Chapter 50 – Hirsch's Reflection
"That's Daryl Gates."
Newson lowered his voice, the hostility in it unmistakable.
"The absolute authority of the Los Angeles Police Department. A stubborn, hardline conservative Republican who refuses to budge an inch."
He let out a cold snort, mockery flashing in his eyes.
"He worships that extreme 'iron-fist' approach. Sooner or later, he's going to set the whole city on fire. To him, every person of color is a potential criminal. I have no intention of being anywhere near him when that blaze finally ignites.
He's a fossil that somehow survived from the nineteenth century."
William felt a faint chill.
His mind moved quickly through the timeline of history.
Daryl Gates.
A name that, in just a few years, would become synonymous with the Rodney King incident and the 1992 Los Angeles riots—events that would shake the world.
Gates was, in many ways, the embodiment of his era: a man who believed in force over reform, in "law and order" above all else—while ignoring the escalating racial tensions and deepening class fractures beneath the surface.
California at this moment was already a pressure cooker.
Police stops targeting Black and minority communities had grown excessive. Society resembled a gas-filled chamber waiting for a single spark.
And Gates was the man striking flint.
"In California," Hirsch muttered with a shrug, noticing William's focus on Gates, "political bias is harder to manage than box office numbers."
He leaned closer.
"Newson and Gates are sworn enemies. One's a reformist pushing change; the other's an old-guard hardliner clinging to the past. Let's stay right here. No need to invite trouble. That old man looks at everyone like they're suspects."
Hirsch himself was firmly aligned with the Democratic camp. His networks, funding pipelines, and long-term interests were intertwined with that side of the political spectrum.
The last thing he wanted was for his promising young director to drift too close to what he privately considered a cold Republican machine.
For the rest of the evening, William moved through the ballroom under Hirsch's guidance as though walking an invisible map of power.
He met a logistics magnate who controlled distribution arteries across Southern California.
He met lobbyists capable of swaying votes in the state legislature.
He met discreet financiers whose names never appeared in headlines, yet whose checks shaped entire industries.
In this environment, movie stars—so dominant on screen—seemed almost ornamental.
Unless one had transcended celebrity status to become a cultural symbol—like Michael Jackson—or carried explosive upward momentum like Mariah Carey, most actors here were little more than decoration.
Here, real influence wore tailored suits and spoke in policy, not scripts.
As the night deepened and conversations shifted from pleasantries to implied alliances, Hirsch exhaled softly and glanced at William.
"You see it now, don't you?" he said quietly.
"In Hollywood, talent gets you through the door. But politics decides how long you stay inside."
There was no envy in his voice.
Only experience.
And perhaps a faint sense of awe—at how naturally William seemed to be adapting to a game that consumed most newcomers whole.
William moved gracefully from one introduction to another, fielding waves of subtle probing and polite social maneuvering. His tone was measured—neither overly eager for power nor aloof to the point of arrogance.
He understood something very clearly: his San Fernando Valley films had unintentionally pulled him into a much larger political chessboard. He had already been labeled a "Democrat-friendly director." That label functioned both as a shield and as an invisible set of shackles.
Across the hall, Daryl Gates remained locked in stern conversation, his posture rigid, as if already planning another crackdown on street gangs.
William swirled the champagne in his glass, watching the bubbles rise slowly.
He knew that beneath this glittering façade, Los Angeles stood on the edge of boiling unrest.
And as a man with the advantage of foresight, how should he position himself in the coming storm—not merely to survive it, but to extract the greatest possible leverage?
"William, what's on your mind?"
Hirsch stepped closer and handed him a freshly cut cigar.
William didn't smoke, but in situations like this, refusing would be more conspicuous than indulging. Besides, cigars weren't inhaled.
He accepted it.
Lighting the cigar, he exhaled a thin stream of smoke. His gaze drifted past the crowd—toward the stairwell where Mariah Carey had disappeared—then back to the invisible tension field between Carl Newson and Gates.
"Thank you tonight, Steve. These connections are… valuable."
Hirsch chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Since we share the same philosophy about San Fernando Valley cinema, we don't need to waste time on polite nonsense."
His tone grew unexpectedly sincere.
"You know something? In Los Angeles, people are ignorant. They don't understand what real art is. They need someone like you—someone capable of guiding them—before they can even begin to recognize quality."
Hirsch meant it.
What had started as a partnership of mutual benefit had gradually evolved. After witnessing William's body of work, Hirsch no longer saw him merely as a profitable collaborator—but as a kindred spirit.
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San Fernando Valley at night lacked the glittering spectacle of Hollywood Boulevard.
The neon lights here glowed with a sickly orange hue, like a rash spreading silently across the skin of the city.
Behind the Hot Heaven Club, stray cats rummaged through trash bins, scavenging for scraps.
On the other side of a thin wall, inside the dressing room, the air felt nearly solid.
Cheap perfume. Harsh hairspray. Alcohol fumes mixed with low-grade cigarette smoke. The sweetness was suffocating—like cotton stuffed into the lungs.
A ring of blinding white bulbs surrounded mirrors streaked with fingerprints and grime.
Luna sat in a wobbly swivel chair, absentmindedly touching up her lipstick beneath the scorching lights.
In the mirror, her reflection stared back—heavy makeup, practiced allure, and a gaze that carried the fatigue of someone who had already seen too much.
A month ago, she had still believed she might break out through San Fernando Valley's adult film machine—become one of the top stars, move into a mansion in Beverly Hills.
Reality, however, left her here—still swaying her hips for tips worth no more than a few dozen dollars.
"Luna. Someone's asking for you."
A low voice called from outside. The heavy wooden door cracked open, letting in a sliver of cooler hallway air.
She glanced at the reflection in the mirror.
That familiar dark face.
Anthony.
His skin was inked with religious tattoos, his expression as cold as stone. He was one of José's trusted enforcers in this district.
"Anthony? Well, that's rare."
Luna set down her lipstick and turned, arching a playful brow.
"No job from the boss tonight? Or are you here off the clock—looking to book some overtime?"
As she spoke, she subtly shifted her posture, accentuating her curves with practiced ease.
For women surviving at the bottom of the Valley, flirtation wasn't just instinct.
It was armor.