Chapter Three: The Club Film Company

“Congratulations, big brother!” Yan Xu took the stack of cash.

Because they’d never been much valued in the organization, and there were hardly any real profits to be had, they’d always lived just scraping by. What’s more, they never really restrained their spending. All Yan Xu’s worldly possessions amounted to just over two thousand dollars. This ten thousand would keep him from living in such dire straits for quite some time.

If this had happened before, Yan Xu would have been absolutely thrilled that Bald Qiang had moved up from a regular member to a White Paper Fan. With his big brother getting promoted, his own chance would be just around the corner. But now, he felt little joy. Just as he was plotting to find a way out of the society, once he officially became a member, leaving wouldn’t be as simple as getting the word from his boss.

“I think you’re almost recovered. Rest for two more days, then come to work at the company. You, Chicken Feather, and Ghost Dong are all official employees now,” Bald Qiang said as he watched Yan Xu take the money, nodding approvingly.

He knew all too well that the three of them had been through a lot with him. If it were anyone else, they’d have long since gone to work for another boss, and there were plenty who’d done just that over the years. Whenever a follower switched sides, he never tried to stop them. Those people were always thinking about how to climb the ranks, unaware that in this world, surviving safely was the real skill.

“The company? What company?” Yan Xu asked, eyeing the others. He’d been puzzled ever since Bald Qiang first mentioned the company.

“The boss got promoted for his part in the negotiations, not only becoming a White Paper Fan, but the hall leader also handed him the film company,” Chicken Feather said as he opened some beers and set them out for everyone.

“Film company?” Chicken Feather’s words stunned Yan Xu even more. Their shabby little crew actually had a film company?

Come to think of it, it made sense. This was the 1980s—the golden age of Hong Kong cinema, when four or five hundred films were released every year. Countless eyes turned to that industry, and there were hundreds of film companies of all sizes in Hong Kong, with plenty of triad involvement.

On the one hand, they were drawn by the glamour of the film world; on the other, it was a perfect avenue for laundering money. Later, the most famous examples were the Yongsheng company of the New Xiang brothers, China Star, and One Hundred Years, all pillars of the industry. Movies like God of Gamblers, Running Out of Time, Blue Blood, Love on a Diet, and many of Stephen Chow’s blockbusters came from there—so much so that Chow was always suspected of laundering money for them.

“You’ve always envied those cousins who work at film companies. There are all kinds of beauties there,” Chicken Feather said, his eyes glinting with a look every man understood.

Yan Xu’s eyes glowed too, but for a very different reason. His excitement was more like a farmer who’d suddenly struck gold—a glint not just of delight, but of greed.

Film was a world he knew intimately.

He might have graduated from a third-rate school, but he’d at least received proper director training. He was a film fanatic—he watched everything from blockbuster productions costing hundreds of millions to indie films made for just a few thousand, from legitimate cinema releases to street stall collections with dozens of films for five bucks a disc. At a minimum, he watched over a hundred films from around the world each year—all of which had become his capital.

Many of these films hadn’t even been released yet. For him, this meant not only money, but fame and influence, and all the unspoken rules he relished.

Yet breaking into the film industry was nearly impossible for someone like him, with no connections. Even if he wrote the best scripts and sent them to film companies, the chance someone high up would notice was next to nothing. Going to the top brass directly was unrealistic; he’d just get tossed out by security as a troublemaker.

If he tried to produce his own film, the start-up capital alone—not to mention assembling the cast and crew, and the complexities of distribution and marketing after shooting—would be more trouble than making the film itself.

Now, suddenly, a film company lay before him. Yan Xu knew that a triad-run film company like this would mostly churn out shoddy B-movies or adult films, but at least it was a way in.

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Hundred Battles Film Company—a grand name for such a tiny operation. Yan Xu had mentally prepared himself, knowing a small film company couldn’t be much, but seeing it in person, he couldn’t help but marvel at just how small it really was. It was hard to believe this was a film company at all.

There were no bright office buildings or shiny workspaces—just two ordinary apartments knocked together in a Kowloon residential building. Without Chicken Feather leading him and the small brass sign by the door, Yan Xu would never have noticed the company amid the sea of street vendors.

Inside, behind the security door, chaos reigned. Papers were piled everywhere, videotapes and film canisters were strewn around, and several young triads in suits were playing cards, feet up on desks, looking thoroughly out of place. Yan Xu recognized a few from times he’d come here with Bald Qiang. On the walls, there were posters of scantily clad women and, in some cases, even more risqué foreign pin-ups.

“Brother Feather, Brother Nine!” When the card players saw Chicken Feather lead Yan Xu in, they quickly stood up to greet them.

“Carry on. The boss is inside, right?” Chicken Feather nodded. He wasn’t yet officially a member, but having been with Bald Qiang for so long as a trusted aide, he ranked above these small-time punks.

“Boss!”

“Boss!”

Because they were Bald Qiang’s closest followers, Yan Xu and Chicken Feather didn’t bother to knock; they pushed open the door marked “Manager’s Office.” This room was much tidier than the chaos outside, with a hint of nouveau riche taste but at least some semblance of order.

Inside wasn’t just Bald Qiang; besides Ghost Dong, there was a middle-aged man in a suit and slicked-back hair—clearly a company veteran—accompanied by a woman who looked every bit a nightclub hostess.

“Take a seat, both of you.” Bald Qiang glanced at Chicken Feather and Yan Xu, then introduced the other man to Yan Xu. “This is Ah Jiu, head of the film production department. You’ll work with him as deputy manager for now. Chicken Feather and Ghost Dong will be in charge of distribution.”

“Brother Jiu.” Yan Xu stood to greet him. He must have been an old hand left over from the previous regime. With Bald Qiang just taking over, without someone like him to show them the ropes, it would take at least half a year to get up to speed.

“We’re all brothers here, no need for formalities. Just call me Ah Jiu,” he replied, knowing that Yan Xu was one of Bald Qiang’s trusted men and making no effort to put on airs.