Signing the Contract

William Morris had sent over a white man named Hayden, around forty years old and unremarkable-looking. He said that he'd once been a middle manager at a car dealership in Detroit, and had been working as an agent for less than three years. He really did "care" about cars, too. During the signing, he kept wandering over to the window to peek at his Dodge Dynasty parked downstairs at Old Joe Music. Every black kid who walked past it made him break into a cold sweat.

"Yeah, let's drink to that!"

Old Joe was very pleased. Song Ya hadn't planned to use this moment to fleece him—mostly because Song Ya didn't dare, and there was no need to. The terms were basically no different from a standard transfer contract.

"Here's to the new album selling big."

Pablo could accept the deal, too. Little Lowry's name appeared alongside Song Ya's in the songwriter credits, though only for promotional purposes. Under the contract, Little Lowry's actual share of the lyrics' rights was only half of Song Ya's. Still, half was no small amount: it was copyright income he could benefit from for the rest of his life.

Under this contract, the lyricist and composer each received about six percent of Thrift Shop's proceeds: Little Lowry got two percent for the lyrics, Song Ya got four, and the six percent for the music brought his total to ten percent. For an album, however, the proceeds were divided equally among the songs. Taking an album with ten tracks as an example, Song Ya's ten percent would be multiplied by one-tenth, leaving him with exactly one percent of the album's revenue. This percentage had nothing to do with profits or anything like that. If an album cassette sold for five dollars, Song Ya would get five cents.

Even if the album had to sell a million copies to bring Song Ya fifty thousand dollars, the real money was in the singles that came later. Singles didn't have to split the revenue with other songs, so ten percent meant a full ten percent. What's more, singles were usually released on vinyl or mini-CDs, which sold for more than the cassettes popular at the time.

"Hey." Song Ya raised his glass and made the first move to smooth things over with Little Lowry.

What was done was done, and Little Lowry wasn't upset anymore. Maybe Pablo had laid things out for him, helping him see his position more clearly. "Cheers!" He drained his glass first. Their relationship would be complicated from then on, but everyone understood that there was no point quibbling over the details yet.

"Cheers." Hayden had spent half his life in sales, and his people skills were excellent. "Here's to the new album selling big."

"Cheers."

The wine was Old Joe's Remy Martin XO. Song Ya took a sip first. People from southern China seemed to like it, too. He downed the rest and found it quite good.

No one there thought it was strange for a minor to drink. After the first round, Hayden and Pablo prepared two more contracts, along with more papers to sign.

First came the transfer fee. Song Ya transferred a third of his rights to the lyrics to Little Lowry in exchange for two thousand five hundred dollars. The figure was based on estimated sales of fifty thousand albums and ten thousand singles. Hayden wasn't very happy with it and wanted to push for more, but Song Ya told him to let it go. He'd just have to consider it tuition for entering the business.

Next came a confidentiality agreement concerning the previous contract, commonly known as hush money. That was another two thousand five hundred dollars. From then on, Little Lowry could claim in public that he'd written the rap portion of Thrift Shop and that Song Ya had only written the chorus. Song Ya had to fully support that account. The penalty for breaking the agreement was just a meaningless number. Little Lowry wouldn't reveal the truth on his own, and if Song Ya ever changed his story...

It wouldn't be something money alone could smooth over.

Pablo pulled out five neat stacks of twenty-dollar bills and tossed them in front of Hayden to count.

Song Ya remembered Goodman's warning and silently reminded himself that even cash income was taxable. The U.S. tax season in April was fast approaching, and he absolutely couldn't forget about it.

Once everything was settled, Song Ya paid Hayden his share, too, then walked him downstairs. "You've got two main things to handle now: keep an eye on the copyright application, and help me join the Songwriters Association as soon as possible." He said this beside Hayden's Dodge Dynasty.

"I'll stay on top of it."

Two trips to the South Side and a few contracts to review had earned him five hundred dollars. On top of that, for the next year, he'd keep collecting ten percent of Song Ya's royalties. It was practically like picking money up off the ground. Even though he'd have to hand a portion over to William Morris, Hayden was still in an excellent mood. "No problem," he agreed at once. "But I recommend joining BMI. The fees are higher, but BMI's clients overlap more with the audience for your songs. You know—radio."

"I get it. You handle it."

The two of them had already had a long talk. Once Song Ya felt confident in Hayden's professionalism, he'd brought him and Aunt Susie to Goodman's law office to sign his first deal since coming through time, and to settle up with Goodman.

"Anything else? Want me to look for some more opportunities for you?" Hayden offered. "A lot of small-time singers need lyrics and music. I've even got connections with some commercial advertisers, as long as you can write the songs."

"No, thanks."

Even if Song Ya could write them, he wouldn't. Without the "Enlightenment" cheat, he knew his own limits. "You'd better get going. It's not very safe for a white guy to hang around here too long," he warned.

"Uh..."

Hayden glanced across the street at the sea of people outside the underground nightclub. "I'll get going, then. Call me. Bye." He hurriedly started his car and shot off in a flash.

Back upstairs, there were people everywhere except in the recording studio. Most were girlfriends, friends, and other hangers-on brought by various musicians. Tony had even brought his ex-girlfriend. The two of them were tucked into a corner, cozying up to each other. The musicians who'd trickled in had collapsed in every which way across the control-room sofas, watching the drummer inside test his sound over and over. The only one who'd been working the whole time was the sound engineer, Eric. He'd gotten only a few hours of sleep in total over the past few days, and looked completely drained. Song Ya felt he could drop from overwork at any moment.

The air was stifling, and carried a mixture of perfume, weed, alcohol, tobacco, and strong body odor. But perhaps this was just how the music business was: anything could turn into a party. Even the owner, Old Joe, didn't seem to mind. Holding a drink, he was surrounded by a few girls the musicians had brought along, chatting animatedly and having the time of his life.

Sigh. Maybe it's because I'm the only outsider here.

Amid all this excitement, Song Ya felt a sense of loneliness. His Chinese soul kept him from truly fitting in.

He hadn't been to school for several days, and his plan to become a top student was in jeopardy. He had no idea how or when the next "Enlightenment" would be triggered, either, and couldn't help feeling irritated. At least the four thousand five hundred dollars in cash in his pocket gave him some comfort.

I've got my first real money since coming through time. What should I do with it?

He thought it over. Without memories of his previous life, he could forget about investing with any foresight. In the USA, having no car at home was terribly inconvenient, so he went to find Tony. "Hey, come with me to the used-car lot tomorrow."