After a quick breakfast, Martin headed out alone. A night's rest had helped ease the pain in his legs, and his memories of his past life had become even clearer.
Now that his body was recovering, there was no point in wasting time—there was still a lot to do.
He grabbed the burned CD, picked up his JVC camcorder, and made his way to the grocery store on the north side of the neighborhood.
Scott Carter was already drinking, as expected. The morning sunlight caught his face, making his nose glow redder than a traffic light.
Martin placed the camcorder on the counter. "Here's your stuff. And by the way, Harris got the medical treatment."
Scott actually set down his bottle for once, standing up to inspect the camera with unexpected care. His nose somehow turned an even deeper shade of red. "Where's my cassette, boy? You stole my damn cassette!"
"Don't pin that on me." Martin didn't even blink as he made up a lie. "The tape inside was used to hold Harris's splint together. Ask Elena if you want to see it."
Hearing his eldest daughter's name, Scott immediately backed down, grumbling under his breath but not pushing the issue. Instead, he turned to another complaint. "Tell that bastard Harris that this camcorder's worth twenty bucks. He better bring me the money by tomorrow."
Martin ignored him and changed the topic. "You got any cheap cell phones?"
The one he had borrowed yesterday was actually Lily's, on loan from Mrs. Wood.
Scott squinted at him. "Since when do broke guys like you have money for a phone?" Then a thought struck him. His expression changed. "Wait… is that bastard Jack back? Tell me where he is!"
If an average man's wife had been stolen away, it would be a blood feud. But Scott's mind operated on a different frequency. "Damn it, how many days has that bastard had Emma? God knows how many times they've hooked up—he owes me by the day! That's at least a hundred… no, two hundred dollars a day!"
Martin couldn't be bothered to engage with his nonsense and turned to leave.
Scott, however, pulled a phone from under the counter and waved it at him. "Here. It's European-made. Real durable—lasts longer than you will."
Martin took a look. A gray candy-bar-style phone. An old Nokia 3210.
Something felt off. He flipped it over and found that the back cover was cracked, glued together, with a hole right in the center of the damage.
Scott took a sip of his drink and smirked. "That's a lucky phone. Wouldn't show it to just anyone. Some poor delivery guy got caught in a shootout between the Eagle Gang and another crew. A stray bullet hit him, but this phone took the hit instead. Saved his damn life. Battery's busted, though—I replaced it."
Martin powered it on. It still worked. "How much?"
Scott waved a hand, trying to seem generous. "Take it."
If this had belonged to Harris or Elena, Martin would've taken it without hesitation. But Scott? A drunkard and drug addict who hadn't spent a dime on his kids since Elena turned sixteen?
"Free" was always the most expensive price. Martin pulled out a twenty-dollar bill, slapped it on the counter, and walked off with the phone.
Scott blinked in surprise. "Since when did that idiot get smart?"
Martin went to set up a prepaid plan for the phone, grabbed a few newspapers—mostly financial and entertainment sections—and returned home.
It was always important to understand the bigger picture.
Since the 1996 Olympics, Atlanta had been booming. The economic and social status of Black communities—who made up 40% of the city's population—had risen significantly. At the same time, Black gangs, who used to stick to the southern metro area, were moving into wealthier parts of the city, clashing with existing white gangs. Robberies and shootings were becoming more frequent.
One tabloid even had a job posting for a new club, The House of the Beast. They were looking for gigolos.
Should he check it out?
A chill crawled up his spine. The window rattled behind him.
Just the wind.
Martin went to shut it, glancing at the overgrown backyard. He suddenly remembered—there was a corpse buried out there. He and Elena had dug the grave themselves.
A gust of warm spring air swept in, but it felt ice-cold against his skin.
The thought popped into his head—Maybe I should throw a backyard party. Loud music, heavy rock, disco. That'd keep any ghosts quiet.
He let out a chuckle at the absurdity of it.
After resting for a bit, Martin spent the afternoon scouting for quick-money opportunities around Clayton.
It was a place full of abandoned lots, weeds, and piles of junk.
Most people barely scraped by doing odd jobs like Elena. Only a handful had stable employment.
His predecessor, Martin Davis, had never held down a steady job. He had spent most of his time sponging off Elena and hanging around the Marietta Community Theater, chasing a dream of becoming an actor.
Martin figured it was worth taking another look.
By the next day, his body had almost fully recovered. Since it was the weekend, the theater would be active, so he took a bus to Margaret Square.
The memorial for Gone with the Wind author Margaret Mitchell stood there.
At the back of the memorial was a small community theater.
A white van was parked outside, and Jerome Mitchell—the theater director—was overseeing some guys unloading supplies.
Jerome, dressed in a formal suit as always, spotted Martin and barked, "Hurry up and help!"
Martin limped over on purpose, picking up a small box and carrying it inside.
Jerome gave him a sharp look. "You disappeared for a week. You've been slacking off."
Martin played it cool. "Broke my leg. Spent a week recovering. Came as soon as I could."
Inside, about ten people were sitting in groups. All new faces.
Robert, a fat guy and an old acquaintance, leaned over and whispered, "Heard you broke your leg?"
Martin nodded. "Yeah. Took some time to recover." He gestured at the new crowd. "Lots of fresh meat?"
Robert sighed. "The theater needs constant work, but being an extra pays nothing. And the membership fees are coming up. A lot of people left. No money, no acting career."
Dreams versus reality.
At that moment, Jerome clapped his hands, grabbing everyone's attention. "I've got good news."
Everyone perked up.
"A plantation-themed drama is being filmed in Midtown. Channel 2 and Gray Film Production are casting actors next week. I've pulled some strings—you all have a shot at getting on TV."
The newcomers looked thrilled.
Robert, however, remained unimpressed. "They're just hiring extras."
Jerome continued, puffing up his chest. "That's not all. I have connections in Hollywood. A big-budget film starring Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet is set to shoot here soon. Tens of millions in investment. They'll need actors. And we, my friends, are in the perfect position to seize this opportunity!"
Martin's mind raced. Jim Carrey? Kate Winslet? He tried to recall which movie this could be.
Jerome let the bait settle before reeling it in. "But of course, the theater belongs to all of us. We share the facilities, rehearse together, and keep this place running. That's why we'll be charging a $300 monthly membership fee."
The room fell silent.
Robert sighed. "Basically, we have to pay to act."
Martin wasn't surprised. This was normal in the industry.
In his past life, back in Hengdian, he had known wannabe actresses whose families had sold multiple houses just to buy them a minor role in a TV drama.
Paying to act wasn't a rare scam. The real problem was—many people were willing, but few could afford it.