Pablo

Song Ya played the trumpet while Little Lowry played the djembe and sang. The two of them worked together to run through a rough version of the whole song.

After listening, the manager tilted his head and looked at Song Ya. "Are you really the lead trumpet player at your school?"

"Uh, yes. I used to be." Song Ya hurriedly brought out the explanation he had prepared. "I suddenly lost interest in music a while ago, so I haven't practiced much and my playing's gotten a lot worse. And I... I was really nervous just now."

"Yeah, he got distracted. He stupidly decided to focus on his studies and stuff. He gets A-pluses in math, so we all call him APLUS. Hahaha..." Tony helped explain.

"That doesn't make sense. The song's so well put together. Are you..." The manager stopped halfway through, pulled out a cigarette holder, and put a Camel cigarette without a filter in it. "Forget it. No point sweating the small stuff right now. I'll just assume you're a genius."

"Yeah, Ya Li, did you hear that? He said you're a genius. Turns out you really are a damn genius..."

"Shut up, Tony."

The manager silenced Tony, lit his cigarette, and took a puff. "You've registered the lyrics and music, right?"

"Yes, the lyrics, the music, and this demo." Song Ya could tell the other man was hesitating. Little Lowry had already hinted that AK should step in and turn down the collaboration. If the manager also opposed it, then this path would be completely closed.

But then again, Song Ya wasn't too worried. After all, he was the one with a hit song in hand, while the other side was desperate to grab at one last lifeline. As long as he protected his copyright, in a capitalist society like the USA, making money was only a matter of sooner or later, more or less. If the other man was sharp enough, he wouldn't miss the opportunity here.

Little Lowry had completely checked out. His eyes wandered across the ceiling, his legs swung idly, and his face said he couldn't care less.

I'm here to save you, Little Lowry!

Song Ya thought to himself. He was now certain that Little Lowry was still in the dark about the manager and the music company owner hiding things from him.

"How about this? Let's go to the company first."

The manager pinched out his cigarette with his thumb and forefinger. "AK, bring my car around." Then he kicked Little Lowry's leg and shouted, "Get moving, all of you! Let's go!"

Silencer patted Song Ya on the shoulder. "Cool!"

Tony was as happy as a kid who weighed a few hundred pounds. He jumped up and high-fived Little Lowry, then AK, before putting an arm around Song Ya and heading downstairs. "I knew you could do it!" he shouted.

When they got downstairs, Tony pulled Song Ya aside and whispered, "Was I talking too much up there? Did I make things worse?"

This big brother really was both rough around the edges and perceptive, and he knew how to make use of that. Take the time he flashed his gun at the basketball court, for example. He'd later explained that the kids who played there were usually from nearby families with decent means and educations, which was why he'd dared to do it. If the confrontation had happened in a poor neighborhood, he wouldn't have been stupid enough to try to out-tough anyone.

But he really did need to learn to keep his mouth shut.

"No..." Song Ya said with a wry smile. "It's all thanks to your relationship with Little Lowry, isn't it?"

"Yeah!" Tony was delighted by that. "You're both my brothers. That's what brothers do. We help each other..."

Little Lowry and the manager came downstairs last. It was clear they'd argued. Little Lowry yanked open the door of Silencer's Toyota and climbed in, still fuming.

"You!"

The manager ignored him, snapped his fingers at Song Ya, then pointed at the Volvo 760 AK had brought around.

"Flatter him a little," Tony reminded him.

"Don't worry." Song Ya parted from him and got into the front passenger seat of the Volvo.

"Luxury cars really do feel different."

He shifted his backside against the comfortable leather seat and thought, When we make it big, we'll get ourselves a Volvo too. That way, we can support domestic products while we're at it. Huh? Something about that doesn't sound right...

"Do you have a manager?" the man in the back seat asked bluntly.

"No. Uh... I don't have any experience with this sort of thing," Song Ya answered honestly.

"Really?"

The manager seemed unconvinced. "Who taught you about registering your work?"

"I consulted a lawyer, and that was his advice." From what Song Ya had observed, Little Lowry's manager was around fifty, with a hint of Mexican ancestry. He was decisive and efficient, carried himself with authority, and judging from his car, was probably doing well financially. He did tend to order people around and seemed rather controlling, though.

But as long as the manager could help with his career and income, his personality was a minor concern. Besides, he was Little Lowry's manager and seemed to be Al's as well, so Song Ya knew something about him. At least he wasn't some random outsider. Song Ya didn't have a manager or any connections, so he might as well...

"Uh... Mr..." Once he'd weighed the pros and cons, Song Ya spoke decisively.

"Pablo."

"Right, Mr. Pablo. Would you be willing to manage me?" he asked.

Their eyes met in the rearview mirror.

"In principle, there's no problem. But before I become your manager, there's one thing I need to make clear to you: the copyright." Pablo said, "The music can belong to you, no problem. But it'd be better to let Little Lowry have the lyrics."

"Why?" Song Ya was taken aback.

"The lawyer you found doesn't know much about the rap scene. Whether it's the old-school style or the political and gangsta rap that came later, rappers either express themselves or offer their views on various issues. Early rappers came from poor backgrounds and couldn't afford good backing tracks, so they often threw something together or sampled someone else's music. That's why it's fine for the music to belong to you. But think about it: if the words a rapper performs aren't his own, then wouldn't it be the same no matter who sang them? This genre doesn't require high notes or great vocal technique, so honestly, the barrier to entry isn't high. If rappers stop saying what they want to say and singing what they want to sing, how are they any different from the pop idols promoted by the big record companies? A rapper like that would never be respected. The whole scene would reject and mock him."

Pablo went on for a while. "Besides, the lyrics to this song still need work."

"Uh... uh..."

Song Ya's lips moved, but several times he stopped himself from speaking. He hadn't considered this problem at all, but he knew that if he gave up the rights to the lyrics, he'd lose his share of the royalties down the line.

"Think it over carefully."

Pablo didn't keep pressuring him. He picked up his brick-sized Motorola and made a call. "Hey, old man! I need your saxophone... Right now... It should be a big deal... Okay, we have a deal?... Good, I'll be downstairs in ten minutes."

"Go to Old Morgan's place," he told AK after hanging up.

Ten minutes later, they picked up an old Black man carrying an instrument case and dressed to the nines in a style straight out of the sixties or seventies.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! What's with the getup, old man? Where are you going?" Pablo teased, tugging at the brightly colored pocket square on the man's chest.

"Weren't you the one who said there was a big deal?" The old man's eyes widened. "Don't mess with me, kid! If it weren't for you, I wouldn't have gone out this late."

"We're going to Old Joe's. What did you think I'd lined up for you? Playing at a restaurant? You're too old for that, aren't you?"

"I get plenty of gigs! Every venue's looking for someone who can play the saxophone these days."

"I know, I know. You all ought to thank Kelly King. Look, even kids this young are writing songs with tons of saxophone in the backing."

"Fuck Kelly King. I'm not thanking him. My technique's a thousand times better than his."

"Really? I've heard you play his songs. You sounded like you were about to drop dead. I was afraid you'd keel over right there."

"Fuck you! I'm talking about technique!"

Pablo and Old Morgan traded a few barbs. Around his old friend, he was a completely different person.

They soon arrived at their destination. AK parked, and Song Ya got out. He looked up at a tall sign that read "Old Joe Music Company." Its neon tubes were dim, and several of the letters had gone dark.