After removing his makeup and changing back into his clothes, Martin stepped out of the temporary dressing room. He moved to a spot that wouldn’t interfere with others working, and after a brief scan of the area, he spotted the rotund Andrew.
Taking advantage of a moment when Andrew was free, Martin approached him. “Mr. Andrew,” he called.
Andrew remembered him. “Haven’t gone to collect your pay? Lost track of the finance office?”
Martin smiled. “I just happened to see you on my way out and wanted to thank you.”
Andrew’s impression of Martin remained favorable. “You did well yourself.”
Being an employee who followed the boss’s lead to a fault, Andrew shifted the conversation. “When I meet with my friend later, I'll encourage her to gather like-minded people. When the time comes, we’ll still need your assistance, Mr. Andrew.”
“No problem at all,” Andrew replied, after a brief pause. “Since you’re aligned with progressive ideals and eager to contribute, you should keep an eye on current events. If you come across anything that might affect the Liberty Association, let me know right away.”
Similar words had been spoken to many others Andrew had met, all in an effort to curry favor with his boss.
Eager for a promotion, Andrew followed the boss's every move closely.
Naturally, Martin agreed without hesitation.
A sleek, new BMW 7 Series rolled up the driveway, catching the attention of many onlookers, including Andrew.
The car came to a halt, and a young female assistant in the passenger seat opened the rear door. A short-haired woman, dressed in a sharp, professional suit, stepped out gracefully.
Andrew waved a casual farewell to Martin before striding purposefully toward the scene.
Martin turned to a passing extra. “Who’s that? Quite the spectacle.”
The extra didn’t break his stride. “That’s the boss.”
Martin now understood. This was Kelly Grey, a key figure in the ATL Liberty Association.
He soon noticed that while Andrew couldn’t strike up a conversation with Kelly Grey directly, he seemed quite familiar with her assistant.
Suddenly, Robert came up from behind. “Let’s go collect our pay. Tonight, I’m treating myself to a damn feast!”
“Man, you’ve kept me waiting. No dinner invitation for me?” Martin teased.
Robert followed him toward the finance office. “Next time, next time.”
It wasn’t even four o’clock yet, but their scenes had wrapped up, and after signing for their $100 checks, they headed to the area where the extras were gathering.
Spotting Jerome, Martin walked right up to him. “Captain, here’s today’s pay. I’m settling the dues I owe.”
By now, Martin was sure that Jerome held considerable influence in Atlanta’s lower-tier acting market, with decent connections and capabilities.
It was far better than Martin aimlessly stumbling around on his own.
Of course, he didn’t intend to hand over all the money at once. With over twenty people in the troupe, Jerome needed constant reminders of Martin’s presence.
Jerome pocketed the check, clearly pleased. Someone who made repaying debts their first priority had certainly not been a poor choice on his part.
There was still $200 left to pay off, but Jerome wasn’t in any rush. He’d get it soon enough.
People are complex creatures. Pleased, Jerome asked, “You’ve got enough to get by? You could hang on to a bit of it if needed.”
Martin replied, “I work nights at a club, and the income covers my basic expenses.”
Satisfied, Jerome stowed the money, and Martin seized the opportunity to ask about Grey Film Productions.
It was a local Atlanta company, not very large, and it had never produced a feature film for theaters. It mostly collaborated with cable networks on late-night shows and occasionally invested in direct-to-DVD movies.
The boss, Kelly Grey, had once attended USC and had ties to Hollywood. Heavily influenced by Californians, she was now one of the most active liberal figures in Atlanta.
A little after four, a large number of extras returned, and Martin and Robert followed the crowd onto the bus, heading back to downtown Atlanta.
Martin retrieved his car and grabbed a quick dinner before making his way to West Avenue. As he parked, he heard a fierce argument between a man and a woman, two spaces away, in front of a Jeep Wrangler.
As soon as Martin stepped out of his car, a stocky black woman with dreadlocks, standing by the Wrangler’s passenger seat, began shouting, “You worthless piece of trash! Flirting with other girls right in front of me? You wouldn’t be where you are now without me footing your bills! And now you’ve got the nerve to give me attitude?”
On the other side of the vehicle, a bald black man got out. “Who the hell are you calling trash? I’ll divorce you and kick you to the curb!”
The enraged woman, not to be outdone, reached into her enormous chest and pulled out a silver pistol. “Boyette, I’ll blow your worthless head wide open!”
Unfazed, the bald man produced a Colt M1911. “Bring it on, let’s see who bites the dust first.”
The two stood there, guns pointed at one another, seemingly ready to shoot at any moment.
Martin quickly moved away from the scene, making his way to the club entrance, where he found Ivan watching with rapt interest. “You know these crazies?” he asked.
Ivan tapped his temple. “These folks? Isn’t it obvious? They’re all nuts.”
Bruce emerged from the porch and smacked Ivan on the back of the head. “Keep your mouth shut with that kind of talk at the door! We’re civilized people!”
Ivan protested, looking aggrieved. “But it’s the truth! They act like normal people most of the time, but as soon as they get worked up, they turn into wild animals with no brains!”
At that moment, someone from the black bar across the street ran over to defuse the situation between the quarreling couple.
Martin asked, “Who’s that guy?”
Bruce replied, “The bald one’s Boyette, owner of the black bar. The woman’s his wife, Betty. They’ve got ties to the Southside Black Gang.”
Martin scratched his head. “Pulling guns in a marital spat.”
Bruce lowered his voice. “They’re gangsters—extremely prone to violence.”
Martin made a mental note to steer clear of the pair in the future.
The two of them entered the club, changed into their work clothes, and started their shift. Business was particularly slow that night, with the customer count never exceeding thirty.
Martin pocketed a $1 tip, to which Bruce said enviously, “I hear every bartender’s got a special trick. Got one?”
“Of course,” Martin replied, pointing at Bruce. “But civilized folks don’t get to see it. Civilized folks have a taste for the mundane.”
In truth, Martin’s “trick” wasn’t anything spectacular—he just knew how to make a few cocktails that hadn’t gained popularity in this era, like the Paper Plane.
A tall, blonde man with a ponytail walked in at that moment, complaining to Bruce, “Who’s that idiot 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 grinned sheepishly.
The man with the ponytail shifted his gaze to Martin. “Handsome guy like you, selling drinks? That’s a waste of resources! Vincent made a big mistake—he’s put you in the wrong place!”
With that, the man headed upstairs.
Martin glanced at Bruce, who explained, “That’s Michael, the public relations guy the boss hired for the night shift. Since customer numbers haven’t improved, the boss must have called him back. Looks like he’s in trouble.”
Bruce then quipped, “When bartenders double as janitors, it’s our job to clean up Michael’s corpse. You any good with strong acid? Boning knives?”
Martin replied, deadpan, “I’ll make sure the civilized folks lick him clean.”
Bruce grew serious. “You still owe me a month’s worth of posters and a big-bottomed movie star.”
The former was easy enough, but the latter? That was going to be a problem. Martin quickly changed the subject. “If the club goes under, you’ll be out of work.”
Bruce responded confidently, “Nah, the boss still has a trump card up his sleeve.”
Martin was curious. “What trump card?”
“Crowdsourcing ideas from the staff.” Bruce wasn’t joking. “He’ll pick the best one.”
Bruce surveyed the empty club. “When we first made the switch, someone suggested opening a male revue. The boss took it seriously, flew to Vegas for research, and then opened this place—Beast House.”
No wonder business was bad, Martin thought. The club’s origins were built on such unreliable ideas.
Gazing at the barren venue, he began to ponder deeply.
During another lull in activity, Martin asked, “Business is bad. What happened to the guy who suggested the idea?”
Bruce pointed to the stage. “The boss punished Hart by making him dance up there until things turn around.”
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