He waited until everyone had left before Martin hobbled over to the accountant’s desk, his face full of shame. “Mr. Mitchell, I... I’m out of money and can’t pay the membership fee.”

Jerome Mitchell frowned. “Martin, don’t make things difficult for me.”

Martin got emotional, pulling out his pants and jacket pockets, revealing only seven dollars. “I’m really sorry. I was working a roofing job, fell off and hurt my leg, spent all my wages on treatment. The boss refused to compensate me and even fired me. Is there any way I could delay the membership fee for a while?”

He played the simple role, one he’d experienced himself, with ease. “I’m looking for a new job. As soon as I have money, I’ll make it up. Right, isn’t there a show next week? As soon as I get paid for the role, I’ll immediately pay the troupe.”

The consistently good performance of his predecessor, Martin-Davis, in the troupe was the basis for him saying this.

Jerome looked at Martin’s shame and helplessness, recalling his own toughest days as a young man, and actually felt a bit soft-hearted. “Don’t let me down.”

“Thank you!” Martin quickly expressed his gratitude, his eyes sweeping over a book under the accountant’s forms—the latest issue of “Entertainment Weekly.” He pointed at the magazine. “Mr. Mitchell, you know I love Hollywood news, but I can’t afford to buy it. Could I...?”

Jerome waved his hand. “Take it.”

Martin took the magazine and limped out of the theater.

Even when soft-hearted, Jerome wouldn’t do a losing deal—he made a note of Martin’s debt.

No one could owe him for long. If this pauper couldn’t pay, he’d just find a chance to make him work it off.

In Jerome’s subconscious, those who had paid their dues could be pushed to the back row—after all, there was no more to squeeze from them this month.

Martin waited a long time before the battered minibus finally arrived. He found a seat near the back and flipped through the magazine.

After reading for a while, the minibus suddenly jolted, and the driver shouted, “The bus broke down!”

A chorus of curses erupted, including from Martin.

“Damn public transportation!” Martin could only get off with the others.

Halfway home, the next minibus might take ages to arrive. Atlanta didn’t have taxis roaming everywhere; if you wanted a ride, you had to call for one. Martin simply decided to walk.

A Dodge pickup came up from behind, stopping by the sidewalk. The side of the truck was painted with the Beast House logo.

The right window rolled down, and Bruce, wearing a jacket, waved. “Martin-Davis, need a lift?”

Martin looked at him. “Can I?”

Bruce pointed ahead. “I live in the Baca neighborhood, south of Clayton. It’s on the way.”

Martin opened the passenger door and got in. “What a coincidence?”

Bruce hit the gas. “Just collected a debt for the boss.” After a few hundred meters, he suddenly said, “Almost forgot, you owe me five bucks for the ride.”

Martin slapped the door. “Hey, man, can’t you be a decent person?”

Bruce kept one hand on the wheel and lifted his jacket with the other. “Boss says, employees of Beast House have to be law-abiding citizens.”

Martin saw the pistol under his arm and agreed that Bruce was indeed a law-abiding man. “I’ll pay you when we get to Clayton.”

“Deal!” Bruce grinned good-naturedly.

Martin didn’t want to talk to him, so he picked up the magazine and started reading.

Bruce glanced over quickly, catching sight of the cover. “Entertainment Weekly? I love that magazine! That’s the poster for ‘Lost in Translation’ on the cover!”

Martin’s mind raced. “A Scarlett Johansson fan?”

Bruce looked back longingly. “I had a poster from that movie, but it got ruined.”

Martin asked, “How did it get ruined?”

Bruce licked his dry lips. “The wind just messed it up, that’s all.”

Martin gave a thumbs up, imitating Harris’s tone. “Now I’m one hundred percent sure you’re a civilized man.” He shook the magazine. “Buddy, this is the latest Entertainment Weekly. It’s hard to find in Atlanta. Not just the cover—there’s a full set of ‘Lost in Translation’ stills inside.”

Bruce reached for it, but Martin pulled it back. “Forget the ride fee—ten bucks.”

“You’re a crook!” Bruce said, but kept glancing at the cover.

Martin rolled up the magazine again. “My neighbor Carter’s brat also loves that poster. If I take this home, I could sell it for at least twenty bucks.”

Bruce pulled out two five-dollar bills and tossed them to Martin. “You win.”

Martin pocketed the money and handed the free magazine to Bruce, making up a story as he did. “Buddy, I’m an actor. When I make it big, I’ll get you a signed photo from the cast...”

Bruce didn’t want to talk to him anymore—this guy was just impossible—so he played his trump card. “Just think about how you’re going to pay me back.”

“I remember.” Martin planned to stay in Atlanta for now, so he had to figure out how to settle this debt. He said, “I want to meet your boss.”

“Tomorrow night, the boss will be at Beast House.” Bruce shook the magazine in his hand. “Because of this, I’ll tell you something: if you can prove your value to the boss, you’ll get special treatment.”

Chapter 9: Why Don’t I Get Tips