Chapter 3: The Underground Clubs of Adult Valley
"An annual interest rate between ten and fifteen percent, with a term of three to five years.
That's the best-case scenario.
Of course, since your production company doesn't have a single completed project under its name, the bank may further discount its valuation."
Hearing this, William nodded.
"How long will it take for the money to come through? And if I authorize you to handle everything on my behalf, what would the fee be?"
Such blunt, no-nonsense speech was uncommon for the era.
Alexander froze for a brief moment, then quickly processed William's questions.
"At the fastest, about four weeks. As for service fees—loans of this size typically run between three and five thousand dollars."
The answer was well within William's expectations.
He made the decision on the spot.
"Fine. Draft the authorization agreement.
Borrow as much as you can."
Hearing that, Alexander nodded eagerly.
He knew perfectly well that this loan would likely only accelerate William's bankruptcy—but this was Los Angeles, not some small town in Texas.
He had no obligation to play the good Samaritan and warn William.
Before long, Alexander drafted the authorization contract.
After signing it, William left the accounting firm.
He grabbed a quick, perfunctory dinner, then headed straight for the San Fernando Valley.
The largest adult film production hub in the world.
Of course, in 1989 the industry there had only just begun to take shape—it hadn't yet reached the overwhelming dominance it would achieve in later years.
And Los Angeles at the time was riddled with gangs, especially in East L.A.
The Bloods.
The Crips.
These two major Black gangs had influenced the cultural trajectory of America itself, shaping a distinct West Coast gang culture.
Naturally, the San Fernando Valley had its own underworld.
The 18th Street Gang—a group composed primarily of Latinos, most of them of Mexican descent.
They dealt in the less glamorous end of crime: petty theft, shaking down street vendors—
Or running strip clubs.
The underground kind.
---
By now, night had fallen, and many of the underground clubs were already in full operation.
William stopped in front of a place called Blazing Paradise.
True to its name, it was unmistakably an underground venue—the entrance was deliberately concealed.
If it weren't for the half-drunken stories he'd heard from friends before his memories awakened, he probably wouldn't have been able to find it at all.
"Hey, kid. New face. Don't recall seeing you around here. What're you here for?"
William's appearance immediately put the two Mexican men guarding the door on alert.
He looked over.
18th Street Gang tattoos.
Latino.
One gripping a metal baseball bat, the other casually spinning a set of brass knuckles in his hand.
To be honest, William detested dealing with thugs who lived on the edge of the law.
But reality was cruel.
He needed actresses—and the girls who best fit his requirements were often scraping by in corners just like this, where the stench of tobacco mixed with sweat.
This place was a swamp he couldn't avoid.
"So a new face isn't allowed to come in and have some fun?"
William lifted his gaze to meet the two human walls blocking his path, his eyes steady and unflinching.
The two brutes exchanged a knowing look, then stepped aside in tacit agreement.
"Suit yourself," one of them grunted.
---
The moment he pushed the door open, deafening heavy metal crashed over him.
Under dim lighting, men clutched wads of cash as they crowded around the stage, screaming hoarsely at the figures twisting around steel poles.
The scene struck William as absurdly familiar.
An offline version of livestream tipping.
Only here, desire was naked—no filters, no illusions.
He scanned the frenzied crowd until his gaze locked onto a girl whose stage name was Nancy.
He couldn't be certain about the purity of her lineage, but her face landed squarely within his aesthetic—and his cinematic needs.
Deep-set contours.
Striking features.
A textbook Caucasian look with strong big-screen recognizability.
On stage, Nancy was fully immersed in her routine. Her waist rolled powerfully, every curve precisely harvesting cash from the audience below.
William understood the rules of this world.
Unless he was willing to fling stacks of greenbacks around like a lunatic, Nancy wouldn't spare him a glance during business hours—let alone sit down to talk.
He didn't waste time.
After engraving her highly distinctive face into memory, he quietly turned and slipped back out through the roaring crowd.
Pushing open the club's heavy door, the cold night air snapped him fully awake.
William circled the building once, marking every exit like a seasoned hunter.
In the end, his eyes settled on the back door.
He drove through a dim alley and parked his car in a concealed spot with a perfect line of sight.
Engine off.
Lights out.
From here, every movement at the rear entrance was under his control.
William leaned back in the seat, sinking into darkness, and began to wait.
---
As the night deepened, the noise remained sealed behind thick walls.
Inside the dressing room, Nancy stood before a mottled mirror, removing her makeup.
She peeled off her heavy false lashes, revealing eyes dulled with exhaustion.
While rubbing cleansing oil into her skin, she counted the night's spoils—
A crumpled stack of green bills, reeking of smoke, alcohol, and sweat.
"Three hundred bucks…" she muttered.
"At least tonight wasn't a waste."
After counting the last bill, she tucked the money into her bag with satisfaction.
She stretched lazily, her joints popping softly, then grabbed her jacket.
Dragging legs that felt like lead, she pushed open the rusted back door.
The silent alley was suddenly pierced by headlights.
William had been waiting.
He eased the car forward and stopped precisely beside her, rolling down the window.
"Hey, Nancy."
He cleared his throat, his voice steady in the darkness.
Nancy shivered instinctively. She'd seen this kind of late-night ambush far too many times.
She jumped back, one hand slipping into her bag for the pepper spray, and shouted boldly:
"I'm off the clock! Don't get any ideas—security's right inside. One shout and they'll be all over you!"
"Easy, Nancy. I'm not here to hurt you."
William raised both hands to show they were empty. The last thing he wanted was trouble with the club's muscle.
"I just have a job to offer you."
"A job?"
Nancy stopped, eyeing him suspiciously.
In the faint glow of the dashboard, she noticed that the man was unexpectedly handsome—sharp features, deep-set eyes, a clear gaze.
He didn't look like some sleazy creep who prowled alleys at night.
Her guard lowered slightly. She raised an eyebrow, half-mocking herself.
"What kind of job? A movie role?"
"Come on—if you said it was one of those Adult Valley productions, I might actually believe you."