T-Ray moved like a shark that had just smelled blood in the water, shoving his way through the wall of bodies blocking his view.
Leon stood in the center of the crowd, clutching his beat-up acoustic guitar.
The raw vocal performance alone was enough to move people, and the brain-tickling chorus had the audience humming along after just one listen.
The rebellious lyrics of Take Me to Church were saturated with a heathen vibe that challenged the pious, each line plunging like a dagger into the hearts of these downtrodden souls.
This country was founded by Puritans, promising a land of liberty and equality for all, but life in Brownsville felt like a purgatory with no exit.
Here, God had long since left the building.
When Leon finished, the subway station was drowned in applause.
Clap, clap, clap—
T-Ray clapped as he dragged his massive frame toward Leon. "White boy, whose song is that? How come I've never heard it before?"
"I wrote it myself."
"You wrote it yourself?!"
It wasn't just a pro like T-Ray who was skeptical; even the onlookers let out a collective "Wow" of disbelief.
Leon shrugged helplessly. "You heard right. The inspiration hit me while I was on the toilet. New York is just one giant toilet bowl, after all..."
Hearing this, T-Ray still had his doubts, but he had to accept it.
Though he came from the streets, he was still half-entertainment industry. He knew the business inside out. If a major artist had dropped a masterpiece like this, there was no way he wouldn't know about it.
Chomping on his cigar, he looked the young man up and down. Greasy long hair, messy stubble, jeans so worn they were practically polished.
Maybe a weirdo like this really did have some freakish talent. After all, Leon's look was basically identical to Jesus Christ himself.
T-Ray patted Leon on the shoulder. "I'm interested in you. Do you have time tomorrow to sit down and have a serious chat?"
"WTF?"
Davis couldn't sit still anymore. This golden opportunity was supposed to be his!
He frantically tugged at the hem of Leon's shirt, grimacing and shooting desperate glances that screamed, Bro, don't you dare do this!
Leon brushed Davis's hand away and looked at T-Ray with calm composure. "I refuse."
"You don't want to? You better think clearly... not everyone gets a shot like this."
Beside him, Davis let out a long breath of relief, secretly thinking he hadn't misjudged his friend after all.
Even in a poverty-stricken place like Brownsville, signing an artist took resources. Even a rough, cheaply made single would cost thousands in production and promotion.
Countless young brothas in Brownsville would kill for this chance. It was a real "one bridge for a thousand soldiers" scenario.
As long as Leon refused, Davis still had a glimmer of hope.
Davis was already daydreaming about how he would thank his loyal brother once he got signed, but reality slapped him in the face a second later.
Leon extended his right hand toward T-Ray. "What I mean is, why wait for tomorrow? I'm free right now."
Davis snapped instantly, pointing a finger right in Leon's face and screaming, "You damn snake! You liar! This was supposed to be my shot!"
"Bro, I treated you like a brother and this is how you repay me? Did you forget who saved your ass when those guys cornered you on the street?"
Davis wanted to keep shouting, but T-Ray's goon—the six-foot-three Martin—stepped in front of him.
"Shh... you need to calm down, homie."
Massive and imposing like a black wall, Martin shut Davis up with a single sentence.
Leon sighed, not bothering to explain.
He knew perfectly well that even if he turned T-Ray down, this opportunity wouldn't fall into Davis's lap.
Besides, there was no way he was refusing. The American way of climbing the ladder is stepping on people. It's a dog-eat-dog world.
Especially at the bottom.
"Sure, no problem. But it's almost ten o'clock. My office is on Chester Street, right where the gangs hang out. A white boy like you... aren't you scared?"
Scared?
Is there anything in this world scarier than being broke?
Leon scoffed at the childish question, stifling a laugh. "Let's hit the road."
T-Ray didn't waste any more words, ushering Leon into the Cadillac Escalade parked outside the station.
The crowd in the subway station quickly dispersed, leaving only Davis sitting next to his speaker, clutching his head in regret.
Chester Street wasn't far from the subway, but because of the rampant gang activity, even a Brownsville local like Leon rarely went there.
Brownsville is a predominantly Black neighborhood, notorious as one of New York's most dangerous areas. Assaults, drugs, shootings... they were everywhere.
And Chester Street was the heart of this ghetto.
The legendary rapper The Notorious B.I.G. made a name for himself on streets just like this before breaking into the game.
Walking into T-Ray's office, the first thing that caught Leon's eye were two Black women in tiny bikinis.
Clearly hand-picked, they both had "tail lights" that were shiny and aggressive, with engines comparable to a straight-eight.
As soon as T-Ray led Leon in, they knew the drill—pouring two glasses of whiskey and placing a clipped cigar into T-Ray's mouth.
"Btch." T-Ray slapped one of the girls on the ass hard, grinning with satisfaction. "I'll keep it short. Everyone knows I'm always looking for potential talent in Brownsville."
"But honestly, finding gold in a trash can is hard work... and you are exactly the nugget I've been looking for."
Leon grabbed his glass and downed a large gulp of whiskey. "Thanks for the compliment."
T-Ray pointed to the wall behind him, which was covered in photos of rappers. "You see these brothas? They all sat in this office once. When Nas was negotiating his debut contract with me, he sat right where you are now. Now he's a legend."
T-Ray paused there, muttering a quiet curse: "Ungrateful bastard..."
"You want to sign me, don't you, Mr. T-Ray?"
T-Ray was startled by Leon's bluntness, then blew out a thick cloud of cigar smoke. "I like a guy who's direct. If you're willing, I can release a record for you immediately!"
"One day, your picture might be up on that great wall behind me. You'd be the only white guy up there."
To Leon, this pie-in-the-sky sales pitch was just hot air. The only thing he cared about was the money.
"I'm interested in what you're saying, man. The question is, what's my cut?"
"Ten percent of record sales, plus ten percent of copyright royalties. How's that sound?" T-Ray knocked on the desk. "If it wasn't for your talent, I wouldn't even offer a deal like this. Ask around... a lot of brothas would take zero percent just for the chance to release a track."