The final frames of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre flickered off as the screen went black for a few seconds, the cinema sat in silence.
Then the silence broke, men whistled through their teeth, boots stomped on floors.
The strategy of appealing to Horror fans was working as they saw them screaming the most.
The movie critics in the front rows looked rattled, scribbling notes but not applauding for the most part.
Tobe Hooper, the young director, was practically forced onto the stage by an overeager theater manager.
He blinked in the spotlight too nervous to start his words, behind him came the cast, Marilyn Burns and Paul Partain waving awkwardly at the stands.
From the middle row, Duke stood up and started walking to join them.
Immediately, Russell and another security materialized from the aisle, falling in step behind him.
Duke climbed the steps onto the stage and the cast parted, shuffling to give him a wider area. Duke didn't reach for the microphone, he simply stood there, supporting Tobe Hooper.
The applause grew louder since most people in the room knew who he was.
From the third row, a burly guy in a denim jacket cupped his hands and screamed, "I Love you Sally!".
A few others took up the moment to say some more outlandish stuff at the actors.
Duke's mouth twitched into a faint smile, he turned to Hooper, slapping a hand on the director's shoulder, and gave a firm squeeze.
Duke slipped out the fire door when the Q&A was supposed to start. Russell held the door open, and they stepped into a dirty alley behind the theater.
A black Lincoln Continental idled in the alley, Russell pulled the rear door open. "Home, boss?"
"Home," Duke said.
He slid into the leather backseat, stretched his legs out, and stared out the window.
---
The next morning, the Owlwood estate was silent.
Duke woke up early, the master bedroom felt somewhat empty with Margaux still in Idaho.
He walked into the kitchen, poured a black coffee, and stepped out to the front portico.
A stack of morning papers sat on the top step, left by security, Duke picked them up and carried them into his private study.
He spread them out on his desk. Los Angeles Times, Hollywood Reporter, Variety and the tabloids The National Enquirer and The National Star.
The headline on The National Star said.
'EXECUTION-ER PRODUCER: Movie Mogul's Blood-Soaked Secret Family Life?'
Beneath it, a grainy still frame of Duke pulling off the Leatherface mask.
Duke let out a short laughter and took a sip of coffee.
The trades were more restrained but equally bewildered.
Variety marveled at the box-office potential while questioning the sanity of the studio behind it.
The Hollywood Reporter also ran a piece. "Hauser, who has cultivated a private persona rivaling Howard Hughes, chooses to reveal himself as a masked, squealing murderer. One wonders what the Paramount executives thinks of their boy-king running around the Texas dirt with a power tool."
Finally Duke read the National Enquirer, the biggest tabloid in America.
"Hauser's real horror isn't aprosthetic mask, it's the rumors swirling around Hollywood that the studio's golden boy never even finished high school. Word is, he can't even read the scripts he's greenlighting. It seems Paramount has handed the keys to the kingdom to a backwoods hick who got lucky after trading his overalls for a tailored suit, and now decides to spend his weekends playing dress-up in the mud."
Duke tossed the paper aside, he had led Paramount, to dominate Hollywood for the past 4 years and now they were mad about this?
The black rotary phone on his desk began to ring, he ignored it. It rang five times, stopped, then started again on the second line.
He pushed the intercom button.
"Talk to me."
His assistant's voice crackled through, "Mr. Hauser, the switchboard is lighting up. George C. Scott called, he left a message saying this is 'entirely beneath the dignity of a studio head.'"
"Gregory Peck called, polite but concerned about your mental well-being. Katharine Hepburn called your private line and said she was 'profoundly disappointed' and hung up. And I have half a dozen veteran producers holding."
Duke dragged a hand down his jaw, feeling the rough stubble.
"Put the loudest one through."
The line clicked and a pompous voice, Walter Brennan, a three-time Academy Award winner came out.
"Duke, listen to me. You are the head of Paramount Pictures. You are supposed to represent a legacy, not your own trailer-park daydream. The town is already laughing at you, don't prove them right by running around a Texas field like a maniac. You do not roll in the mud with exploitation garbage. For God's sake, maintain some dignity for yourself."
Duke listened for a few seconds, his expression hardening. "Are you finished, Walter? Because I don't give a fuck about your concept of dignity. I don't call you to tell you how to produce your boring little western bullshit, so do not ever call my line to tell me how to run shit."
He slammed the receiver down.
He stared at the phone, jaw tight.
He had always hated the Academy's bias against horror.
They dismissed the films as lesser, low-brow trash meant for drive-ins even when those films terrified millions, had meaning and generated mountains of cash.
He didn't care about their approval. He had built Paramount breaking their rules already.
Duke picked up his coffee, walked to the window overlooking the lawns, and took a deep breath, deciding to create a label only for horror, and increase the advertisement budget of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.
He walked back to the desk and pressed the intercom. "Cancel my morning appointments. Push script reviews to tomorrow. I'll be in the office by noon. Have the Mattel file on my desk."
___
By late morning, the California sun was baking the Paramount lot, Duke sat behind his desk, a file on Mattel's legal restructuring open before him when his door opened softly.
Robert Evans stumbled through the frame, bringing a smell of bourbon and moisture with him.
He looked terrible, bloodshot eyes with a wrinkled silk shirt unbuttoned halfway and sweat on his forehead.
Duke didn't look up, he slowly turned a page. "You look like you got pursued by a murdered with a chainsaw, Bob."
Evans groaned, dragged his feet across the carpet, and collapsed into a chair. "I've been partying, Duke, three nights straight. One of these days, you gotta let me take you, i'll get some girls to entertaint you."
Duke looked up. He reached and picked up a jug of ice water, poured a glass, and shoved it across the desk. "Drink the water slowly... don't you got like a kid, Evans? How do you have time for partying?"
Evans didn't respond, he grabbed the glass with both hands and drank it all in one go.
"What are you doing in my office at 11 in the morning, Robert?" Duke demanded. "My office. Not your office... You know that, right?"
Evans wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "I signed an author, Duke for eight scripts, he is a talent."
Duke's eyes narrowed. "You signed an author for eight scripts without running it past me? Are you out of your mind?"
"He's an animal! A party animal." Evans waved his hands. "You'd love him. He writes these horror stories, his name is Stephen King."
Evans dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered paperback, slamming it onto the desk.
'The Long Walk', Evans tapped the cover. "Read this. It's about a death march and kids walking until they drop dead with the military shooting the ones who stop. Great concept for a movie."
Duke stared at the book, the fact that Evans, blind drunk, had stumbled into a goldmine of this magnitude was impressive.
"How much did you pay him?"
"Half a million since his book is sort of a success already!"
Suddenly, Evans' face went white, he clamped a hand over his mouth, his eyes bulging.
He started making gagging sounds, Duke watched him in disgust for a second, then pressed the intercom.
"Get security in here. Have them escort Mr. Evans back to his... place of residence. Do not let him back on this floor."
Two guards appeared, hoisting Evans up by his armpits. He didn't fight, just let his head loll back, still muttering about Stephen King as they dragged him out.
Duke sighed, staring at the empty doorway. The man was unhinged, unprofessional, and a disaster of a human being. But damn was he a great producer.
The office was quiet again, Duke poured himself a cup of coffee, walked back to his desk, and picked up the secure phone, dialing the number for the Idaho ranch.
It rang twice. The Norland nanny answered, and ten seconds later, Margaux's voice came through the line.
"Hauser," she said warmly. She told him about her morning, reading on the porch, walking the property line, feeding carrots to the Herefords and the morning sickness had finally started to ease.
"I saw the papers, Duke," she added, a smile in her voice. "You look terrifying with that mask."
Duke laughed. "That's the goal. If people think I'm crazy, they won't try to negotiate."
"I've been thinking. I'm taking all of 1975 off for the baby, I want to be here. But in 1976, I want to work again. My career can't just disappear, you promised you'd help me transition."
Duke leaned back in his chair.
"I will keep that promise," he said. "We'll find the right project. You tell me when you're ready, and I'll clear the runway."
"Good," Margaux said, relieved. "Also, my sister Mariel wants to act. She's sixteen beautiful, talented. Can you just keep an eye out for her? Point her in the right direction?"
Duke grabbed a pen and pulled a notepad across the desk. "Yeah, we dont really have many roles for teenage girls..."
"Look all I ask is just get her in the door." A pause. "You're invited to come visit soon, Duke."
"I'll be there in two weeks. Take care of yourself."
___
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