Page 36 of Omar

Rashid stopped pacing long enough to look at me properly. "Thanks for coming, O. Means a lot."

"Where else am I gonna be?"

A knock on the green room door. Tre stuck his head in. "Yo, Rashid, there's a guy out here says he's from a label. Wants to talk to you about your catalog. You want me to let him in or tell him to bounce?"

Rashid looked at me. I shrugged. "Get his card. Talk to him. Don't sign anything without a lawyer."

"You sound like Pops."

"That's cos Pops was smart about this stuff."

Rashid left the green room with Tre. I stayed on the arm of the couch, listening to the muffled crowd noise through the wall. The sweat from Rashid's towel was still wet on the couch cushion. His set list was written on a piece of paper taped to the mirror, tracks crossed out and reordered in his handwriting, the margins filled with notes only he could read.

My phone buzzed. Devon.

Need to talk. Spotted someone in the crowd tonight. Third row, left side. Kyran.

I stared at the message.

You sure?

Positive. He was watching Rashid the whole set. Didn't cheer, didn't move, just stood there with his arms crossed staring at the stage. Left before the lights came up.

Kyran at Rashid's show. Standing in the crowd, watching, not participating. Making his presence known without doing anything that could be called a threat. That was a message. I know where your brother performs and I can get this close whenever I want.

I put my phone in my pocket and went to find Rashid. He was in the hallway talking to the label guy, a man in a fitted jacket and glasses who was handing over a business card with both hands. Rashid took it, shook the man's hand, asked three follow-up questions about the meeting process that sounded like he'd been rehearsing them, and thanked him. The guy walked away looking impressed.

Rashid turned to me holding up the card. "Atlantic Records. A&R department. He wants a meeting next week."

"Good. Get a lawyer first."

"O, did you hear what I said? Atlantic Records. The label. Wants a meeting. With me."

"I heard you. Get a lawyer first."

He laughed, shaking his head. "You're impossible."

"I'm your brother. There's a difference." I put my hand on his shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Rashid. For real. That set was something else."

His face softened. The performer dropped away for a second. Just my little brother, standing in a hallway with a business card in his hand.

"Thanks, O."

"Now go home. Get some rest. Call that lawyer tomorrow."

I left the venue through the side door. Devon was waiting by my car, his phone in his hand, the photos already pulled up.

"Show me," I said.

He turned the screen toward me. Three photos, taken from the back of the venue during the set. The first showed Kyran standing in the third row, arms folded, face neutral, his eyes fixed on the stage. He was wearing a dark jacket, hood down, nothing that would stand out in a crowd. The second photo showed his two companions at the bar, both of them positioned with clear sight lines to the exits. The third was Kyran leaving through the front door during the last track, his back to the camera, his two men following.

"He wasn't trying to hide," Devon noted. "He was scoping. Getting a read on the venue, the layout, Rashid's routine."

"You think he's planning something?"

"I think a man doesn't bring two people to a rap show and position them at the exits unless he's thinking about more than the music."

That sat heavy. Kyran was sizing up Rashid's world, learning where he performed, how he moved, when he was exposed. That was reconnaissance. That was a man building toward something.