"My place?!" Sternberg was immediately shocked and looked at Griffith in panic, saying to me, "Well, Mr. Colliano, my place is definitely not a place for someone like you to visit. Let''s forget it."


    Sternberg is not doing well now, so he definitely doesn''t want to show me where he lives. Unexpectedly, his self-esteem is so strong.


    "It''s okay, Sternberg. Don''t think I''m some big boss. I was a pauper with nothing a month ago, just like you. I''m not the same kind of person as those people in there," I pointed to the room and smiled.


    Seeing my determination, Sternberg had no choice but to nod.


    I went into the room to say goodbye to Old Ma and the others, and then came out with Griffith and Sternberg and left the hotel.


    On the road, we bought a few bottles of red wine and some side dishes. The three of us stood by the roadside hailing a taxi.


    Sternberg was very surprised to see that I didn''t even have a car, and then he saw that I didn''t have the demeanor of a boss at all, and even carried wine bottles and told dirty jokes to Griffith. Gradually, he also put away the expression he showed when he saw Old Ma and the others.


    While waiting for the taxi, the three of us chatted about all kinds of things. I was ten years younger than Sternberg, and we had a lot in common. With Griffith making jokes in the middle, by the end, Sternberg had completely regarded me as his friend. In the car, the three of us squeezed into the back seat, giggling and laughing, and the atmosphere was very harmonious.


    The taxi drove for more than half an hour, winding through the streets in the middle of the road, and finally arrived at the Pirate Alley in the East District of Hollywood.


    I''ve heard James say that in Hollywood, the only place worse than Harvey Street is the Pirate Alley in the East District. Although Harvey Street is dilapidated and poor, after all, those who live inside are some extras, stable lower-class people. Although the public security is not very good, it is not enough to cause any major trouble. But Pirate Alley is different. You can guess what kind of place it is just by listening to the name. Drug dealers, thieves, robbers, prostitutes, beggars... These people are the main residents of Pirate Alley. At night, even the police don''t dare to come in easily. Murders, robberies, and rapes are common occurrences. In Hollywood, unless one is driven to a dead end, no one will live here.


    The driver stopped the car at the entrance of the alley and told us that he would not drive in because he was afraid that he would not be able to get out once he entered.


    Sternberg smiled apologetically at me. After getting out of the car, Sternberg hurriedly paid for the taxi and walked into the wet street in a row.


    It was less than nine o''clock, and this was the busiest time of the day in Hollywood, but the streets here were empty.


    Sternberg told me that people here would close their doors as soon as it got dark, and those who opened the door were some brothels and small shops.


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    We walked for a while, and sure enough, we saw pink lights on the small shops on both sides of the street. Groups of prostitutes sat naked behind the glass windows, waiting for customers boredly. In some shops, some men even brazenly drank wine beside the bed while spreading the thighs of women and trying their best to insert.


    At the corner of the street, there were either some dirty beggars squatting or groups of drug addicts. I even witnessed a tall and burly man carry a crying and pleading woman with disheveled clothes into the garbage dump next to him with my own eyes.


    Such a place is simply hell. If I hadn''t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed that it existed in Hollywood, which prides itself on being glamorous, civilized, free, and self-proclaimed!


    After turning six or seven streets, Sternberg led us to stop in front of a low, doorless small courtyard. Inside was a three-story small building. I don''t know when it was built. It looked dilapidated and dark from the outside, and it looked like a haunted house in a horror movie no matter how you looked at it.


    Sternberg awkwardly pointed to a window on the second floor and smiled, "That''s my room."


    The three of us entered the yard. Just as we reached the door of the room, an old black man stopped us.


    "Mr. Sternberg, you owe me two months'' rent. When will you pay me back!? " The old black man was very angry.


    Sternberg smiled apologetically, "Mr. Gra, I will definitely give it to you next week, just next week."


    "Next week, next week, you''ve said this so many times. Mr. Sternberg, you are a screenwriter. You have money to dress so well and go to high-end hotels. Can''t you even afford an $80 rent for a month?! Tell you, if I don''t get the money next week, I can only ask you to leave!" The old black man shook his head and walked into his own house.


    Sternberg looked at me helplessly and stuck out his tongue.


    We walked up the narrow and wet stairs. In the darkness, we wiped towards Sternberg''s room. It seemed that there were also people living in several rooms next to us. Some of them even emitted the groans of women and the roars of men.


    Sternberg whispered, "The people in this room are all prostitutes, and they are high-end prostitutes who are doing well in Pirate Alley."


    Griffith and I shook our heads at the same time.


    After entering the door, Sternberg turned on the light. Looking at his room, Griffith and I were immediately dumbfounded.


    Regarding Sternberg''s situation, I had a certain psychological preparation before, but we didn''t expect him to be so miserable.


    There was only a swaying bed, a table covered with several pieces of broken bread, several chairs, a slightly decent cabinet, and a bookcase in the entire room, nothing else.


    The room was full of manuscript paper and dirty clothes, and there was simply no place to step on.


    Sternberg cleaned up the things and brought two chairs for Griffith and me.


    "You, you live here?!" Seeing the director who is respected by Hollywood people in later generations so miserable now, I felt a strange feeling in my heart.


    Sternberg smiled with moist eyes, "Mr. Colliano, I''m sorry to laugh at you."


    "Sternberg, how can you be a screenwriter for United Artists? Don''t they pay you a salary?" I asked.


    "Salary?!" Griffith almost bounced up on the side: "What do you expect Chaplin, that son of a bitch, to pay us? My weekly salary is $100, and Sternberg''s weekly salary is $30. If there are mistakes in work, we will also be fined!"


    "This is too little! Haven''t you ever thought about going to other companies?" I asked anxiously.


    "I''m looking for someone besides United Artists. As for Sternberg, this guy was once deceived by Chaplin. He said that he would definitely let him make a movie. As a result, he foolishly signed the contract. Later, when he found out that he had been deceived, he found that if he broke the contract, he would have to pay 40 times the liquidated damages, which is $40,000. Andre, look at the things in this room. Even adding them up, they are not worth $40!" Griffith didn''t have a good face when he mentioned Chaplin.


    I walked to the table and pointed to the moldy inferior bread on it and said to Sternberg, "Do you eat this?"


    Sternberg''s eyes turned red, and he nodded silently.


    "Can you eat this? Aren''t you getting a $30 weekly salary?! " I roared.


    Sternberg didn''t reply. He squatted down, hung his head, and cried bitterly.