Chapter 13: Trump Card

After taking off his makeup and changing back into his clothes, Martin emerged from the temporary dressing room. He looked for a spot where he wouldn't disturb anyone's work, observed for a bit, and soon spotted Andrew.

Seizing a moment when Andrew was free, he walked over, "Mr. Andrew."

Andrew recognized Martin, "Haven't gone to get your pay? Can't find the finance office?"

Martin replied with a smile, "I just happened to see you when I came out, so I wanted to say thank you."

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

Andrew, who was always in step with his boss, responded well to Martin's next topic, "When I see my friend, I'll have her contact like-minded friends. By then, I'll need your help, Mr. Andrew."

"No problem." Andrew thought for a moment and said, "Since you support free progress and want to contribute, you must also pay attention to current social events. If you encounter anything unfavorable to the Freedom Association, inform me promptly."

He had said similar things to many acquaintances, trying to please his boss.

Martin naturally agreed at once.

A brand-new BMW 7 Series coming down the road attracted quite a bit of attention. Andrew's gaze was also drawn to it.

When the car stopped, a young female assistant got out of the front passenger seat and opened the back door. A short-haired woman in professional attire stepped out with her head held low.

Andrew waved to Martin and strode towards the car.

Martin asked a passing extra, "Who is that? She's quite imposing."

The extra, without breaking stride, casually replied, "The company boss."

Martin understood immediately; this was Kelly Gray, a backbone member of the ATL Freedom Association.

He soon noticed that Andrew couldn't get a word in with Kelly Gray but was very chummy with the assistant.

Robert suddenly appeared behind him, "Let's go get our pay; I want a damn good dinner tonight!"

"Buddy, you kept me waiting. Aren't you treating tonight?" Martin asked.

Robert followed Martin towards the finance office, "Another time, another time."

It wasn't even four o'clock yet, and their scenes for the day were already wrapped up. Each signed off and received a $100 check at the finance office, then headed to the area where extras gathered.

Seeing Jerome, Martin went straight over, "Captain, this is today's pay. I'm paying my dues."

He now knew Jerome had a certain reputation and connections in Atlanta's lower-tier actors' market.

Certainly better than fumbling around aimlessly himself.

Naturally, he couldn't hand over the entire amount; the troupe had over twenty members, and Jerome needed to constantly remember him.

Jerome put away the check, looking quite satisfied with Martin's attitude. He was not wrong about him--earning money and promptly thinking of repaying debts.

He was only $200 short, not a big deal; he'd repay soon enough.

Human minds are complex; Jerome, in a good mood, asked, "Enough for living expenses? You can keep a bit."

Martin said, "I have a night job that covers basic living expenses."

Jerome stashed the money, and Martin seized the opportunity to ask about Gray Film Production Company.

It was a local Atlanta firm, not very big, which had never produced any cinema films. It often collaborated with cable channels to shoot late-night shows and invested some funds annually into making direct-to-DVD movies.

Kelly Gray, the boss, had attended USC, mingled in Hollywood, greatly influenced by Californian ideals, and was currently an active liberal in Atlanta.

A little after 4 PM, a large number of extras returned. Martin and Robert boarded a bus heading back to downtown Atlanta.

Martin retrieved his car, had a quick dinner, and headed to West Street Avenue. Just as he was parking, a Jeep Wrangler two spaces over opened its door, and loud, profane shouting erupted.

Martin got out and locked his car door.

A heavily-built, thick-hipped black woman with dreadlocks descended from the Wrangler's passenger side. She pointed at someone in the car and cursed, "You useless piece of crap, flirting with girls in front of me! Without my money, you'd be nowhere! Now that you're rich, you dare give me that attitude!"

A bald black man got out from the other side, "Who are you calling useless? Believe me, I'll divorce you and kick you out."

The hot-tempered woman pulled a shiny silver handgun from her chest, the size of a basketball, "Boyd, I'll blow your brains out, you piece of dung."

Boyd, undeterred, pulled out a M1911, "Come on, let's see who goes down first."

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

Martin quickly moved away and reached the club's entrance, where he found Ivan staring intently at the scene. "Know those two psychos?"

Ivan pointed at his head, "Aren't all folks from that crowd crazy?"

Bruce came out from the porch, giving Ivan a smack on the head, "Don't talk smack by the door! We're civilized people!"

Ivan looked aggrieved, "It's a known fact; they act normal usually, but just a bit emotional, and they turn into brainless beasts."

Someone from the black bar across the street ran out and managed to stop the quarreling couple.

Martin asked, "Who are they?"

Bruce answered, "The guy's named Boyd, owns the black bar, and the woman is his wife, Betty. They have ties with the Southside Black Gang."

Martin scratched his head, "Couple arguing with guns."

Bruce lowered his voice, "Black gangs are extremely prone to violence."

Martin took note, intending to keep his distance from that couple in the future.

The two went inside the club and changed into their work attire. That night, there were very few customers; at its peak, the crowd never exceeded thirty people.

Martin collected a dollar from tips and pocketed it.

Bruce, envious, said, "I hear every bartender has a special talent. Got one?"

Martin replied confidently, "Of course I do." He pointed at Bruce, "But I don't show it to civilized people because civilized folks like poster-flavored tastes."

Calling it a special talent was an exaggeration; he merely knew a few cocktails that either hadn't appeared yet or weren't widely popular in that era, like the Paper Plane.

At that moment, a lanky blonde guy with a ponytail entered and immediately started complaining to Bruce, "Who was that jerk at the door? They actually made me buy a ticket to enter."

Martin didn't have to guess; it had to be Ivan.

Bruce just laughed.

The ponytail guy shifted his gaze to Martin, "Hey handsome, you selling booze is a waste of resources! Vincent made a mistake putting you here!"

He headed upstairs as he spoke.

Martin threw Bruce a questioning glance.

Bruce explained, "That's Michael, a night-time promoter hired by the boss. With customer traffic not improving, the boss must've called him over. That guy's in for it."

He then quipped at Martin, "As bartenders, we'd have to clean up his mess if it comes to that. Can you do strong acids? Dissecting?"

Martin replied seriously, "I'll get civilized folks to lick him full of holes!"

Bruce said gravely, "You still owe me a month's worth of posters and a big-butt female star."

The former was easy to solve; the latter rather tricky. Martin deflected, "If the club folds, you'll be out of a job."

Bruce retorted, "It won't; the boss still has a trump card."

Martin was curious, "What trump card?"

"Polling the staff for ideas," Bruce was definitely not joking, "choosing the best one."

Looking around the club, he explained, "When we switched trade, someone suggested opening a male strip club. The boss chose that idea, took a trip to Vegas, and opened the Beast House."

Martin thought to himself, no wonder business was bad, the club's origins were so unreliable.

Staring at the empty venue, Martin started to think deeply.

When they had another slow moment, Martin asked, "With the club doing poorly, what about the guy who made the suggestion?"

Bruce pointed at the circular stage, "The boss has Hart dancing there until things improve."

*****

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