Chapter 13: The Trump Card

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After removing his makeup and changing back into his clothes, Martin stepped out of the temporary makeup room to find a spot where he wouldn't disturb anyone's work and casually observed the area for a bit before spotting the rotund figure of Andrew.

Seizing the moment while the other was free, he walked over, "Mr. Andrew."

Andrew remembered Martin, "Didn't go to get your pay? Can't find the finance room?"

Martin spoke with a smile, "I saw you as soon as I came out and wanted to say thank you."

Andrew had a good impression of him, "You did well, too."

As a follower always on the heels of the boss, Martin changed the subject, "Later on, when I see my friend, I'll have her reach out to other friends with the same aspirations. I might have to trouble Mr. Andrew for help then."

"No problem," Andrew thought for a moment before saying, "Since you all support freedom and progress and are willing to contribute your efforts, you should also pay more attention to social current affairs. If you come across anything unfavorable to the Freedom Association, let me know in time."

He had said similar things to many people he knew, all to curry favor with his boss.

He was following the boss closely in hopes of a promotion.

Naturally, Martin readily agreed.

A brand-new BMW 7 series car was driving down the farm road, attracting quite a bit of attention. Andrew's gaze also shifted in that direction.

As the car came to a stop, a young female assistant stepped down from the passenger side and opened the back door, from which a woman in professional attire and short hair emerged with her head bowed.

Andrew waved to Martin and briskly walked in that direction.

Martin asked a passing extra, "Who is that? Quite impressive."

Without stopping, the extra casually replied, "The company boss."

Martin understood; this was Kelly Gray, the core member of the ATL Freedom Association.

Soon, he noticed that Andrew couldn't get a word in with Kelly Gray but was very familiar with her female assistant.

Robert suddenly appeared from behind, "Let's go get our pay together, I'm eating a damn feast tonight!"

"Buddy, you kept me waiting, aren't you treating to dinner tonight?" asked Martin.

Robert followed him towards the finance room, "Another day, another day."

Before four o'clock, they had finished shooting their parts, each signed for a $100 check, and joined the rest of the extras.

Martin saw Jerome and went straight to him, "Leader, this is today's pay. I'm here to pay my dues."

Now he was sure that Jerome had a certain level of ability and connections in the Atlanta grassroots actors' market.

It was much better than him aimlessly floundering alone.

Of course, he couldn't give away all the money at once. With over twenty people in the troupe, new and old, he had to keep Jerome constantly mindful of him.

Jerome accepted the check with great satisfaction at Martin's attitude; his promptness in repaying his debts confirmed he wasn't mistaken about him.

He still owed $200, no rush; he would be able to repay it soon.

People's hearts can be complex at times. Jerome, in a good mood, asked one more question, "Do you have money for living expenses? You can keep a little."

Martin replied, "I work at a night club in the evenings. The income sustains my basic living."

Jerome took the money, and Martin took the opportunity to inquire about the situation at Gray Film Production Company.

It was a local enterprise in Atlanta, not particularly large, and had never produced a theatrical film. They often collaborated with cable channels to shoot late-night shows, investing a portion of their funds each year to produce direct-to-DVD movies.

The owner, Kelly Gray, had studied at the University of Southern California and had a stint in Hollywood, was influenced by Californians, and was currently an active liberal personality in Atlanta.

A little after four o'clock, a large group of extras returned. Martin and Robert boarded the bus with the crowd, heading back to downtown Atlanta.

Martin retrieved his car, had a simple dinner, and rushed to West Strip Avenue. He hadn't parked his car properly yet when he heard a high-pitched shouting from two parking spots away as the door of a Jeep opened.

Martin got out of his car and locked the door.

From the passenger seat of the Jeep stepped out a thick-waisted, big-bottomed black woman with dreadlocks. Pointing inside the car, she yelled, "You worthless piece of crap, daring to hit on chicks right in front of me! Without me spending money on you, would you be where you are today? Now that you've made it, you dare to turn your filthy face on me!"

A bald black man got out of the other side, "Who are you calling worthless? Believe it or not, I divorce your ass and kick you to the curb."

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The hot-tempered black woman panicked, pulled out a shiny silver pistol from her basketball-sized chest: "Boyette, I'll blow your dog shit brains out."

Bald-headed Boyette wasn't about to show weakness, pulled out an M1911: "Come on, let's see who goes down first."

The old black couple aimed guns at each other, looking like they might shoot at any moment.

Martin quickly moved away to the entrance of the club and found Ivan watching with great interest. He asked, "You know these two maniacs?"

Ivan pointed to his head: "Aren't they all crazy around here?"

Bruce came out from the porch and slapped Ivan on the head: "Don't talk that kind of trouble-making crap at the door! We're civilized people!"

Ivan looked aggrieved: "What I said is universally acknowledged. They're normal most of the time, but get a little emotional, and they turn into brainless beasts."

At that moment, someone ran out from the entrance of the Black Bar across the street and managed to restrain the couple.

Martin asked, "Those people over there?"

Bruce said, "The man is Boyette, owner of the Black Bar. The woman is his wife Betty, and they both have a background with the South City Black Gang."

Martin scratched his head: "A couple fighting with guns."

Bruce lowered his voice: "Black gangs have an extremely serious tendency towards violence."

Martin noted this to himself, to stay far away from these two old blacks in the future.

The two entered the club, changed into their work clothes, and started their shift. The club had few customers that night, never exceeding 30 people at its busiest.

Martin earned a 1 US Dollar tip and stuffed it into his pocket.

Bruce said enviously, "I heard every bartender has a special skill. Do you have one?"

Martin said, "Of course." He pointed at Bruce: "But I don't show it to civilized people, because they prefer poster flavors."

It wasn't really a specialty, just a few cocktail recipes that had not yet appeared or become common in this era, like the Paper Plane.

A tall, lean man with a blonde ponytail walked in from outside, complaining to Bruce as soon as he saw him: "Who's that asshole asking me to buy a ticket at the door?"

Martin didn't need to ask. It was definitely Ivan.

Bruce just chuckled.

The ponytailed man turned his gaze to Martin: "Handsome, you're wasting resources tending bar! Vincent made a mistake. He put you in the wrong spot!"

As he spoke, he went upstairs.

Martin looked questioningly.

Bruce explained: "That's Michael, the club's night public relations hired by the boss. Guess the boss called him over because the customer flow didn't pick up. That guy's out of luck."

He teased Martin: "Looks like we bartenders also have to play janitors, dealing with Michael's corpse is our job. Do you know how to use strong acid? Strip bones?"

Martin said solemnly, "I can make civilized people lick him into a big hole!"

Bruce turned serious: "You still owe me a month's worth of posters, and a big butt movie star."

The former was easy to solve, but the latter was too troublesome. Martin forcefully changed the subject: "If the club closes down, you'll be out of a job."

Bruce said, "Not really, the boss still has some cards up his sleeve."

Martin got curious: "What kind of cards?"

"Gathering opinions from subordinates," Bruce said clearly not joking. "Choosing the best solution from among them."

He looked around the club: "When we were switching business, someone suggested opening a male stripper club. The boss made a decision and specifically went to Las Vegas for research, then opened the House of Beast."

Martin thought to himself, no wonder the business was bad, the club's origin was from such an unreliable approach.

He looked at the deserted place and began to mull over possibilities.

When things slowed down again, Martin asked, "The club's running into trouble, what about the people who gave suggestions?"

Bruce pointed down to the circular stage: "The boss made Hart dance up there until things improve."