The Paramount lot at high noon felt a little lazy in the air.
The sun beat down on the iconic water tower, casting a long shadow across the studio floor.
Duke walked around the familiar lot, his mind already going through the production schedules of three separate pictures.
He didn't stop for the junior executives who hurried out of his way, their eyes averted as if looking at him directly would get them fired.
He reached the executive building, bypassing the secretaries, who had long since learned that Duke didn't believe in appointments and strode straight toward Robert Evans' office.
He didn't bother to knock, he simply pushed the oak door open with the palm of his hand, intending to drop a ledger on Evans' desk and move on to the next thing.
He froze.
In front of him, Robert Evans was caught in a moment of unscripted passion. He was wearing only his dress slacks, his shirt discarded somewhere aorund the office.
Entangled with him, in a state of similar undress, was Ali MacGraw.
Duke stared for a heartbeat, his mind processing the scene. Duke pulled the door shut with a quiet, decisive move and turned around, deciding that whatever Evans was doing with his private life was not for him to care.
As he pivoted away from the office, he nearly collided with Gary Kurtz, who was emerging from a side hallway.
Kurtz looked tanned, lean, and utterly hollowed out by the six months he'd spent in the Amazon during the awful production of Aguirre, the Wrath of God.
He caught Duke's eye and offered a tired smile. Duke clapped a hand on the producer's shoulder, feeling the tension in the man's frame.
"Aguirre," Duke said, "Great job, Gary, I knew you were the righ-"
Kurtz leaned against the wall, shaking his head. "No, just no, the river, the heat, Herzog, that horrible actor... I've never seen a production push everyone to the brink like that. I cannot work with that man, Herzog nor Klaus anymore."
Duke thought for a moment on how Kurtz had taken a half a year paid vacation cause of mental exhaustion from the Aguirre, the Wrath of God's set, there was even a point, when Kurtz called Duke offering to kill the main actor, Klaus Kinski, after he shoot a tent and blew an extra's finger.
Not to mention, the director, Herzog telling Klaus that he will shoot him and then shoot himself if Klaus tried to drop his role. Or the native amazonia tribe that was working with the crew, offering to discretly kill Klaus.
Or the Supporting actors banding together and offering to murder Klaus and drag his body to the jungle. Or even a insurance guy implying he wouldn't say anything if Klaus were to fall from a cliff.
The stories were even more wild, since the crew also faced attacks from a rival indiginous tribe and suffered from malaria.
Duke nodded, his mind drifting back to the early days, back when they were just five people with a camera, a van and a dream, filming Love Story relying on guerrilla tactics.
Blythe Danner, Harrison Ford, George Lucas, Gary Kurtz and him. Running from security, lying to librarians and and shooting without permits.
"It reminds me of those early days, doesn't it?" Duke said, his eyes glinting with a nostalgic joy. "When we didn't have the money, or permits. When it was just us getting in, getting the shot, and getting out before anyone knew we were there. What i'm trying to say is, I want you to help me make Jaws."
Gary Kurtz was still processing the request.
He looked at Duke, who was leaning against the wall, looking relaxed.
"You realize," Kurtz said, his voice laced with weariness, "that the sea is the one thing we can't control? The ocean is going to eat the schedule, Duke."
Duke didn't flinch. "Exactly, Gary. That's why you're my producer."
"You're going to direct it yourself, aren't you?" Kurtz asked, not really needing an answer. "Because nobody else would be crazy enough to tackle the logistics."
Duke walked over to a table, sliding a detailed, hand-drawn storyboard across the surface. "It's not crazy, Gary. If I direct, I can control things. So... what do you say? I need you to handle the logistics so I can handle the story."
Kurtz looked at the drawings. They were professional, and undeniably compelling.
He sighed, the exhaustion still clinging to his bones, but he was already calculating the logistics in his head.
"I'll need a crew that doesn't mind getting wet," Kurtz said, a small smile playing on his lips.
The office door finally opened, and Evans stepped out.
He was practically dancing, his feet shuffling with a rhythmic beat as he moved down the hallway, humming some jazz riff.
He saw Duke and his face broke into a grin. "You saw, didn't you?"
Evans cackled, throwing his hands up in a gesture of pure, unadulterated triumph. "She was with him, Duke! Mcqueen! And now that we are getting divorced? She's here. Right under his nose!" Evans began to spin, his suit jacket flapping around.
Duke watched him for a moment, he reached out and grabbed Evan's shoulder, pulling him to a sudden halt.
"Listen to me, Bob," Duke said, "I don't care about what you do, but this kind of amateur hour is going to bleed into our work if you aren't careful. Keep things on the low. I want you focused on the slate."
"If McQueen finds out and this becomes a PR disaster that affects next year slate, I'm going to demote you from Ithaca Pictures."
Evans blinked, the grin fading slightly as he felt the weight of Duke's words, but he was already drifting back into his own ego, nodding distractedly. "Yeah, the slate, Duke. Don't worry, i'm great at my job."
"Okay, cut your theatrics. What's the status of The Exorcist?"
Evans leaned against the wall, "Friedkin is on it. And they are pretty advanced in their production schedule."
Duke didn't smile. "Make sure the movie gets finished," he said, turning away without a backward glance.
___
The drive back to the Owlwood estate was a quiet affair, the absence of Lynda in the passenger seat left a difficult to fill silence in the car.
Once he arrived, he went straight to his study, closing the doors on the world. He moved to his desk, where a sleek, top-of-the-line IBM Selectric sat, a gift from Evans that he'd never even plugged in.
He pushed it aside. In front of him stood the Royal Quiet Deluxe. The typewriter he had bought it in a pawn shop in 1966, a few days after he'd first woken up in this era.
He fed a clean, crisp sheet of paper into the roller. He sat there, hands hovering over the keys, and found his mind stalling.
Usually, he could reach into the archives of his memory and pull out a blockbuster, yet today, the well felt shallow.
He thought about Forrest Gump a simple, earnest human story of a man drifting through the chaotic history of the late twentieth century.
Forrest Gump is a nostalgia story, yet right now in 1972, the political situation and anxiety of the era were so heavy that there wasn't a nostalgia that a character like Forrest Gump could navigate.
He needed a story that hit harder, he thought about The Shawshank Redemption.
It was a great story of hope, yet, he had never read the book on his past life, only watched the movie, but as he though of adapting the film as a book, his mind just went blank.
He needed a best seller, to forget the fact that the previous 2 books he published were not well received. Yet the more he thought about it the less he knew what to write.
"Stop overthinking it, Duke," he muttered to the empty room. He looked at the Royal Quiet Deluxe. The keys were waiting, indifferent to his internal debate. He just stood there in front of the typewriter, without an idea of what to write.
___
Short Chapter, Longer chapter tomorrow