Page 11 of Omar

"Don't tell her that. She'll charge you more."

Rashid laughed, a real laugh that filled the small studio and made Tre look up from his board for the first time. "You sound like Kadeem now. Everything's a negotiation with y'all."

"Everything is a negotiation. That's not cynicism, that's business."

"See, that's your problem. You think everything's business. Some things are just... music, O. Some things are just art."

"And some things are both. Get a lawyer before you sign anything. I'll say it until you hear me."

Tre looked over at me at one point during the next playback. Our eyes met for a second. He'd been Rashid's producer for two years. He knew the family, knew the dynamics, knew when to stay quiet and when to nod. He nodded now, barely perceptible. Rashid was talented. Rashid was special.

The track ended. Rashid was already pulling up the next one.

"You eating dinner at Ma's tonight?" I asked.

"Depends. She making oxtail?"

"When is she not making oxtail?"

Rashid grinned. "Then yeah. I'll be there."

"She been asking about you," I added. "Says you don't come by enough."

"I was there last week."

"And she'll say the same thing next week. You know how Ma is."

"Ma thinks if she doesn't see you every forty-eight hours you've been kidnapped." Rashid shook his head. "Tell her I'm coming. Tell her to make extra rice cos Tre's coming too."

Tre looked up. "I am?"

"You are. Ma's oxtail will change your life, bro. Trust me."

"I'm vegetarian."

Rashid stared at him. "Since when?"

"Since always, Rashi. You've known me two years."

"How did I not know that?"

"Because you don't listen to anything that ain't a beat."

Rashid grinned. "Man, you been eating pussy that hard, guess I forgot."

Tre shook his head but he was laughing. "I'm done with both of y'all."

I stayed for another hour. Listened to four more tracks, gave notes on two of them, told Tre the mixing on the third was off balance. Rashid argued with me about it because Rashid argued about everything when it came to his music. That was good. That was the fire that would make him successful if the streets didn't get to him first.

I left the studio and took the stairs down to the street. The sun was going down over Bushwick, the light turning gold on the warehouse walls. My phone buzzed. Devon, with an update on the financial trail.

I read it in the car, replied with three words, and drove back to Bed-Stuy.

Rashid's voice was still in my head. I don't want a way out. I want to be part of it. He sounded like Pops when he said that too. Pops had never wanted a way out either. And look where that got him.

But the verse about the empty chair was there too. The silence where singing used to be. Rashid had turned absence into something beautiful and that was the difference between us. I turned absence into violence. Rashid turned it into art. Pops would've been proud of that. Would've sat in the front row at every show and told everyone within earshot that's my youngest boy up there.

I held the wheel tighter and drove.