Martin saw Jerome and went straight over: "Leader, this is today's salary, and I'm paying the rest of my membership fee."

Now he could be sure that Jerome had some real ability and connections in Atlanta's lower-tier actor market.

Way better than running around like a headless chicken on his own.

Of course, he couldn't give all the money at once. With more than twenty people in the troupe, both old and new, he had to make sure Jerome remembered him at all times.

Jerome put away the check, extremely satisfied with Martin's attitude—making money and thinking of paying back first thing, he really hadn't misjudged him.

There was still $200 left, but no rush; he’d have him pay it back soon enough.

People can be complicated sometimes. In a good mood, Jerome asked, "Do you have enough for living expenses? You can keep a little for yourself."

Martin said, "I work nights at a club, so I can cover my basic living costs."

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

It was a local Atlanta business, not very big, had never produced a theatrical release, often collaborated with cable channels to shoot late-night shows, and invested some money each year to make straight-to-DVD movies.

The boss, Kelly Grey, had studied at USC, spent some time in Hollywood, was heavily influenced by Californians, and was currently one of the more active liberals in Atlanta.

A little after four, a large group of extras returned. Martin and Robert got on the bus with the crowd and headed back to downtown Atlanta.

Martin picked up his car, grabbed a quick dinner, and rushed to West Avenue. He hadn’t even parked yet when, two spaces over, a Jeep Wrangler’s door flew open and a shouting match with an F-bomb every other word erupted.

Martin got out and locked his car.

From the Wrangler’s passenger seat, a burly black woman with dreadlocks and a huge backside got out, pointing into the car and cursing: "You useless piece of crap, flirting with girls right in front of me! If it weren’t for me paying for you, would you be where you are today? Now you’ve made it, and you dare give me attitude!"

On the other side, a bald black man got out: "Who are you calling useless? You think I won’t divorce you and kick you out?"

The hot-tempered black woman lost it, pulled a shiny silver pistol from her basketball-sized chest: "Boyett, I’ll blow this pile of dogshit to pieces!"

The bald Boyett wasn’t backing down, pulling out an M1911: "Come on, let’s see who goes down first."

The black couple pointed guns at each other, looking like they could shoot at any moment.

Martin quickly moved away and headed to the club entrance, where he found the stubborn Ivan watching with great interest. He asked, "You know those two lunatics?"

Ivan tapped his head: "That group, aren’t they all crazy around here?"

Bruce came out from the porch and smacked Ivan on the head: "Don’t talk crap like that at the door! We’re civilized people!"

Ivan protested, "I’m just stating a well-known fact. They act normal most of the time, but get a little emotional and turn into brainless beasts."

At that moment, someone ran out from the black bar across the street and managed to calm the black couple down.

Martin asked, "People from across the street?"

Bruce said, "The guy’s called Boyett, owner of the black bar. The woman is his wife, Betty, both have Southside black gang backgrounds."

Martin scratched his head, "Married couple pulling guns during a fight."

Bruce lowered his voice, "Black gangs—extremely violent tendencies."

Martin made a mental note to keep his distance from those two in the future.

The two of them went into the club, changed clothes, and started work. There were especially few customers tonight; even at the busiest, there weren’t more than 30 people.

Martin pocketed a $1 tip.

Bruce said enviously, "I heard every bartender has a special trick. Do you?"

Martin replied, "Of course." He pointed at Bruce, "But I don’t show civilized people, because civilized people like poster flavors."

It wasn’t really a special trick, just that he knew a few cocktails that hadn’t appeared or become popular yet in this era, like the Paper Plane.

The tall, skinny, blond ponytail guy came in from outside just then, and as soon as he saw Bruce, he complained, "Who was that jerk at the door? Actually made me buy a ticket to get in."

Martin didn’t even have to ask—definitely Ivan.

Bruce just grinned.

The ponytail guy turned to Martin, "Handsome, you selling drinks is a waste of resources! Vincent made a mistake—he put you in the wrong position!"

As he spoke, he headed upstairs.

Martin shot a questioning look.

Bruce explained, "That’s the night club PR guy the boss hired, Michael. Probably because business hasn’t picked up, the boss called him in. This guy’s in trouble."

He joked to Martin, "Bartenders have to double as cleaners—dealing with Michael's corpse is our job. You know how to use strong acid? Debone a body?"

Martin replied deadpan, "I’ll have the civilized people lick him into a big hole!"

Bruce put on a serious face, "You still owe me a month’s worth of posters, and a big-butt actress."

The first one was easy to handle, but the second was too much trouble, so Martin forcibly changed the subject: "If the club goes under, you’ll be out of a job."

Bruce said, "No way, the boss still has a trump card he hasn’t played."

Martin was curious, "What trump card?"

"Collecting suggestions from the staff," Bruce was clearly not joking. "Then picking the best plan."