The Beast House was located on West Strip Avenue inside the Atlanta loop, at the western edge of downtown. As soon as Martin got off the minibus, he saw the huge, flashing sign in the night sky.

The club’s facade was luxurious and impressive, very high-end.

A sparse line of a dozen or so women stood along the sidewalk, waiting to buy tickets to enter.

In contrast, the bar across the street with the “BLACKED” neon sign was much livelier, with at least forty or fifty men lining up.

Women didn’t have to wait in line; they got in for free.

Martin walked up to the entrance of the Beast House and said to the tall young man collecting money, “I’m looking for Vincent.”

Ivan nodded. “Ticket, twenty dollars.”

Martin didn’t want to pay, so he pulled out the banner of civility: “I’m a friend of Bruce, here to deliver money to Vincent.”

Ivan held out his hand. “If you’re not with the Beast House, you have to buy a ticket to get in.”

You even have to buy a ticket to deliver money? Martin pointed at the long line in front of the black bar across the street and said, “Do you know why there are more people over there and fewer here? They let girls in for free!”

Ivan was stubborn. “You’re not a girl.”

“Their customers are men, so they let girls in for free.” Martin pointed at his own chest. “Your customers are women, so guys like me should get in for free to help you attract customers.”

Ivan’s blond buddy chimed in, “Makes sense.”

A middle-aged woman with lingering charm nearby gave Martin a careful look, practically drooling: “Handsome, aren’t you a dancer?”

Women who come to clubs like this are definitely thirsty rivers. Martin reacted instantly: “I’m here to apply for a job.”

The middle-aged woman immediately pulled out two twenty-dollar bills, oozing with flirtation: “I’ll pay for his ticket.” Then she ran over, took Martin’s arm, and led him inside. “Are you performing tonight? A hundred-dollar luxury private room, I’ll book two lap dances!”

Martin said seriously, “I’m here to apply for a job. The boss might not hire me.”

The middle-aged woman hugged Martin’s arm tighter, rubbing up against him: “I believe you’ll succeed, unless the boss is blind! Deal—your first two lap dances have to be for me.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Want to make even more? Come with me…”

Martin quietly slipped his arm free and pointed casually: “I’m going to find the boss to apply. Can’t be late.”

The middle-aged woman quickly said, “My name is Susan.”

Martin ignored her. Even though he was broke, the effort wasn’t worth the reward—he wouldn’t even consider it.

He didn’t go to the bar area, instead finding a corner where no one was paying attention, quietly observing the club.

Owing $6,000 in high-interest loans meant paying back far more than $6,000.

That was compound interest.

He had to come up with something.

Martin had specifically asked around during the day; according to Bruce, there was some credibility to this place.

Maybe it hadn’t been open long. The venue could hold hundreds, but at most forty customers were seated.

Even so, the atmosphere was still wild—when women go crazy, men can’t keep up even with a rocket.

Some pretty wild scenes played out again and again around the circular stage.

So-called industry rules only ensured the last line was held inside the club.

Once outside, it was personal freedom.

After a dance, a few women went to the bar to drink and rest. Martin glanced over and saw that the bartender was actually the civilized man Bruce.

No, he should be called the paper-licking maniac.

He’d licked the butt off Scarlett Johansson’s poster.

The tragic fate of that entertainment magazine could be imagined.

On the other side of the bar, Martin spotted Vincent-Lee.

He was a white guy in a curled cowboy hat, about twenty-seven or twenty-eight, with a big hooked nose sharp enough to peck someone.

Martin’s gaze caught Vincent’s attention, and Vincent glanced over with a sidelong look.

Anyone who could run a club like this and dare to lend at high interest—Martin wasn’t stupid enough to take Vincent for a businessman. He quickly steeled himself and strode over.

Vincent pressed one hand on the bar and glanced at him. “Old bastard Jack’s son, Martin.”

Martin took out the check he’d prepared earlier and placed it in front of Vincent. “First installment of interest and repayment, six hundred dollars.”

Vincent picked it up, flicked it, and put it in his inside jacket pocket. “Jack really is a piece of work—he even screws over his own son. I admire him.”

After making the payment, Martin cautiously probed, “Can the debt be put in his name? Even just part of it?”

Vincent didn’t bite. “Found a way to make money?”

“No.” Martin’s eyes fell on Bruce.

The civilized man’s talent was all in licking paper; he was clumsy at mixing drinks.

Martin kept talking: “I hurt my leg at work. The boss was kind and gave me some compensation.”

Vincent nodded slightly. “You’ve perfectly inherited Jack’s scumbag genes. Work here, get on stage, and those women will stuff your pants with cash. You’ll pay off that debt in no time.”

The wild female customers waved small bills, constantly stuffing them into the hunks’ waistbands. As for wandering hands, there were too many to count.

Martin didn’t hide his envy for the green bills—only an idiot wouldn’t like that.

But he was also afraid. Once you get used to making money lying down, it’s hard to stand up again.

Besides, the ground is hard to break, but the ox is easy to kill.