On the outside of the private, glass-enclosed luxury suite at Texas Stadium, the sounds of the crowd roared in a deafening wave.
Inside, however, the air was cold, and the atmosphere calm. The room smelling faintly of brisket.
The initial tension that had entered the room with George H.W. Bush and his son had quickly evaporated.
Duke Hauser, was leaning comfortably back in his armchair.
George H.W. Bush sat on the plush leather sofa opposite Duke, a glass of mineral water resting on his knee.
"People misunderstand movies as a medium," the elder Bush said, "They view it purely as escapism. But the true power of a moving picture is its ability to distill complex realities into emotion. Take Kazan's work, for instance. Viva Zapata!, my favorite film."
Duke raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed. "Marlon Brando playing a Mexican revolutionary. A bold choice for a favorite film, George."
"It's not the revolutionary part that i personally like, Duke," Bush Sr. clarified with a faint, knowing smile. "It's the study of power and how it corrupts the idealist."
"It's a brilliant piece of work. Just as brilliant, I must say, as what you and Robert have accomplished with The Godfather. I've screened it four times already. The Corleone family is an amazing story."
Robert Evans, sitting beside the elder Bush, smiled visibly. The scotch had smoothed out his earlier heartbreak, and the validation from a man of Bush's stature was exactly the kind of thing that Evans needed to get over his sadness.
"It's about family, George," Evans said smoothly, flashing his trademark smile. "It's about the bond of blood against a world that wants to tear you apart."
The irony of Evans, a man whose own family was currently being dismantled by the tabloids, preaching about the bonds of blood was almost too heavy to bear.
Duke took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes scanning the room to ensure the conversation stayed on safe ground.
That was exactly when George W. Bush decided to jump in.
The younger Bush was pacing behind his father, restless. He was trying to keep pace with the people in the room, wanting to contribute to the conversation.
"Well, I like the artsy stuff well enough," Bush Jr. chimed in, a confident grin on his face. "But if we're talking about real cinema, I'm waiting for the new Mcqueen flick. The Getaway. I saw the preview in the theater last week. Mcqueen with that brunette he's running with... Ali MacGraw? Good Lord. They have great chemistry. Did you guy know it was recorded here in Texas?"
Silence followed his comment.
Outside, seventy thousand fans screamed for a touchdown.
Duke watched as George H.W. Bush's eyes snap closed for a fraction of a second, and quickly shot his son a reprimanding look.
Bush Jr. blinked, his grin faltering, suddenly realizing he had stepped on a landmine without having any idea how or why. After all, doesnt everyone likes Steve Mcqueen?
But it was Robert Evans who took the damage.
Duke watched as the color entirely drained from Evans' face. The Getaway. The exact movie set in Texas where Steve McQueen and his wife, Ali MacGraw, had fallen into the affair that was currently destroying Evans' marriage.
Evans probably believed Bush Jr. was making fun of him, directly to his face.
Duke Hauser did not hesitate. "Peckinpah is certainly a great action director," Duke said, his voice loud. He locked his eyes directly onto George W. Bush. "But if you want a real thrill, George, you may want to watch the water."
Bush Jr. blinked, desperate for a lifeline. "The water?"
"I'm gearing up to direct my next picture next year." Duke continued, leaning forward. "We're shooting in Massachusets. It's an adaptation of my first book. A thriller about a great white shark terrorizing a small island community."
Bush Jr. eyes lit up, the awkward moment instantly forgotten. "A shark movie? Like a monster picture?"
"Not exactly a monster picture," Duke corrected, a warm, inviting smile on his face. "You seem like a man who appreciates a good spectacle. If you find yourself in Massachusets next summer, come by the set. I could use a guy on the beach looking absolutely terrified for a tracking shot. I'll give you a cameo."
Bush Jr. laughed, a genuine sound of relief and excitement. "You hear that, Pop? I might just take you up on that offer, Duke."
George H.W. Bush let out a slow breath.
"I think you'd do well to stay behind the camera," the elder Bush said dryly, before turning his gaze back to Duke. "But speaking of adaptations, Duke, I have to admit I am somewhat disappointed. I was hoping your next directorial effort would be a different book from your library. I read Big Fish last year on a flight to Geneva."
Duke felt a swell of genuine appreciation. Big Fish was one of the literary works he had wrote, a beautiful meditation on fathers, sons, and the mythology we build to understand our lives.
"You enjoyed it, George?" Duke asked.
"Immensely," Bush Sr. nodded, his voice filled with genuine respect. "It's a remarkable piece of literature. It takes a profound understanding of the human condition to weave a tall tale that feels more emotionally truthful than reality. You have a gift, Duke."
"He's talented," Evans finally managed to croak out, the color slowly returning to his cheeks. "Look at what Paramount has become in the last two years."
"It's true," Duke deflected smoothly, wanting to keep the spotlight off himself and build up his wounded Head of Production.
"But a studio is only as strong as its foundation. I provide the capital and the overall direction, but Robert is the main guy on the lot. His leadership is one of the reasons we're dominating the box office."
Evans allowed a weary smile to cross his face. Duke was not a compliments guy, "Believe it or not, I'm the mastermind in the shadows, George. Yet Duke is the one on the magazine covers."
George H.W. Bush nodded slowly, swirling his water.
"The cultural dominance is exactly why we wanted to speak with you today," Bush Sr. said, his tone shifting from movie fan to political heavyweight. "Paramount is no longer just a California film studio. You now have reach and influence."
Duke remained perfectly still, his positive demeanor manteined, but his internal radar was suddenly screaming. The pitch was coming.
"Our family," Bush Sr. continued carefully, choosing his words like a seasoned diplomat, "is evaluating a... deeper commitment to public service in the coming years on a national level."
"And when we make that transition, we want to ensure that we have strong, reciprocal relationships with the titans of American industry. We would very much value your support, Duke."
"I am always supportive of men who want to serve the country, George," Duke answered warmly, providing a completely non-committal response.
Bush Sr. leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just a fraction.
"The world is a complicated place, Duke," the elder Bush said smoothly. "And making movies globally is a vulnerable enterprise. Sometimes a film crew shooting in South America, or the Middle East, or Eastern Europe runs into... logistical friction. Can be a sudden denial of permits, hostile local government or even a customs agent who wants to confiscate your film negatives."
He paused, letting the reality of international filmmaking sink in.
"The intelligence community, the people I have had the privilege to work with has assets. They can make those logistical frictions disappear overnight. We can protect your investments."
Duke listened, maintaining a pleasant, attentive expression.
But Duke Hauser was a non political guy. The moment you accepted a favor from those people, you belonged to those people.
He absolutely refused to turn his art into a geopolitical weapon.
"Furthermore," Bush Sr. added, a slight, almost paternal smile touching his lips, "a man of your stature shouldn't be navigating the social waters of Washington alone. We have many friends in the party."
"In fact, Senator Goldwater's daughter is currently living in Los Angeles. She's a brilliant girl. I'd be more than happy to arrange an introduction. Having the right partner by your side is essential for solidifying your ties to the establishment."
Duke offered a smile that he hoped looked warm, and polite.
"You are incredibly generous, George," Duke said, "But I'm a simple storyteller at heart. I find that the moment a studio gets too deeply entangled in Washington politics, the art begins to suffer."
"And as for my social life..." Duke's smile reached his eyes. "I assure you, it is thoroughly, happily managed."
George H.W. Bush stared at him for a long moment, and gave a single, slow nod.
Before the silence could stretch into awkwardness, George W. Bush practically leaped back into the conversation.
"Well, if you're staying out of Washington, how about diving a little deeper into Texas?" Bush Jr. asked, "I've been looking at diversifying my own portfolio lately. Thinking about throwing some money at the local film industry. Do you think there's any real future for cinema outside of California and New York? Any thoughts on the Texas scene?"
Duke looked at the young man for a moment as he remembered that Bush Jr. worked for years as a movie investors for movies like Dead Poets Society or Pretty Woman.
"As a matter of fact, George, I think Texas is about to become well known for it's independent horror," Duke said, leaning back in his chair.
Bush Jr. chuckled. "Sounds like an opportunity to invest."
"It will be," Duke agreed with a smile. "Maybe if the Bush family can influence the Texas Film Commision to give preferential treatment to Paramount we could work something out."
"How so?" Bush Jr. asked intrigued.
"I would love to expand Paramount's lot in Hollywood, but it would be a waste of Capital, specially when Austin has so much empty land. I had been planning a philanthropic donation to the University of Texas at Austin next month to breach the subject with the Commision," Duke announced.
"We're going to fund their film program. State-of-the-art cameras, editing bays, soundstages at least comparable with USC."
The Dallas Cowboys secured a decisive victory, but by midnight, the roar of the stadium felt like a distant memory.
The scene had shifted to the opulent, dimly lit bar of The Adolphus Hotel in Dallas, there was a live jazz pianist playing in the corner.
Duke has always appreciated live music, but in his past life it was difficult to catch performance without getting price gouged.
George H.W. Bush and Robert Evans had both retired for the evening.
This left the two of them alone at a corner booth, a bottle of Kentucky bourbon sitting half-empty between them.
Duke Hauser found himself genuinely enjoying the company.
Stripped of the calculating nature of his father, George W. Bush was a completely different man. He was charismatic, quick-witted, and possessed a self-deprecating sense of humor that made him likable.
"I'm telling you, Duke, it was a disaster of historic proportions," W. laughed, taking a healthy sip of his bourbon.
He was recounting his notorious date with Tricia Nixon at a gala in honor of the Apollo 8 spaceflight crew.
"The Secret Service looked like they want to tackle me into the rose bushes. I'm sweating through my suit, I accidentally knocked over a wine glass, and to top it all off."
"Then I fired up a cigarette, prompting a polite suggestion from Tricia that I not smoke, I lit it and she called her Secret Service people and told them that she wanted to leave after the dinner ended, I even had to drive her home, to the White House."
Duke threw his head back and laughed, "You took the President's daughter out, and your main concern was smoking?"
"Hey, pressure makes people do crazy things," Bush Jr grinned, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Needless to say, there was no second date. I think my father nearly had an aneurysm. He's trying to build a dynasty, and his eldest son is spilling wine at a gala."
"---you know my dad, he really is trying to build a dynasty," Bush Jr said quietly, his eyes fixed on the ice in his glass.
Duke nodded slowly. "I know, George. I can sort of see his though process."
Bush Jr looked up, meeting Duke's gaze directly. "My old man... he's brilliant. He really is. But he speaks in leverage, favors, and well you know that's his world. Not mine."
"What is your world, George?" Duke asked interested.
"People," Bush Jr said simply, "I believe in building actual trust, not just transactional alliances. My father is going to run for the highest office in this land, and when he's done, I plan to follow him."
Duke knew that every single word the young man was saying was destined to become reality.
Bush Jr leaned forward, resting his forearms on the polished wood of the table.
"My father tried to buy you today with CIA favors and political setups," W. said bluntly. "I saw you brush him off. But look, as a fellow guy of this state. I want your friendship. I want your honest support."
Duke looked at the future 43rd President of the United States. He appreciated the sheer honesty of the approach.
Duke took a slow sip of his bourbon, feeling the warm burn of the alcohol.
"I appreciate the directness, George," Duke said, a warm smile breaking across his face. He set his glass down. "I really do. Contact me when the run starts to give my donation, I hope you can tell your father that Paramount is interested in some television stations in Texas."
Bush Jr face broke into a grin. "Of course i'll let him know, if you need a guide here, I know Texas."
"I would love to take you on that offer" Duke nodded, raising his glass. "Someone who knows where to find a good steak, and someone who can show me around the University of Texas campus so I can speak to them about the terms of the donation."
Bush Jr clinked his glass against Duke's.
"You got a deal, man," Bush Jr said, the excitement practically radiating from him. "Clear your schedule for Thursday. We're going to Austin."
___
The elevator ride up to the penthouse of The Adolphus Hotel felt remarkably longer than usual, though Duke suspected that had less to do with the mechanical speed of the lift and more to do with the generous amount of bourbon currently flowing in his bloodstream.
The elevator bell chimed softly, a ding that signaled his arrival at the top of the Dallas skyline. The brass doors slid open smoothly, revealing the heavily carpeted corridor of the penthouse level.
Duke stepped out, his bad leg aching with a dull throb that he was already too familiar with. He was entirely ready to collapse into the massive, king-sized bed, and close his eyes.
He reached the mahogany doors of his suite, fumbled slightly with the brass key and pushed the door open.
The suite was bathed in the warm glow of a few strategically placed lamps. Duke stepped inside, pushed the door shut behind him with a solid click, and let out a slow exhale, loosening the tie at his collar.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in?"
Duke stopped dead in his tracks.
The voice was unmistakable.
Standing in the middle of the luxurious suite was Lynda Carter.
Lynda was wearing a fringed, royal blue blouse tied just above her midriff, pristine white shorts adorned with a belt featuring a massive, glittering star buckle.
She was wearing white, knee-high western boots and also holding two massive silver pom-poms.
She was dressed, head-to-toe, as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader.
Duke stood perfectly still.
"I..." Duke started, his usually direct vocabulary entirely failing him. He pointed a finger at her.
Lynda threw her head back and laughed, she gave the silver pom-poms a shake, while smiling happily at Duke.
"You're not hallucinating," Lynda smiled, walking toward him, "Though I have to say, the look on your face was worth the entire price of the plane ticket."
Duke reached out, pulling her into his arms. He kissed her deeply, a surge of affection washing away the exhaustion of the day.
When he finally pulled back, he kept his arms wrapped loosely around her waist, a slightly goofy smile spreading across his face.
"I'm not complaining," Duke murmured, "In fact, I am prepared to state on the record that this is one of the greatest moment of my life. But Lynda... how? How are you in Texas? You are supposed to be in London. The Miss World pageant stars soon. You're supposed to be drinking tea with the British press."
"I did drink tea with the British press," Lynda smiled, reaching up to gently straighten the collar of his rumpled dress shirt. "And then I had a four-day blackout window in the schedule before the televised rehearsals begin. Most of the girls took the time to go shopping in Paris or sleep for three days straight. I decided I missed you too much. So, I got on a plane."
"A fourteen-hour flight," Duke marveled, his heart swelling. "Just to ambush me."
"Well, someone has to keep you on your toes," she teased. "And considering you were in your hometown watching a football game, I figured I needed to blend in with the local culture."
She gestured down to the vest and white boots. "I had a tailor in London rush-order the replica based on a magazine spread I saw. You like it?"
"Like it?" Duke laughed, shaking his head in sheer wonder. "Lynda, how did you get into the penthouse? I have three security men stationed at the elevators. They are specifically instructed not to let anyone on this floor."
Lynda gave him a look of innocence. "Your bodyguard, Marcus let me in."
"Marcus," Duke repeated, rubbing his forehead. "He just let you walk up here?"
"He didn't just let me walk up here, Duke," Lynda corrected with a brilliant smile. "He pressed the elevator button for me, carried my luggage, and asked if I needed him to arrange for a bottle of champagne. Your security team loves me."
Duke let out a rich laugh, "I'm going to fire him... or not, I haven't decided yet."
"You aren't firing anyone," Lynda said, playfully swatting his chest with a silver pom-pom. "Though I think someone else might have been doing some celebrating tonight. How much scotch did you drink, Duke?"
"It was bourbon, actually," Duke corrected smoothly, though he leaned into her touch. "And it was strictly diplomatic. George W. Bush is surprisingly good company. His father is... not good company. I'm going to fund a University of Texas film program soon."
"You did good today, didn't you?" she asked softly.
"I survived," Duke smiled, resting his forehead against hers. "But Bob... Bob had a rough day. The McQueen thing is hitting him hard."
"I know," Lynda sighed, leaning into him. "It's a tragedy, it really is. Oh, the previous Miss Texas says she would like to meet Evans, her name is Phyllis George."
"Well," Lynda said, stepping back slightly and clapping her hands together, a mischievous spark returning to her eye. "If you've been navigating heartbreak and politics all day, and drinking Kentucky bourbon all night, there is only one logical next step."
"Bed?" Duke suggested hopefully.
"A swim," Lynda declared.
Duke stared at her. "Lynda, it's one-thirty in the morning."
"And we are in The Adolphus," she countered seamlessly, tossing the pom-poms onto the velvet sofa. "I already checked with security. The rooftop pool is completely private, it's heated, and it's open to penthouse guests twenty-four hours a day. It will clear your head, and give us a chance to actually catch up. Come on."
She grabbed his hand, her enthusiasm infectious. Duke finding it completely impossible to deny her anything, especially when she was smiling like that.
"Alright, alright," Duke conceded.
The Adolphus Hotel was a towering structure of brick and granite that felt like a European palace dropped directly into the heart of Texas. Its rooftop pool was no exception to the grandeur.
Stepping out into the warm, dry Dallas night, Duke felt the immediate contrast of the air.
Beyond the edge of the roof, the Dallas skyline stretched out in a glittering, electric grid.
Duke was wearing a simple pair of dark swim trunks, carrying a stack of thick, monogrammed hotel towels. He walked slowly.
Lynda walked ahead of him. She had abandoned the fringed vest and the boots, putting on a dark one-piece swimsuit.
She didn't hesitate. She walked to the edge of the deep end, raised her arms, and did a dive into the glowing blue water.
Duke set the towels down on a lounger and walked to the shallow end. He preferred a slower approach. He gripped the steel railing and stepped down into the water.
It was perfect. The water was heated to an exact, soothing temperature that immediately began to work on his body. He let out a involuntary groan of relief, sinking down until the water was up to his chest.
"Oh, that is great," Duke murmured, leaning his head back against the smooth tile of the pool edge and looking up at the scattered stars fighting through the city lights.
Lynda surfaced a few yards away, her dark hair slicked back cascading down her shoulders. She smiled, treading water effortlessly.
"Told you," she said, swimming over to him. She didn't stop until she was right in front of him, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck and letting her legs float alongside him.
"You are consistently right about things," Duke smiled, his hands naturally finding her waist beneath the water.
"It's a heavy burden, but I carry it with pride," she teased, resting her chin on his chest. "It's beautiful up here. So different from Los Angeles. LA feels like it's constantly trying to sell you something. Dallas just feels calmer in a way."
"It's a less commercial city," Duke agreed, "It's good to be back."
Lynda lifted her head, looking into his eyes
Duke smiled, leaning in to kiss her softly.
"It's good to be back here with you," he whispered against her lips. "If I didn't have you to come home to, I'd probably be doing some crazy stuff by now."
"You need to relax more, and work less," Lynda laughed, splashing a small handful of water at his chest.
They stayed in the water for nearly an hour, the conversation shifting from the Paramount to the trivial gossip of the Miss World pageant in London.
"Alright," Duke said, reluctantly pulling himself slightly higher out of the water. "As much as I want to stay here until the sun comes up, if I don't get you out of this pool, you're going to catch a cold."
They climbed out of the deep water, the night air immediately raising goosebumps on their skin.
Duke grabbed the thick, plush hotel towels, wrapping one tightly around Lynda's shoulders before vigorously drying his own hair.
They walked back through the quiet, carpeted corridors of the Adolphus penthouse level, Lynda leaving a faint trail of damp footprints behind her.
She was leaning happily against his side, his arm wrapped securely around her waist.
___
Another chapter later