America achieves both fame and fortune

Chapter 13 The Trump Card

After removing his makeup and changing his clothes, Martin left the makeshift dressing room and went to a place where he wouldn't disturb others' work. After observing for a while, he found where Fatty Andrew was.

Taking advantage of a moment when the other person was free, he walked over and said, "Mr. Andrew."

Andrew still remembers Martin: "Didn't you go to collect your money? Couldn't find the finance office?"

Martin smiled and said, "I just happened to see you when I came out, so I came over to say thank you."

Andrew was very impressed with him: "You did a good job too."

The fat man was an employee who closely followed his boss's lead. Martin changed the subject: "When I see my friend later, I'll ask her to contact friends with similar aspirations. I'll need Mr. Andrew's help then."

"No problem." Andrew thought for a moment and said, "Since you support freedom and progress and are willing to contribute, you should also pay more attention to current social events. If you encounter anything detrimental to the Freedom Society, please inform me in time."

He said similar things to many people he knew, all in an attempt to please his boss.

In order to get a promotion, he closely followed his boss's lead.

Martin readily agreed.

A brand-new BMW 7 Series drove up on the farm road, attracting a lot of attention, and Andrew's gaze also turned in that direction.

The car came to a stop, and a young female assistant got out of the passenger seat, opened the back door, and a short-haired woman in a business suit got out of the car with her head down.

Andrew waved to Martin and strode over there.

Martin asked a passing extra, "Who's that? He looks impressive."

The extra, without stopping, casually said, "The company boss."

Martin realized that this was Kelly Gray, a staunch member of the ATL Freedom Association.

He soon discovered that Andrew couldn't get a word in edgewise with Kelly Gray, but was very familiar with his female assistant.

Robert suddenly appeared from behind: "Let's go collect the money together, I'm going to have a damn feast tonight!"

"Hey buddy, you've kept me waiting, aren't you treating us tonight?" Martin asked.

Robert followed him toward the finance office, saying, "Some other time, some other time."

It was not yet four o'clock, and the scenes for the two of them had been filmed. They each signed and received a $100 check, and then went to the place where the extras gathered.

Martin saw Jerome and went straight over: "Commander, this is today's salary. I'm paying my dues."

He was now certain that Jerome had some influence and connections in Atlanta's lower-tier actor market.

That's much better than him wandering around aimlessly like a headless fly.

Of course, the money couldn't be given all at once. The troupe had more than twenty people, both new and old, and Jerome had to always remember him.

Jerome put away the check, extremely satisfied with Martin's attitude. He thought of paying back the money as soon as he made it, proving he hadn't misjudged him.

I'm still short $200, but don't worry, I'll be able to pay it back soon.

Human hearts can be complicated sometimes. Jerome was in a good mood, so he asked, "Do you have enough money for living expenses? You can keep some."

Martin said, "I work in nightclubs at night, and the income is enough to make a basic living."

Jerome put away the money, and Martin took the opportunity to ask about the situation of Gray Film Production Company.

This is an Atlanta-based company, not very large. It has never produced theatrical films, but often collaborates with cable TV to produce late-night programs. It also invests some money each year to produce videotape movies and release them directly to the DVD market.

The owner, Kelly Gray, studied at USC, worked in Hollywood, was heavily influenced by Californians, and is currently a prominent liberal figure in Atlanta.

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

Martin picked up his car, grabbed a quick dinner, and headed to Saijo Avenue. Before he could even park, a Jeep Wrangler two spaces away opened its door, and a loud, high-pitched shouting match erupted from it.

Martin got out of the car and locked the doors.

A burly, black woman with filthy braids got out of the passenger seat of the Wrangler. Pointing at the car, she yelled, "You piece of trash, daring to flirt with girls right in front of me! If I hadn't been paying for you, would you be where you are today? Now that you're rich, you dare to give me the cold shoulder!"

A bald black man came down from the other side: "Who are you calling trash? Believe me or not, I'll divorce you and dump you."

The hot-tempered Black woman got angry and pulled a small, shiny silver pistol from her basketball-sized chest: "Boyette, I'll rip you out of shape, you piece of shit!"

Bald Boyet, not to be outdone, pulled out an M1911: "Come on, let's see who goes down first."

The elderly Black couple were pointing guns at each other, looking like they might shoot at any moment.

Martin quickly moved away and arrived at the club entrance, where he found the stubborn Ivan watching with great interest. He asked, "Do you know these two lunatics?"

Ivan pointed to his head: "Isn't everyone in that group sick?"

Bruce came out of the porch and slapped Ivan on the head: "Don't fucking say those troublesome things at the door! We're civilized people!"

Ivan felt very wronged: "I'm stating a generally accepted fact. They're just like normal people most of the time, but when they get a little emotional, they turn into mindless beasts."

At that moment, someone ran out from the entrance of the black bar across the street and persuaded the black couple to stop.

Martin asked, "The person on the other side?"

Bruce said, "The man's name is Boyette, the owner of the Black Bar, and the woman is his wife, Betty. They both have connections to the South Side underworld."

Martin scratched his head: "Couples fight and then use guns."

Bruce lowered his voice: "Black gangs, with an extremely high tendency towards violence."

Martin remembered this; he would stay away from those two black men in the future.

The two entered the club, changed their clothes, and went to work. There were very few customers tonight; at most, there were no more than 30 people.

Martin accepted the $1 tip and put it in his pocket.

Bruce asked enviously, "I've heard that every bartender has a special skill. Do you have one?"

Martin said, "Of course there are." He pointed at Bruce, "But not for civilized people, because civilized people prefer posters."

I don't have any special tricks, I just know a few cocktails that haven't appeared or become popular in this era, like paper airplanes.

A tall, thin, blond man with a ponytail walked in from outside and complained to Bruce, "Who's that bastard at the door? He actually made me buy a ticket to get in."

Martin didn't need to ask; it was definitely Ivan.

Bruce just chuckled.

The man with the ponytail turned to Martin: "Handsome, you're wasting resources selling alcohol! Vincent made a mistake; he put you in the wrong position!"

As he spoke, he went upstairs to the second floor.

Martin asked with his eyes.

Bruce replied, "The boss hired Michael, a PR guy for the nightclub. Apparently, the business isn't picking up, so the boss brought him in. That guy's going to be in trouble."

He joked with Martin, "Bartenders have to double as cleaners. Disposing of Michael's body is our job. Can you use strong acid? Debone him?"

Martin declared solemnly, "I'll have civilized people lick him until he's a huge hole!"

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

The former is easy to solve, the latter is too troublesome, so Martin forcibly changed the subject: "If the club goes bankrupt, you will lose your job."

Bruce said, "No, the boss still has a trump card up his sleeve."

Martin asked curiously, "What's your trump card?"

"Gather opinions from your subordinates," Bruce said, clearly not joking. "From there, choose the best solution."

He looked around the club: "When we were changing careers, someone suggested opening a male dancer club. The boss made the choice, went to Las Vegas to investigate, and then opened House of the Beasts."

Martin thought to himself, no wonder business is bad; the club originated from this unreliable approach.

He looked at the empty venue and began to ponder carefully.

When he had some free time again, Martin asked, "The club isn't doing well, where are the people who offered suggestions?"

Bruce pointed to the circular stage: "The boss made Hart dance on it until he got better."

(End of this chapter)