," Duke said, standing up and grabbing his cane. He smoothed the front of his linen jacket. "I asked them to meet me here."
"Who?" Evans frowned.
Duke didn't answer. He walked across the plush carpet, and pulled the heavy door open.
Standing in the hallway of Texas Stadium, flanked by two extremely discreet, broad-shouldered men, were two men, an old one and a young one.
The older man stood tall, elegant, not very close to the image one might have of a Texas man. It was George H.W. Bush.
Standing slightly behind him, wearing a tailored suit that looked just a little too loose, was his son. George W. Bush in his twenties, possessing a cocky smirk and a restless energy that betrayed his youth.
"Duke," the elder Bush said, extending a firm hand. His voice was smooth, "It's good to meet you. I appreciate you making the time for us. The Ambassador's schedule is usually very tight in terms of time."
"George," Duke replied warmly, grasping his hand with firmness. "Always a pleasure to welcome you, I spend most of my time in Calfornia, so if you like it, feel free to use this suite."
Duke stepped aside, welcoming the future of the Republican establishment into the room.
As the elder Bush walked past, Duke caught a brief glance from the younger George W. The kid was looking around the luxury suite with wide eyes.
Duke offered the young man a small, knowing smile. Completely forgetting on his mind that he was actually one year younger than the younger Bush.