Chapter 404: Welcome to the San Fernando Valley

Li Aiguo had spent the past month+ in the U. . tirelessly searching for a singer capable of performing Wei Ming's electronic song—someone with both talent and fame, capable of launching a massive hit.

After all, the more Wei Ming earned, the more he earned; they were a shared interest, so he leveraged every connection he could, meeting countless people in the music industry and nearly becoming a semi-professional himself.

"Leonardo, get in the car—we'll talk on the way." Outside the airport, Li Aiguo showed off his brand-new BMW, bought entirely with the money Wei Ming had given him, no loans involved—"Moonlight Shadow" had proven wildly profitable.

Wei Ming was pleased: "Perfect—I've been needing a car for my recent activities in Los Angeles. Thanks, Aiguo."

"How could you drive yourself? That'd be slapping me in the face. We're proper L. . kids—we need this." Li Aiguo patted his own face. During Wei Ming's stay in L. ., he'd serve as his driver, tour guide, and manager, covering all expenses—and sneak in to attend the Grammys with him.

"Won't this interfere with your plans?"

"No problem—I won't even start school for a while." He'd soon enroll in a master's program at the University of Southern California.

In the car, Li Aiguo headed straight for Sunset Boulevard, explaining the musician he'd chosen.

"You know Elton John, right? British—you've probably heard of him. I remember Melinda made you listen to his albums."

"I know him too well." Wei Ming smiled. It was this old auntie who'd exposed him in Hong Kong; his later charity concerts' massive pull owed partly to him.

"I thought he was a rock musician." Wei Ming said, though he'd never formed a band, his past listens to Elton John's albums were mostly rock.

"His style's diverse—he handles heartfelt folk ballads well, and plays piano brilliantly." Li Aiguo clearly knew Elton John inside out.

He continued: "In recent years, Elton's been down on his luck—his life and career a mess—and he's seeking a transformation. Electronic music is the direction he wants to explore."

Li Aiguo had picked well: since John Lennon's death, Elton John had been Britain's most talked-about male musician and one of the best-selling solo artists, with multiple albums selling over ten million copies.

Wei Ming's knowledge of him went beyond his world-famous hits, mainly drawn from his biopic "Rocketman"—not just any celebrity gets a biopic made while still alive.

His current low point stemmed not only from the pain of transition but also from drug abuse and his homosexuality—messy issues.

But none of that concerned Wei Ming. He only cared whether this song could reach its former height—that global best-selling electronic single!

"Can I meet Elton John and talk to him?"

"Sure—he's in the U. . now, but currently in New York. I'll need to contact him. Do you want him to come to you, or will you go to him?" Li Aiguo asked.

"You contact him later—I'll head to New York. After the Grammys, I'm taking Yifu to Chicago for school anyway—perfect detour."

Li Aiguo: What kind of detour is that? You're just making up an excuse to go to New York!

Wei Ming also wanted to visit San Francisco—he knew where his aunt lived, but wasn't sure if showing up unannounced would be too abrupt.

"What should we do tonight?" Wei Ming asked.

Their international flight departed tonight and landed in L. . that evening; Wei Ming had already slept on the plane and now needed energy-draining activities to avoid insomnia later.

"How about a bar?" Li Aiguo suggested—it was something Beijing didn't have. "Beijing's banned dancing—you must be dying to move."

Wei Ming: "I don't have a dancing itch. What about you, Yifu?"

"I'll just head back to the hotel and rest." He had a wife and kids, kept himself clean, avoided such places—he'd never visited Taiwan's military "entertainment zones."

Wei Ming: "Forget the bar. Any good movies out? I feel like watching a Hollywood blockbuster."

"None—currently a movie drought. But there's an old film that's been playing over a month—a heartwarming family drama. Great reviews and box office."

He meant "On Golden Pond," a future Oscar contender, and a massive box office success—North American gross already over $100 million, impressive.

Wei Ming knew the film well—starring three-time Oscar winner Katharine Hepburn, Henry Fonda, and Jane Fonda as father and daughter.

"Sounds good, Yifu—want to see it?"

This time, Lin Zhengyi didn't object—he'd treat it as English practice, see how much he could understand.

American films had no Chinese subtitles, not even English ones—still a challenge for foreigners.

Tickets were three dollars each; they bought soda and popcorn.

Since it had been playing over a month, attendance was low, but with no new blockbusters, the schedule was decent—they found a multiplex under AMC.

Multiplexes were already rising in the U. . far more efficient than single-screen theaters, better for box office, though higher investment and management costs.

Even Europe rarely had them; Hong Kong and the mainland had none.

The film was adapted from a play, so dialogue was concise; the two veteran actors spoke clearly—Wei Ming's spoken English could handle it without subtitles, though some slang required context.

Lin Zhengyi struggled more, but still understood the story.

Word was Jane Fonda had bought the script specifically for her father Henry—their strained father-daughter relationship mirrored the film's, and working on it helped them reconcile.

During the screening, a viewer in the back row stared at the trio: two Chinese and one white person.

After a smooth, brilliant 100+ minutes, time was up. Li Aiguo suggested grabbing late-night snacks before returning to the hotel.

At that moment, the Asian viewer behind them suddenly stopped them, addressing Wei Ming: "Excuse me—are you Mr. Wei Ming?"

The man was in his fifties, short, spoke Chinese—slightly different from mainland Mandarin, closer to Lin Zhengyi's accent.

Wei Ming nodded: "You're also Chinese diaspora? What do you want?"

"It really is you!" The man beamed. "My memory's good—I only saw your photos a few times in the papers and remembered your face!"

Wei Ming figured it was because he was just too strikingly good-looking.

The man introduced himself: "I'm Zhou, Zhou Shitong, physics professor at UC Northridge."

"Oh, Professor Zhou—you've seen my work?"

"Yes, almost all of it. I even read the Sanlian Press edition of 'The Right Path of Humanity Is the Tide of History.' My Taiwanese friends said it helped them understand that era of history."

Wei Ming: "So you're from Taiwan."

He noticed Lin Zhengyi had turned his face away—Lin had been somewhat famous in Taiwan: a top university student who voluntarily enlisted, rose to company commander, received personal commendation from superiors, and was featured on many newspapers as a model figure.

Yet he'd quietly fled to the mainland. Taiwan suppressed the news—military treated him as dead. If Taiwan learned he was here, he might be quietly eliminated—assassination was a traditional tactic of the KMT.

Seeing Wei Ming held no hostility toward Taiwanese, Professor Zhou relaxed. He smiled: "I've been in the U. . over twenty years—settled down, built a family."

Hearing this, Lin Zhengyi also relaxed—twenty years in America meant he likely didn't know him.

Professor Zhou recognized Wei Ming and approached him because he had a request.

"Our UC Northridge is hosting a Chinese Film Festival to introduce American audiences to Chinese cinema—films from the mainland, Hong Kong, and Taiwan, including your 'The Herdsman.' We'd be honored if you could attend and speak with students about film, music, and literature."

Wei Ming asked about timing—he had the Grammys the day after tomorrow.

"Whenever you're free," Professor Zhou said. "The festival lasts half a month—we'll screen 'The Herdsman' whenever you're available."

Wei Ming thought: "How about tomorrow?"

"Perfect! Tomorrow's great—we've also invited another famous actor from the mainland!"

"Oh?"

After the theater, Li Aiguo asked: "Chinese or Western food?"

"American Chinese?"

"We've got authentic—can go to Chinatown."

"Too far—it's nearly eleven. Let's grab fast food nearby."

So the three entered McDonald's. Lin Zhengyi's verdict: "Not as good as Holiland."

Wei Ming grinned: "McDonald's in Hong Kong isn't Holiland's rival—we've studied them inside out."

Li Aiguo then dropped Wei Ming and Lin at the Hyatt on Sunset Boulevard—a newly opened luxury hotel, all facilities gleaming new, prime location—high chance of spotting stars.

Li Aiguo had booked one king room; with Lin added, he got another downstairs.

"Yifu, don't be formal—we're both Peking University alumni. Traveling abroad, we look out for each other." Li Aiguo clapped Lin Yifu on the shoulder—this future World Bank connection was now secured.

Back in his room, Lin Yifu began writing his wife a letter—he'd mail it after reaching Chicago, sending it via his real relatives in Japan to his wife in Taiwan.

Wei Ming took a shower, watched some TV, and didn't sleep until 1 or 2 a. .

Late-night TV usually meant talk shows and news—if you had paid cable like HBO, you could watch movies or concerts.

This was his first time in America in this life—he needed to understand these Americans well. Know your enemy, know yourself—and you'll never be defeated.