The benefits of charting on Billboard were obvious. For the next week, Leon's gig offers were relentless. At his busiest, he was doing three shows a day.
Although singing the same song over and over was getting tiresome, counting the money never got old.
The quality of the next song he got from the Inspiration Refresh mechanic was completely up to chance, which was Leon's biggest worry right now.
With only a week left until the next refresh, he went to Phil's office as usual to continue their shady backroom dealings.
"Is that car downstairs yours? It's gorgeous..."
Facing Phil's compliment, Leon could only respond with a cold smirk. The old guy's professional skills were undeniable, but his character left a lot to be desired.
Putting aside stabbing his friend of over ten years in the back, this industry veteran was fake to the core.
The eighth-hand Corolla downstairs was something Leon had just picked up at the used car market this morning for a measly $2,000.
Aside from the engine still making noise, the car was basically brain-dead.
You call that gorgeous?
Although Leon was gradually climbing out of extreme poverty—his performance fees alone had pushed his assets over $20,000, not even counting the record royalties.
The used car market in the US is huge; that kind of money could easily snag a mint-condition used Mustang.
But a car is a necessity here. Without one, you can't go anywhere.
Besides, it helps avoid unnecessary trouble late at night. Walking alone on the streets of a Black neighborhood at midnight? You'd be lucky to make it home with your underwear.
He bought a car to be safer, not to put a target on his back.
Driving a flashy red Mustang in Brownsville, where the average savings account balance was in the negative?
Do you have a death wish?
Leon wasn't one of those brainless rappers who blew their first paycheck on a luxury ride.
Seeing Leon's lack of reaction, Phil coughed awkwardly and continued, "I'm currently trying to get you a slot at the Made in America festival... I have an old friend working for the organizers."
This was undoubtedly huge news.
Compared to those nightclub gigs, the Made in America festival was in a completely different league.
This music extravaganza was held every September on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway in Philadelphia.
A two-day festival with dozens of top-tier performers and multiple stages.
Every year, Jay-Z personally handpicked a group of artists with both fame and potential to perform over the weekend. Sometimes, you could even find Jay-Z in the crowd singing along.
"You have to get this opportunity. There's plenty in it for you."
"Relax, I'll fight for it... it's just..."
"It's just what? Just say it."
Watching the old fox hem and haw, Leon's first reaction was: Is this guy trying to borrow money?
Back when he was trying to hook Leon, the broke Phil had gritted his teeth and put up $1,000 as bait.
Asking Leon Smith to spit out gold coins he'd already swallowed?
That would be harder than getting the Statue of Liberty to wear a giant bikini.
As for borrowing money? Don't even think about it. Managers are parasites that live off the artist, not the other way around.
Phil lowered his head in silence for a moment. The playful expression from earlier vanished, replaced by seriousness. "We don't have much time... We have to cut ties with T-Ray immediately."
Leon understood instantly. These past few days, Phil had watched Leon rake in gig money and seen the records fly off the shelves—second-week sales broke 30,000, pushing the total past the 50,000 mark.
Yet none of this had anything to do with Phil. He could only watch his "homie" T-Ray counting money until his hands cramped, while Phil was so anxious his palms were practically sparking.
He's scared his brother will suffer, but he's terrified his brother will drive a Range Rover.
But in Leon's mind: What the hell does that have to do with me?
You have to fight for your own interests.
He propped his feet up on Phil's desk, leaned back, and said casually, "That's your job, isn't it? Unless you expect me to go flip the table on T-Ray?"
Phil's face darkened, and he was momentarily at a loss for words.
Before Leon's first autograph session, they had secretly signed a management contract.
But because T-Ray was still in the picture, that contract was currently worth about as much as toilet paper. Phil could only watch helplessly as T-Ray took the cut that should have been his.
"Three days from now, after your second royalty payout, I'm going to lay all my cards on the table with T-Ray. I hope you'll be there."
Hearing this, Leon's expression changed instantly. "Me? Be there? Are you joking?"
Chester Street wasn't exactly a great place for business negotiations, especially when the business was betrayal.
Leon was worried that when Magnum George blew Phil's brains out, he'd get blood splattered on his new clothes. He wanted to be as far away as possible.
"I know what you're worried about..." Phil gave a mysterious smile. "I have a trump card. A trump card that neither T-Ray nor George can refuse."
"Trump card?"
Leon stared at Phil suspiciously. This old geezer is so broke he's about to pawn his underwear. What kind of trump card could he have?
The only thing that moved T-Ray was money—specifically, way more money than he expected to make off Leon.
Phil had been borrowing gas money for his Camaro from Cardi B lately.
Although that Black girl was a bit of a "spirit girl," she had a good heart and was always quick to lend cash.
Being that broke, thinking he could settle everything with money was a pipe dream.
Seeing Leon's doubtful expression, Phil smiled even more smugly. "You'll see when the time comes. The reason you need to be there is that this trump card is also a big gift for you... a gift big enough to truly change your future."
Leon was getting more confused, but no matter how much he pressed, Phil refused to spill another word, acting all high and mighty.
---
Three days later, inside the Black Panther Records office on Chester Street.
As soon as Leon walked in, he was shocked by the scene.
Mexican girls, mixed-race Latinas, Black girls, blondes, Slavs, even an Asian girl...
T-Ray was like a Pokémon Master who had collected "Pokémon" from almost every race on earth.
These girls, all wearing uniform bikinis, were partying wildly on a carpet made of dollar bills.
T-Ray, his belly fat jiggling, stood in his floral shorts among the women, as debauched as Emperor Nero.
The carnal desire in the room was almost overflowing. Leon muttered to himself, "WTF... are you guys having an orgy?"
T-Ray rushed over and pulled Leon into the mix, shouting passionately to the girls, "Look who's here, btches!"
"The pride of Brownsville! The legendary Street Jesus!"
"He's a walking gold mine! The Young Money every woman dreams of!"
"Ladies, what are you waiting for?!"
As soon as he finished speaking, the ferocious women pounced on Leon in unison, greedy lights shining in their eyes.
These girls had long heard the name Street Jesus. Hooking up with a celebrity was every gold digger's dream.
Plus, compared to the obese T-Ray, Leon looked sharper than the Statue of David.
Rich and handsome—having just one of those traits was enough to drive women crazy.
"WTF..." Leon, still processing the situation, backed away repeatedly, trying to push off the swarm of crazy women.
Watching this comical scene, T-Ray lit a cigar and smiled. "Partying is the daily theme for famous people... Get used to life being Christmas every day."