A thumping of disco bass vibrated through the walls of the master bedroom.
Duke lay awake in the Owlwood Estate's Master Bedroom, staring at the ornate ceiling while the clock on his nightstand marked 3 in the morning.
It was mid February and Margaux was still away in Philadelphia, leaving Duke alone with the nanny to navigate the nocturnal challenges of fatherhood.
The persistent noise from the neighboring Playboy Mansion was a reminder that even immense wealth could not always buy peace and quiet in Los Angeles.
Down the hallway, Bradley began to cry.
Duke tossed aside his comforter in frustraition and stepped onto the cold floor, his jaw tight.
He walked into the dimly lit nursery and scooped his son out of the crib, the nanny arrived after, clearly just waking up but Duke just waved her away.
Duke held the warm toddler against his chest, whispering as he began to rock him.
The neighboring property was a constant thorn in his side.
Hugh Hefner hosted massive parties that frequently spilled over into the early hours of the morning, catering to the hedonistic celebrity culture of this era.
He had even tried to invite Duke several times.
Duke carried Bradley to the window, glaring through the glass toward the invisible property line.
He had invested a lot into this house, building privacy walls and donating to local police charities to secure a safe environment for his family.
Despite those investments, the circus next door continued to invade his peace at the worst possible hours.
He gently hummed a lullaby until Bradley finally settled down, his small chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
Duke carefully lowered the sleeping boy back into the crib, lingering for a moment to ensure the sleep held.
Duke walked back to the master suite and sat in a leather armchair in the dark, staring at the wall.
By 7 o'clock, the bass had faded, replaced by the chirping of California birds.
Duke sat at his desk with a cup of black coffee, the phone receiver pressed against his ear as he dialed the local LAPD precinct for the fourth time that month.
The desk sergeant's voice crackled through the receiver, calm and tired, the sound of a man who had taken a thousand similar calls from wealthy Beverly Hills residents complaining about their neighbors.
"We'll send a patrol car to the area when we can, Mr. Hauser."
Duke could hear the boredom in the man's voice.
His donation to the police charity had bought him 3 weeks of peace, but he was back to square one.
He probably had an assumption that this was just another rich man's squabble, not worth the gas money to send a cruiser.
He hung up without saying goodbye.
For a moment, he sat in the silence of his bedroom, staring at the phone.
The noise from the neighboring estate had been going on for three nights this week alone.
The kind of party that spilled out onto the lawn and kept the entire block awake until dawn.
Bradley had woken up crying twice just last night
Duke picked up the receiver again, punching in a number he had memorized years ago. The line rang twice before a voice answered.
"Governor's office."
"Tell the Governor Jerry that Duke Hauser is calling and I need a word with the Commissioner of the LAPD."
There was a pause on the other end. Then the voice returned, softer now, more accommodating. "One moment, Mr. Hauser."
The line clicked after a few minutes. A new voice, a man formal voice. "Mr. Hauser. This is Commissioner Edward Davis. The Governor's office said you needed to speak with me."
Duke kept his voice calm. "There's a property on my block in Homby Hills that's been violating noise ordinances for several nights. I called the precinct. They told me they'd send someone 'when they could.'"
A pause and Davis understood the subtext immediately. "I'll have a car out there within the hour, Mr. Hauser."
"I appreciate that."
He hung up again, but this time, his fingers found a different number.
"O'Melveny & Myers."
"Warren. It's Duke."
The lawyer's voice shifted, moving from professional greeting to something more attentive. "...Connor, what do you need?"
"I want every noise ordinance, municipal code, and civil nuisance law on the books for Homby Hills. And I want to know if we can get a restraining order against the property next door."
Edward let out a low whistle. "You're not messing around."
"I'm not. I want options on how to deal with my neighbor."
"I'll have my team on it tonight. I'll call you by morning."
Duke set the receiver down and leaned back in his leather chair, staring at the ceiling.
If the authorities wouldn't enforce the community laws on their own, he would make them.
He decided since he couldnt sleep, and bradley probably would sleep through the day, to leave early for work.
At 9 o'clock, his assistant Simpson stepped into his office, carrying a fresh pot of coffee.
The younger man carried a frown, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced by a stiffness that Duke found weird.
"A journalist from the National Enquirer called the main line," Simpson said, his voice neutral.
"The reporter claims to have verified information regarding a child born out of wedlock. Your child. They're requesting a comment before it goes to print."
The coffee in Duke's cup turned bitter on his tongue.
The tabloids of 1970s were sharks circling in bloody water. They didn't even need proof, just a story that sold.
"What's the reporter's name?"
"Paul something. He wouldn't give his full name. Said he'd call back at noon."
Duke pressed his fingers against his temples. A headache already forming, "Tell him I'm in a board meeting. Tell him my office will provide a formal response by tomorrow morning. Buy us time."
Simpson nodded and disappeared.
An hour later, Duke had assembled his crisis team in a private boardroom.
Simpson sat to his left, pen over a legal pad.
His attorney, Marcus Webb, sat across the table, gold pen tapping against his notepad.
"The Enquirer is a rag," Webb began, adjusting his glasses. "But they have reach. Millions of housewives read that paper in the checkout line. If they print this, it's not going away."
"Options. I need options," Duke said.
Webb leaned forward. "Option one, we buy the story. Pay them a lump sum to kill it. It's expensive, but it's clean."
"Option two?" Duke asked.
"We deny it outright. Threaten a defamation lawsuit and make them prove their claims in court. Most tabloids back down when they face the prospect of actual legal consequences."
Of course Webb didnt continue, specially since they were talking about the National Enquirer.
To understand the power of the National Enquirer its better to check its history.
In 1969 an event called the Chappaquiddick incident happened, where Ted Kennedy, younger brother of JFK drove his car off a narrow bridge with his asistant and left her to die in the car underwater and failed to report the incident for around 10 hours.
When the story broke, the National Enquirer prepared an explosive story alleging that victim Mary Jo Kopechne was pregnant with Ted Kennedy's child at the time of her death.
Ted Kennedy quashed the story. But in exchange, he had to provide the tabloid with exclusive, personal access to Jackie Kennedy, JFK widow, trading her privacy to secure his own political survival.
Duke shook his head slowly. "Buying the story is protection money. They'll bleed us dry, I also dont have the best relation with them."
"And the denial?" Simpson asked.
"I won't deny Bradley's existence." Duke's voice was flat. "I won't stand in front of the world and lie about my son. That's not an option."
The room fell silent.
"Then there's option three," Duke continued. "We own the narrative. We release a statement confirming the facts and claim family privacy."
Marcus Webb leaned back in his chair, considering. "If we confirm it ourselves, the Enquirer loses its exclusive. Their headline becomes old news by the time it hits the stands."
"Exactly." Duke turned to Simpson. "Take this down."
Simpson's pen hovered over the page.
"'I confirm that I am the father of a young son. I ask the press for basic privacy for my family matters. No further comment will be made on this personal matter.'"
He paused. "That's it. No details and no names."
Simpson finished writing. "I'll have the statement drafted and ready for your signature by end of day."
"Good." Duke stood, buttoning his jacket. "Get me a list of everyone who knew about Bradley. I want to know how this reporter found out."
6 hours later, Duke was stepping off a commercial flight into the miserable cold of Pennsylvania.
He rented an unassuming sedan at the airport, and drove toward Philadelphia which took him past boarded-up storefronts and rows of ugly houses.
The city wore its poverty openly, the rust and decay visible on every corner.
The production for Rocky was shooting in a working-class neighborhood that looked like it had been frozen in time.
Duke parked the car and walked toward the set with Russel trailing him.
The production was a departure from the high-budget studio pictures back in California.
This was a scrappy, independent venture shooting on actual city streets that reminded Duke of his time working on Midnight Cowboy.
Despite the freezing temperatures and lack of luxury trailers, the crew moved with an infectious energy that Duke found refreshing.
He parked the car and approached the craft services table during a brief pause in filming.
Duke scanned the small crowd of extras and crew members until he finally spotted Margaux.
She was sitting on a wooden apple crate, wearing a winter coat over her wardrobe. She looked almost unrecognizable in her elaborate costume makeup.
The glamour of the model was gone.
Her hair was dyed a mousy brown, and wore thick, unflattering glasses, and heavy contouring altered the way of her cheekbones.
She embodied the shy, introverted character of Adrian perfectly.
She cradled a steaming paper cup of black coffee in her hands, looking physically exhausted but happy.
Duke walked over, and Margaux looked up, her tired eyes widening at the surprise visit.
Duke smiled, shaking his head in mild disbelief at her physical transformation.
That evening, after the director finally called a wrap for the day, Duke and Margaux retreated to her modest hotel room.
The place smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke and was pretty basic.
There was no fancy room service available, so they shared greasy takeout food from a local neighborhood diner, the cardboard containers leaking oil onto the cheap bedspread.
Sitting cross-legged on the small mattress, Margaux spoke about the grueling filming process.
When the conversation lulled, Duke set his container aside and wiped his hands on a napkin.
He watched her for a moment, then told her. "There's something I need to tell you. About back home."
Margaux's hand paused over her carton.
"Someone went to the tabloids," Duke said flatly. "The Enquirer called and they know about Bradley. They know he's mine."
Margaux's fork hovered mid-air. She stared at the greasy container for a moment before slowly setting it down on the nightstand.
"I'm going to issue a statement," Duke said. "I'll confirm that Bradley is my son. That I'm his father but I won't mention you."
Margaux blinked. Her eyes searched his face. "Why?"
"Because I'm a man, Margaux. The press will call me a... bachelor who made a mistake. They'll spin it as romantic, even, but you..."
He trailed off, "They'll tear you apart. Scandals hurt women the most."
She was silent for a moment. "So I just... disappear from the story."
"You'll be protected," Duke said. "That's what matters."
"Protected." She picked at a loose thread on the bedspread, her fingers working it back and forth. "And the tabloids will just accept that? They won't dig deeper?"
Duke shook his head. "They'll print my statement and they'll probably move on to the next scandal. It's how this business works."
Margaux sat still for a moment, her eyes fixed on her food. Then she nodded slowly.
"It was probably Jack," she said, her voice low. "The leak, I mean. That's why they didn't mention me."
Duke frowned. "Why do you say that?"
She looked up at him, "Because Jack would never want the Hemingway name attached to a scandal like this. Not if it hurts him but he'd leak the story to hurt you."
"He doesn't want to damage the family name," Margaux continued, her voice flat. "He just wants to punish you. So he gave them just enough to drag you through the mud."
Duke reached across the mattress and gently took her hand.
"Things are going to be fine, Margaux," he said softly.
___
Slightly different chapter?... thoughs