T-Ray's offer was undeniably generous, and Leon knew it.
In the real entertainment industry, Grammy winners and pop icons might command a thirty percent royalty on record sales—sometimes even more.
But this was Brownsville. For a complete nobody to get ten percent was practically an act of charity. After all, T-Ray was the one putting up the cold, hard cash to scratch this particular lottery ticket.
But Leon wasn't satisfied. He knew that a smart businessman never reveals his bottom line right out of the gate, and T-Ray was an old fox who had been hustling in this game for over twenty years.
Leon drained the liquor in his glass. "I'm not thrilled with the split. Even though I wrote this song on the toilet, I believe in its potential."
T-Ray wasn't surprised by the pushback. He was mentally prepared for a haggle; a small concession was acceptable.
What he needed right now was clout. He hadn't discovered an influential new act in this poverty-stricken neighborhood in way too long, and it was starting to hurt his standing.
If he couldn't generate enough profit for the gang, then in the eyes of the Bloods' Big Homie George, T-Ray was no different from the junkies on the corner who looked like walking zombies.
"So what do you want? Everything is negotiable."
"Fifty percent. And that's excluding the publishing rights."
"What?"
The answer shocked T-Ray so much his hand slipped. The burning cherry of his cigar dropped straight onto his crotch.
"Fk!"
T-Ray shrieked. The girls next to him didn't know what to do, so in their panic, they just started screaming and shaking their asses even harder.
If it weren't for the thick layer of fat protecting T-Ray's lower regions, he might have been bidding farewell to the little soldier that had served him for forty years.
"Fk! Are you dreaming, kid? Who do you think you are? Eminem? Beyoncé?"
Just as Leon expected, he had cut right to the bone. To suppress his laughter, he quickly poured himself another drink.
"Relax. We can take our time."
"Get your ass back to the subway station and beg for quarters, you moron!"
"No need to blow a gasket, my friend. I can make a concession. Give me another number. A sincere number."
T-Ray frowned deeply. If he didn't believe so strongly in the potential of Take Me to Church, he would have kicked Leon out already—probably with a couple of backhands for good measure.
But as a veteran of the music game, his nose for a hit was too sharp. With the quality of that song, cracking the Billboard Hot 100 was basically a done deal.
He gritted his teeth. "Fifteen percent. That is my absolute limit."
"Agree to that, and you can have it all. Including these two girls—pick one, or take both if you think you can handle it."
"I'll make you live like a king in Brownsville!"
As soon as he finished speaking, the two women turned their backs to Leon and began twerking aggressively, attempting to use their "magic" to bewitch his mind.
But Leon remained silent, showing zero reaction. It wasn't that he wasn't into women; it was just that these particular ladies—who looked like they charged fifty bucks a pop down at Manhattan Beach—didn't raise his interest in the slightest.
Seeing Leon refuse to respond, T-Ray kept applying pressure. "If even this can't satisfy a greedy bastard like you, then get the hell out of my office!"
"I'll... think about it."
Hearing Leon say "think about it," T-Ray finally smiled again. In a negotiation, when someone says they'll think about it, it usually means they've already accepted it in their heart.
After a long pause, Leon spoke. "I can accept fifteen percent. But I have a condition."
"Bro, name your condition. Hell, if you want to be the debaucherous king of Brooklyn's biggest strip club, I can arrange it right now!"
"I refuse all binding contracts. Simply put: I won't sign a record label deal, and I won't sign a management deal."
T-Ray was dumbfounded.
In a standard artist signing, you lock them down with a label contract to prevent poaching, plus a management contract.
A manager does nothing but take ten percent of the artist's commercial earnings. In T-Ray's plan, that money was supposed to be easy pickings.
If Leon didn't sign either, what was the difference between T-Ray and a glorified errand boy just helping him release a track?
Recording, shooting the music video, printing, distribution, promotion...
All of that required real money.
"White boy... I feel like you're playing me." T-Ray, losing his cool, inhaled the harsh cigar smoke deep into his lungs, trying to use the dramatic pause to intimidate Leon.
"Listen, man. I have enough confidence in my work. You're going to make a fortune off this, and you'll get the reputation you want."
"But risk and reward go hand in hand... Just because this song makes money, doesn't mean I can write another one like it."
T-Ray narrowed his eyes, calculating. In the internet age, too many amateur singers appeared out of nowhere.
Once a song went viral online, the big established record labels would come running, waving checkbooks.
The result was usually a mess.
Most of those internet singers would secure a fat contract and then never produce a dime of commercial value ever again. One-hit wonders.
Leon wasn't an internet singer, but he was definitely a street-level amateur.
"Go on."
Leon spread his hands. "There's nothing else to say. Not signing a long-term deal is a win-win. You like making fast money, and so do I."
"If you can't see the logic in that, then I don't think we should sit here wasting time."
The air in the room froze instantly. T-Ray stared at Leon, his face a mask of conflict.
It was hard to tell if he was actually thinking or just pretending to be deep in thought.
About two minutes later, T-Ray finally lowered his head and spoke in a low voice. "You win... you cunning piece of white trash. Just like your ancestors, using that slick tongue to swindle an honest Black man."
"Help yourself to anything here. There are plenty more girls in the club downstairs—maybe you're into Latinas."
The two women in the room were just too chemically enhanced; Leon had no interest in heavy machinery.
He leaned back on the sofa, his eyes scanning the room.
"Help myself to anything? Does that include your whiskey and cigars?"
"Take whatever you want, you greedy scumbag!"
---
Leon made himself at home in T-Ray's office until 2:00 AM. He didn't stand on ceremony. Before leaving, he swiped several of T-Ray's prized Cohiba cigars and two bottles of whiskey.
If he'd had a pickup truck, he wouldn't have hesitated to empty the entire room.
They agreed to meet three days later at the studio on Chester Street to start recording the demo and sign the formal paperwork.
When Leon got back to the rental house, he was slightly buzzed, bumping right into Bonnie who had just gotten off work.
Dressed in a T-back thong that left nothing to the imagination, Bonnie immediately opened fire, launching into her daily tirade against him.
But this time, Leon didn't dodge or retreat. Instead, he went on the offensive, reaching out and giving Bonnie's ass a firm slap.
"Ah! You bastard, you're pulling this move again! Don't think you can bribe me with your dck tonight!"
"Bribe? No... I've got a surprise for you very soon."
"Not only am I going to pay you back, but I'm also going to make you the most famous stripper in Brooklyn."
Bonnie froze, taken aback by his words. Then, recovering quickly, she sighed with a smile in her eyes.
"Liar... you always are."