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Please Be Advised:
This chapter contains depictions of racism and racially charged language that may be offensive and disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.
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The dinner table was piled high with dishes of meats. Henry devoured most of it, eating with a kind of vengeance. After all, during his time in Switzerland, he'd had to match Audrey Hepburn's delicate palate and dietary restrictions. It had been almost like grazing every day; now it was time to make up for it.
Old Gary, who had brought along a bottle of bourbon, joined him at the table. Once they'd finished, Henry stacked the dishes in the sink, turned on the old stereo system, and set the volume to a soft hum for background music.
He poured whiskey for them both. With a deep exhale, the alcohol softened Gary's usual flamboyant demeanor — his voice lost its lilting tone and his words came out steadier, more natural.
"Damn," Gary sighed, "it's been way too long since I've had a real meal like that."
Henry chuckled. "Can't be that bad. Even if your cooking's terrible, there's plenty of good food out there — just pricey. Los Angeles might not be a food capital, but with this city's crazy spending power, there's no shortage of great chefs."
Gary rolled his eyes. "You really have been gone too long. It's not the same L.A. anymore. Back then, as long as you stayed clear of the gang neighborhoods, you were fine at night. Now? Not so simple."
Henry frowned. "It's gotten that bad?"
Gary snorted. "Animals that have tasted human flesh can't go back to eating grass. The problem is, you can't say the same for people. The government pretended to crack down hard on the riots, but in the end they went soft — gave the Black community too much leeway.
"They even punished cops who were just doing their jobs! I swear, at this rate, a Black guy could shoot someone, and as long as he claims the system's racist, he'll walk free."
Henry shrugged. "What can I say? It's biology. You introduce an invasive species into a stable ecosystem, there's always fallout. The moment white people dragged Africans to America as slaves, they guaranteed this outcome."
"If you're lucky," Gary said flatly. "If they think you're weak, they'll make sport of you. What happens next depends on how unlucky you are — and nothing that happens will surprise anyone."
Hearing that, Henry didn't even bother asking why the police weren't doing anything.
After all, the L.A. riots the previous year had only been quelled by a joint military–police operation — but the aftermath had destroyed public trust in law enforcement. It wasn't a classic "crackdown and calm" situation; this was a simmering chaos.
So rather than blame the Black community for pushing too far, Henry thought it was more accurate to say the city government had invited it — and the opportunists were just smart enough to take advantage.
Still, curiosity got the better of him. "What about Hollywood?" he asked. "Same mess there?"
Gary barked a laugh. "Ha! You underestimate the Jews who run that town. Those Blacks can raise funds, sure, start their little side projects — but thinking they can muscle into the real Hollywood pie? Dream on."
Henry nodded. It made sense.
From the days of jazz and soul up to modern rap, Black artists had built their own domains — spaces defined by their culture and rules. But the eight classical arts of Western civilization had always been framed by white values.
And Hollywood? That was the pinnacle of white-controlled fame and fortune.
A bunch of guys speaking in slang and flashing guns thought they could carve out a share of that? Please. Against the true power brokers — the studio heads, financiers, and producers — those street kids from Africa didn't stand a chance.
Even in the so-called "woke" era of Black Lives Matter, a few high-grossing Black-led films might've given people the illusion that the "Black era" had arrived.
But the boardrooms hadn't changed color. The only shift was cosmetic — a few more Black voices, a few more speaking roles.
The moment those box office numbers faltered, Hollywood would discard them like every other disposable superstar before them.
Henry muttered under his breath, "So… should I go back to acting, then?"
Gary raised an eyebrow. "Got a better plan?" He paused, then added slyly, "You spent over a year with Audrey Hepburn — didn't get any industry connections out of that? She never offered to open doors for you? You didn't… please her enough?"
"Fuck off, Gary!" Henry snapped, more annoyed than angry.
Gary raised both hands in mock surrender. "My bad, my bad."
Henry exhaled, calming down. "I did meet a lot of people at the charity galas — but that wasn't just Hollywood, it was global high society. I was just her invisible assistant. Those folks wouldn't even remember my face.
"And using Audrey Hepburn's name now? That'd be shameless. She's gone, and her sons are still in the industry — I've got no business riding her coattails."
Gary nodded slowly. "Fair enough. Didn't think about going to one of her sons, though?"
Henry shook his head. "Sean's mostly in the European film scene. And Europe's cinema's on life support anyway. Besides, who'd invest in their mother's assistant when they could back someone with a real future?"
"True enough," Gary agreed with a sigh. Then, half-jokingly, he started counting off Henry's "career path." "So basically, you've been a bit-part actor for half a year and a celebrity assistant for a year.
"With that résumé, maybe you could try going into management? Agent work, maybe? Production assistant? Climbing the ladder to producer? Though honestly, without connections, no one would dare hire you as a producer."
Henry smirked. "And if I'm an agent, my big-shot clients won't trust me either. I'll be stuck signing small-timers, praying one of them magically becomes the next Oscar winner. Sounds like a plan destined for pain, doesn't it?"
Gary clicked his tongue. "Show me a path to success that isn't painful. If it existed, I'd already be on it — and I sure as hell wouldn't tell you."
Henry laughed. "Can't argue with that."
After all, things people spoke of lightly were usually the ones they didn't truly care about.
It wasn't that people couldn't keep secrets — it's just that they rarely bothered to guard the ones that didn't matter to them.
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