As the chaos of yesterday dissipated, Saijo Street was cleaned and returned to its usual order.
Just after sunset, and before the Beast House opened, a line of dozens of people had already formed in front of the club.
People continued to arrive, joining the queue.
Following last night’s extensive news coverage, today’s bombardment by print media, led by the Atlanta Constitutional, had elevated the Beast House male revue club to prominence.
With over 5 million residents in Atlanta’s metropolitan area, the potential clientele for the Beast House was substantial.
Even a small fraction of this number would be enough to fill the Beast House to capacity.
As the queue lengthened, curious passersby joined in the spectacle.
By six o'clock, preparing to open early, Ivan and the blonde arrived at the entrance.
Ivan handed a check to the blonde, saying, “Hold onto that damned check, and don’t waste it on trivial things.”
The blonde glanced at the amount. “Is this really so much?”
Ivan replied, “Foolish Martin is quite generous.”
The blonde emphasized, “It’s ‘Boss Martin.’”
Seeing the long line outside, Ivan remarked, “Martin’s methods might be unscrupulous, but they are effective—far better than useless PR.”
The two opened the door and shouted to the line of female patrons, “Tickets are 20 dollars each; have your money ready!”
One by one, 20-dollar bills were handed to them, and within half an hour, they had amassed a thick stack—more than a whole night’s earnings.
As people moved into the club, the line didn’t shorten; it seemed to stretch even further.
Ivan was certain that this week’s bonuses would be extraordinary.
A car approached from the distance and stopped at the end of the queue.
Michael, with his ponytail, surveyed the long line and the newspaper reports on the Beast House, and smacked his forehead, exclaiming, “I’m such an idiot—how did I not think of such a simple solution?”
Michael had to face a disheartening reality: while the Beast House’s reputation soared across Atlanta, it had nothing to do with him.
He wouldn’t see a single dollar of benefit and had to urgently raise funds to cover a $10,000 shortfall.
This morning, Vincent had already sent someone to press him for the money.
The thought of selling his car and watch to pay his debts while that little bartender could earn a $10,000 reward left Michael feeling somewhat resentful.
Yet, he dared not cause trouble at the Beast House; those people were not to be trifled with.
Michael lingered, observing intently, occasionally picking up the newspaper to scan it: “If I learn this, I could make a fortune too!”
Inside the club, Martin prepared a Daiquiri, smiling, and said, “Madam, here is your drink.”
The female patron handed him a tip and asked, “The drink is excellent. Aren’t you a dancer?”
With other patrons waiting, Martin flashed an apologetic smile, “The club’s artists are all on stage.”
As the crowd grew to over 200, nearly every female patron was drinking, and Martin and Bruce were extremely busy.
Martin received tips but had no time to organize them, tossing them into a box beneath the bar.
By just after 6:30, the club was packed, and the male troupe on the circular stage tonight consisted of American soldiers choreographed by the Savannah Arts Academy.
Countless small bills flew onto the stage.
When it came to spending power, women far outstripped men.
Hart had never realized how easy it was to make money.
Vincent stood at the office door on the second floor, using the intercom to notify Ivan at the entrance, “Too many people; stop letting more in for now.”
The club was at full capacity.
Even the private rooms on the second floor were occupied.
Vincent tipped his cowboy hat; with so many customers, the club’s finances would see great possibilities.
His gaze shifted to the bar, where he saw Martin Davis.
He hadn’t expected Jack Davis, that old rascal, to have such an impressive son.
Vincent beckoned to the accountant, Dana, “Erase Martin Davis’s debt and prepare a $5,000 check.”
Dana expressed her doubts, “It’s just the first night, and…”
“You don’t understand,” Vincent interrupted, “Once he succeeds the first time, he will succeed the second time.”
Dana said no more and went to prepare the check.
Vincent looked at the bustling dance floor and the flying money, adding, “Prepare rewards for the others as well.”
Martin had given him a list this morning; besides the club’s staff, two others were involved.
Vincent did not fuss over minor details; the situation was under his control.
Customers came and went, and the club remained perpetually packed.
Late into the night, as the club closed, Bruce tallied the drink payments, recorded the accounts, and then pulled open a small drawer, sifting through a haphazard pile of cash, counting it meticulously.
“This is the most tips I’ve ever received,” he said with a grin so deep it seemed etched into his bones, “44 dollars.”
Martin stretched his arms, “Congratulations, civilized person, enough for you to buy a stack of autographs.”
A thick wad of cash landed in Bruce’s palm, and he replied, “Buddy, you’re just envious!”
Martin lifted a box onto the bar, “Take a good look, Old Bruce! The tips I collected tonight are several times what you’ve got.”
The box was filled with scattered 1-dollar, 2-dollar, and occasionally 5-dollar bills.
Martin continued to taunt the poor civilized person, “Let me tell you a scary truth—I’ll soon be wealthier than you.”
Bruce was almost apoplectic, launching a sharp retort, “Aside from a pretty face, what do you have? A head full of scheming junk!”
Martin quickly counted the cash, “Without my scheming, would you have any tips tonight?”
At that moment, a commotion came from the stage; Hart, clutching a pile of cash, ran up, dropping bills all the way.
Reaching the center of the stage, he threw the money into the air, and green dollars rained down.
Hart spread his arms, bathed in the rain of money, shouting with excitement, “Crush me with it!”
A few more members of the male troupe ran onto the stage, frantically tossing money, and the cash storm continued.
Bills pelted Hart’s head, and he collapsed, unable to rise.
Exhausted.
Hart wriggled like a worm, his head covered in green, looking at Martin and pleading, “Let me call you Daddy!”
“Get lost!” Martin cruelly rejected, “I don’t want a foolish son!”
Hart cried out in despair, “You can’t do this—there must be gender equality! Gender equality! Martin Davis, you scoundrel!”
Seeing Ivan and the blonde approach, Martin said, “I’m hosting a backyard party at my place on Wednesday.”
At that moment, Vincent came out of the office on the second floor and called down, “Martin.”
Martin went upstairs and entered the office, “Boss?”
Vincent pushed a check and a promissory note across the desk, “I’ve written off your $7,000 debt, and here’s a $5,000 bonus. Starting tonight, your hourly wage increases to $16.”
“Thank you for your generosity,” Martin said, not minding the extra compliments, “You are a great boss.”
Vincent handed him two additional checks.
These were the wages for Elena and Monica.
Martin accepted them and politely invited Vincent to the party.
Vincent declined, saying, “Keep up your clever work; as long as it benefits the club, I’m never stingy with rewards.”
Martin replied, “Boss, we need to stay close to the ATL Freedom Alliance to maintain our clientele.”
Vincent nodded, “It’s up to you.”
Martin descended the stairs feeling light-hearted; the usury issue was completely resolved.
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