Chapter 56: At Worst, Enter the Saint Valley

Hearing these words, Martin thought about the endless drifting in his previous life, the hawkers wandering around Clayton, and the bodies falling before the shotgun muzzle.

"Who wants to lie at the bottom and be someone's stepping stone?"

"Who wants to be squeezed dry like a mineral?"

"Who wants to be whipped like a donkey, working hard but going nowhere?"

Martin gulped down his drink. "Anyone who grabs onto me, I'll kick them into hell; anyone who blocks me, I'll push them off a cliff; anyone who oppresses me, I'll throw them into the fire. Louise, how can the future be any worse than my past?"

"What do I have to lose? If I fail, at worst, I'll come back as a dancer, at worst, I'll enter the Saint Valley to make films! I don't want to be a pauper, spending my whole life at the bottom!"

He grinned, showing a gap in his teeth. "You know what? The most likely candidate for the lead role in 'Zombie Strippers', Adam Smith, got nabbed by the DEA."

Louise immediately understood. "That's what's going on." She laughed, "It's a perfect match of trash and filth."

"Please continue." Martin poured them more drinks. No matter how much news and rumors he'd read in his past life, they couldn't compare to the firsthand experience of Louise, a producer.

Louise said, "If you want to really develop, leave Atlanta and go to Los Angeles. Georgia's incentives will attract more Hollywood crews, but places like Toronto, Australia, and Morocco did similar things years ago and couldn't become star-making hubs. For normal Hollywood crews, the main cast and crew are determined before they leave Los Angeles."

She pointed to Martin's mouth. "Your Southern accent is fine for minor roles with few lines but not for roles with many lines. You can't do the Hollywood accent well. Of course, for 'Zombie Strippers', it doesn't matter because the character is a Southern zombie."

"Hollywood accent?" Martin was slightly puzzled but quickly understood. "You mean the standard accent in Hollywood movies, right?"

Louise reminded, "Self-correct daily and find professional coaching. I haven't found any professional training institution in Atlanta; you need to learn both the Hollywood and British accents to increase your core competitiveness."

Such professional advice was truly valuable, and Martin remembered it all. "I'll visit the Savannah College of Art and Design Atlanta campus tomorrow."

Louise then said, "The important thing is, don't hesitate when you see an opportunity. Don't worry about whether your methods are despicable or whether you maintain dignity; winning is what's most important. If you win, everyone will call it inspirational; if you lose, no one will care that you played fair."

Martin abruptly asked, "Can I use some tactics on you?"

"What?" Louise, a drunken pervert, unconsciously let her gaze wander downward.

Martin picked up his glass to enhance the mood. "My genius brain just came up with a few new cocktail ideas."

Louise gritted her teeth. "You are such a scoundrel! You deserve to wallow in the mire forever! Just wait; I'll bite off your mortar and turn it into a cocktail shaker!"

Martin had thick skin. "A cocktail shaker that produces its own liquor?"

"Shameless indeed, you have potential to climb up. Now give me a new recipe." Louise, more interested in hobbies than work, made the straightforward transaction clear. "This year... I'm very busy this year, producing a film and going to Morocco."

She calculated the time. "Alright, go to Los Angeles around New Year's. I'll recommend you to an agency; your acting is fine. I've seen every scene you shot. In return for my satisfaction, I'll give you some help."

Martin got back to the main point. "What about 'Zombie Strippers'? Setting aside the funding."

Louise saw Martin getting paper to jot down the cocktail name and proportions and said, "Being the lead in a feature film is a very important credential. Scoundrel, note this well: when choosing your crew and role, it's better to be a big fish in a small pond than a small fish in a big one."

She took the paper Martin finished writing on, forcefully kissed it, folded it carefully, and put it away. "Most Hollywood film investments are a mixture, like my company, which never independently produces films."

"Such crews always have various relationships and interests to balance, and even as an executive producer, I can't recommend an actor without capability or credentials for key roles. The production company and I can't clear that hurdle, we're talking about tens or hundreds of millions of dollars in interests, do the math."

Martin sighed. "I need to land the lead role in this million-dollar project first."

Louise, delighted by whatever came to mind, laughed uncontrollably. "When I recommend you, I can't use clips of Urban People, can I?"

"Can I help find funding? Would Kelly accept?" Martin murmured. "She mentioned money laundering last time."

Louise didn't care. "Money laundering is common in the film industry. All those bundled Hollywood projects involve money laundering. Keep the accounts well, be discreet, pay full taxes, and everyone can launder together."

She clinked glasses with Martin again. "Most Hollywood movies lose money, but vast amounts of funds pour in from around the globe. Are investors dumb? Let's put it this way, without the endless flow of dark money, the film industry wouldn't be what it is today."

Martin believed her because he had seen it before, and Hollywood probably had even more tricks up its sleeve.

Louise laughed even more joyously. "If you can find a stable and controllable source of funds for Grey Company, Kelly will agree to all your demands."

Martin grasped the key points--stable and controllable.

He stopped talking and clinked glasses with Louise. "You're almost the same."

Louise took pride. "I come from Hollywood." She looked Martin in the eye. "Cocktails alone won't do. I also need penicillin."

...

At dusk, the bustling crowd moved along West Street.

Lines formed outside Beast House and the Black Bar.

Most male patrons first had a drink at the Black Bar before heading across the street to flirt around ten o'clock.

The bar hadn't opened yet, and Boyette was supervising his men moving liquor when he received a sudden phone call.

He pointed at Diego, then moved near the warehouse and asked, "What's the deal with that idiot Adam Smith?"

The other end simply said, "Move quickly."

Hearing the call disconnect, Boyette touched his pants, drew his gun, and without alerting his men, slipped into the warehouse. He opened a hidden door, entered, shut it behind him, grabbed a prepared flashlight, and crawled forward, crouching.

He didn't crawl far before opening another door, entering the sewer, and sprinting along it.

Emerging at a prearranged spot, he hurried into a nearby apartment building, opened a room, and changed clothes.

Boyette went to the window and looked out at West Street. Over ten DEA-marked cars rushed in from all directions, surrounding the Black Bar front and back. Fully armed agents quickly stormed into the bar.

"These lunatics!" Boyette cursed. "Why target me when Atlanta has so much stuff? Because I'm from a Southside black gang?"

He flipped them off. "You racist bastards!"

Despite his rant, Boyette didn't dare linger, opened a drawer, grabbed car keys, and fled the area.

Driving away, his few brain cells raced. Everything pointed back to Adam Smith.

Adam Smith's arrest hadn't concerned Boyette much; he merely asked around.

Throughout Atlanta, at least a thousand operations like his existed, if not more.

Yet, DEA came knocking now.

Boyette thought back to his last encounters with Adam Smith.

Something was definitely off.

*****

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