Chapter Thirty-Eight: Silver Gone Mad

Of course, they had no idea that William White had made a promise: he would distribute 5% of the box office as a bonus, allocated among the crew according to a certain ratio. It wasn’t just the leading actors who’d get a share—even the extras would receive something. At first, no one paid much attention to this money; they estimated the box office would reach, at most, twenty million, so the bonus wouldn’t amount to much. But now things were different. Even if it didn’t hit one hundred and fifty million dollars, breaking a hundred million was already an astonishing figure.

In the beginning, they worried the boss might go back on his word, especially since nothing had been put in writing. But then the company’s accountants informed them: you can calculate your bonuses based on a hundred million; the money is ready for you to collect, and final adjustments will be made when the actual box office is tallied. With a boss like this, what could they say? He’d paid them in advance because he knew they were struggling, and besides, the box office hadn’t even crossed the one hundred million mark yet!

With money in their pockets, the down-and-out actors were in no rush to accept new gigs; there was still a sequel to Police Academy in the works. William White’s advice was sound—take roles if the pay is right, but don’t burn yourself out or there won’t be a sequel. Better yet, use this time to improve your acting skills.

If someone else had lectured them, they might not have taken kindly to it, but when William White spoke, they had no choice. They were all Hollywood veterans, and they knew well enough that those who praised you might not have your best interests at heart, while those who criticized you often saw your potential.

Of all the crew, Eddie Murphy was the one who had been scolded the most harshly. And the result? He was now the hottest star of them all. Eddie Murphy was young, but certainly not foolish; he knew the boss valued him highly. And with the boss being so down-to-earth—never looking down on black folks, greeting them like one of their own—he was not just unconventional, but truly one of a kind.

In this era, black people did not enjoy the status they would in later years. Though things had improved since the war, discrimination was still a reality.

“Jason, help me out—I need a puppy, preferably a German Shepherd.”

“Boss, you’ve already got a beauty at home; why do you need a dog?”

“Mature men keep pets, don’t they?”

“I happen to have a litter of kittens at home—want one?”

“One or two, it’s all the same. I’ll take both the kittens and the dog.”

“All right, all right, I’ll keep an eye out for you—a German Shepherd, right?”

“Yes, don’t get it wrong.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it.”

While William White was dreaming of playing with kittens and dogs, the BY market was in a frenzy—hitting new highs almost daily. Virtually all the speculative capital involved was making a fortune. By this stage, though, the Hunter family’s actions were becoming strange. With so much capital invested, they could have cashed out long ago—there was no reason to keep driving up the price blindly. Their assets were already staggering, yet they still weren’t satisfied.

When God wishes to destroy a man, He first drives him mad. There was no doubt: the Hunters had lost their minds—not only had they not cashed out, they were still buying aggressively.

“Young master, if this continues, we’ll reach twelve dollars within a month.”

“Heh, if they want to go crazy, let them. At twelve dollars, we’ll start selling off slowly. No rush with the London shares—they’ll be the last to go.”

“That way, we’ll have enough cash on hand to pay our taxes.”

“We can afford to wait—we still have plenty of time. For now, let’s keep buying up shares on the market.”

White Petroleum was still hovering around two dollars, an absolute bargain. There was no need to rush; they could take their time. Right now, no one was even thinking about his company. Never mind that oddball movie—the software firm’s profits alone were astonishing. And there was also a bestselling novel.

A twenty percent royalty was almost unheard of; it meant earning money while lying down—years and years of royalties. And if a deluxe edition came out later, that’d be another windfall. Americans had excellent reading habits—newspapers and magazines were a regular part of life. Even in tough economic times, print media wasn’t much affected; writers still lived pretty well.

Summers in Texas were unbearable; except for early morning and late evening, it was best not to go outside—the sun hung overhead like a blazing red-hot biscuit. Once he had a bit more money, he’d buy himself a vacation spot. The Texas weather was simply too dreadful.

One had to admit—it was the height of luxury to complain like this. Who knew how many envied his life of wealth, yet he could still find reasons to be dissatisfied—if that wasn’t pretentious, what was?

The American idea of a tycoon was really about how many people served you. They weren’t fussy about food or clothes, and their living conditions weren’t anything special. With America’s abundant resources, except in rare years, they were never short of food.

But service was another matter. After the Civil War, the cost of service kept rising, and fewer people were willing to do such work, so prices naturally soared.

Still, William White was hardly strapped for cash. In this era, a millionaire was already a success; a net worth in the hundreds of millions was almost unimaginable. As long as you didn’t do anything reckless, you couldn’t spend it all in a lifetime.

Worried about inflation? Interest rates were high. If you feared the banks might collapse, you could just buy government bonds and live off the interest.

“Young master, the grape harvest is excellent this year. Our wine-making equipment might not be enough.”

“Expand production, then. Double the capacity of the wine cellar. Local farms are having a tough time this year—we can buy up some of their grapes.”

“Won’t that be too much?”

“It’s fine—red wine doesn’t spoil. In a few years, sales are bound to pick up. We’ll just store it for now.”

“Understood. I’ll get right on it.”

He really wasn’t worried about the wine; it wasn’t like milk, which had to be destroyed if it didn’t sell. Wine could age in oak barrels for decades without issue—the longer it sat, the higher the price. If it was a good vintage, it could fetch over ten times the original price.

It was all marketing, really. The ’82 Lafite was certainly outstanding, but Barrel House made even better wines—yet in China, everyone only wanted Lafite. Barrel House was famous, but nothing compared to Lafite’s prestige.

He couldn’t even recall how many times he’d slipped in a plug for his brand. From now on, he’d have every movie character order a bottle of ’82 White—let’s see if that doesn’t make the wine legendary.

The cost of red wine was actually very low—you could make money selling it for a few dollars a bottle. Don’t be taken in by all the hype from the wineries; most of it was just nonsense.

Top-tier oak barrels? They were still just oak barrels, and even the finest weren’t expensive. America never had a shortage of oak; it was all just marketing tricks.

It was like those Hermès handbags—if you believed in the luxury, that was enough. The notion that high costs drove high prices was laughable; a cow without scars was still a cow, and there’d always be fools to buy in.

These so-called luxury goods didn’t actually sell much in America. Without the support of wealthy Chinese buyers, more than half the luxury companies would have gone bankrupt.

As for the present, this was the bleakest era for luxury brands. The wealthy were having a tough time; they weren’t in the mood for such extravagances.