Chapter 004
Chapter 004
If last time he had asked whether I had any thoughts on it—whether I was willing—
[Dustin: Big Joe says he understands what you meant, so he wants to meet and talk.]
Then this was clearly a threat.
…But what exactly did he say he understood?
The reason I refused?
[Dustin: And I packed up all your gear, so I’ll bring it over there. Is tomorrow afternoon okay?]
My mind went blank.
What would happen if I refused?
Dustin already knew our restaurant.
If I refuse… this is going to turn into something really bad.
To ignore the boss’s request after my location had already been exposed to the Crips?
In movies, characters who did that usually got written off as missing in the very next scene.
If I accept… this is also going to turn into something really bad.
Get dragged in front of the gang boss again?
I got away last time because I was lucky, but there might not be a second time.
But one side meant danger that could drag my family into it, while the other side meant danger I had to shoulder alone.
There was no choice.
[Park Geon: Tomorrow afternoon is okay.]
Why the hell did I ever bend my finger in the first place?
If I hadn’t had that habit, none of this would have happened.
I glared resentfully down at my index finger.
My life was getting twisted up because of this one finger.
The next day,
I was serving at Gohyangmi from the morning on.
“Geon-ah, doenjang-jjigae for table 4 is going out!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
Carrying trays, refilling water, clearing empty plates.
My body was moving busily, but my mind was somewhere else entirely.
“Oppa, water for table 6!”
Park Yul’s voice snapped me back to my senses.
I picked up the water pitcher and headed for table 6, when—
Vrooooom—
I heard an engine outside.
Beyond the glass window was a black Ford Mustang.
Its glossy body came to a stop right in the middle of the Koreatown side street.
The door opened, and—
Ah.
It was Dustin.
In one hand, he was carrying my black roller bag.
“Yo! Shotgun!”
The door to Gohyangmi flew open.
“Ah, D-Dustin. You came.”
“Brought your gear!”
Dustin lifted the carrier bag high.
The MIDI keyboard, audio interface, and monitor headphones.
The equipment I had abandoned when I ran away.
“Geon-ah, didn’t you say that was broken?”
My mother came out from the kitchen.
“……!”
My heart dropped.
Right.
I had covered up losing the equipment by saying it broke.
But now the perfectly intact gear had suddenly come back.
And if I tried to explain everything that had happened that day, my mother would obviously worry.
“Ah, ah…”
So I decided to come up with an excuse.
“H-he fixed it for me!”
Dustin looked confused for a second, but when I widened my eyes at him, he seemed to catch on and played along.
“Oh yeah! I fixed it, ma’am! Fixed the whole thing! It was nothing, really!”
“My goodness, so this friend of yours is handy too?”
My father leaned against the kitchen door with a pleased expression.
“Geon’s best friend—he ate well here last time, and now he even fixed your gear? Wow, what a dependable friend.”
Dustin thumped his fist against his chest twice.
Park Yul was crouched behind the register.
Ever since the big guy walked in, she had been peeking out in quick glances.
“Shotgun, you ready? Let’s go.”
“Ah, yeah. Just a second.”
As I took off my apron, I spoke to my parents.
“I’m heading out for a bit.”
“Alright. Have fun with your friend.”
I wasn’t going out to have fun with a friend.
I was going to meet a gang boss.
There was no way I could tell them that.
When we stepped outside, Dustin opened the passenger-side door of the Ford Mustang for me.
“Get in.”
The moment I sat down, the leather seat wrapped around me.
Red lights came on across the instrument panel, and the dashboard glowed like the cockpit of a science fiction movie.
…How much does this thing even cost?
The most expensive car I had ridden in up to this point was my uncle’s 2013 Camry.
Between that Camry and this Mustang, it felt like there was at least one full stage of human civilization separating them.
Vrrrroooom—
The Mustang pulled out onto Wilshire Boulevard.
The Hangul signboards began disappearing one by one.
…So in the end, I’m really going back there again.
My palms were already sweating.
The label Big Joe ran, HOOVER SOUND.
The name had been sprayed across the outside wall, but behind that shabby exterior was a full setup of up-to-date recording booths and mixing gear.
Big Joe sat there with one leg crossed over the other on the sofa.
Across from him stood a man with his arms folded.
Lil D.
A Crip-affiliated rapper whose rap name was Lil Dunk.
If you didn’t know Lil D in the South LA underground, you were basically a spy.
He still hadn’t signed with a major label, but his recognition on the streets surpassed that of plenty of charting rappers.
He was one of the promising rappers Big Joe was raising personally.
“So.”
Lil D spoke first.
“You’re giving publishing to a beatmaker?”
(Translator’s Note:Publishing refers to rights and income tied to the composition itself)
Big Joe exhaled a long stream of cigar smoke.
“Yeah.”
“To a nobody?”
“Yeah.”
Lil D’s brow furrowed.
The way unknown beatmakers were treated in the industry was already set in stone.
Cash payment, and that was the end.
Once the beat was sold, the relationship was over.
Things like publishing and royalties were for producers who already had a name.
(Translator’s Note:Royalties are income shares generated from usage/exploitation of music)
“OG, who is this beatmaker?”
“Some nameless Asian.”
Lil D’s expression twisted.
“You’re giving some nameless Asian beatmaker four thousand dollars and publishing too? OG, no disrespect, but that’s a bit…”
“He’s got nerve.”
That cut him off.
“I offered him four grand the first time, and he turned it down.”
“…What?”
“Cash, one-time payment, on a verbal deal. Ever seen a nobody around here turn that down?”
Big Joe was right.
In this neighborhood, beat deals were mostly settled with a verbal agreement.
There were no contracts.
You handed over cash, got the beat, and even if the song blew up, nothing more went back to the producer.
As far as Big Joe knew, promises like I’ll take care of you later were only honored once in a blue moon.
And in that kind of scene,
a nobody had rejected four thousand dollars.
“He knows his own worth.”
“……”
“That’s why we have to put publishing on the table if we want to keep him.”
“But OG, if you give up publishing, then if the track blows up, my cut gets smaller. From where I’m standing, I haven’t even heard the beat yet, and you’re showing generosity to some unknown guy—”
“Lil D.”
Big Joe’s voice dropped a notch.
“How many years have I been grinding in this game?”
Lil D’s shoulders shrank.
Big Joe had survived on these streets for well over a decade after his brother’s death.
He was the one who raised rappers, put up money, and built connections.
Lil D himself wouldn’t be where he was now without Big Joe.
“…Aight, OG.”
Lil D lowered his head.
He swallowed his dissatisfaction, but it wasn’t gone.
An unknown Asian beatmaker.
He would have to see what kind of guy he was in person before he made his judgment.
Screeeech—
The sound of tires scraping came from outside.
The door opened, and Dustin came in first.
“Yo, OG! I brought Shotgun!”
Behind him, an Asian guy came in dragging a carrier bag.
“You’re here.”
“…Hello.”
Lil D swept his gaze over the Asian guy from top to bottom.
What the fuck?
You could tell just by looking who had real edge on the street, but there wasn’t a trace of edge in this Asian guy’s eyes.
He just looked like a frightened college student.
This guy turned down four thousand dollars?
Dustin exchanged a glance with Big Joe, then quietly stepped out.
Now only three people remained in the room:
Big Joe, Lil D, and the Asian guy.
Big Joe jerked his chin.
“Sit.”
The Asian guy perched on the sofa.
“The beat you were making that day. It’s still on the gear, right?”
“…Yes.”
The Asian guy pulled out his laptop.
FL Studio opened, and the project file loaded.
Sound began coming out of the speakers.
Ta, ta-tat. Ta, ta-tat.
Hi-hat.
Then kick.
Then snare.
Lil D’s ears responded first.
He tried to reject it consciously, but his head had already started nodding.
That texture of the 808 bass crawling across the floor.
That sensation of the glide sliding between notes.
…Shit.
It was good.
He hated to admit it, but it was good.
There was swing in the drum placement, so your body reacted the moment you heard it.
When the melody came in, the back of his neck went cold.
That progression sliding down by semitones in a minor key felt like walking beneath the streetlights on Crenshaw Boulevard at two in the morning.
But—
You said he’s got nerve, right?
Lil D forcibly stopped himself from nodding along.
The moment he let himself sound impressed, he would be giving ground in the negotiation.
The beat ended.
At demo level, it didn’t even last two full minutes.
It wasn’t a completed track, just the skeleton laid out.
“You like it?”
“…Well, it’s not bad.”
“Then let’s talk terms right away.”
Big Joe crossed his legs.
“Four thousand dollars to complete the beat. Two thousand upfront, two thousand when it’s finished. On top of that, publishing share.”
The Asian guy was still looking only at the laptop screen.
Lil D spoke first.
“Publishing, thirty.”
He threw out the number.
By industry standards, thirty percent for an unknown producer was an exceptional offer.
Ordinarily, it was the kind of deal that made people bow and say thank you.
He watched for the Asian guy’s reaction.
“……”
Expressionless.
Not even the slightest twitch between the brows.
Forget thank you—he didn’t so much as blink.
Huh.
Lil D felt his gut twist.
A nobody who didn’t even react to thirty percent.
Big Joe let out a low laugh.
The laugh was dripping with Told you so.
“I told you, Lil D. This guy’s nerve is no joke.”
Big Joe pointed a finger at the Asian guy.
“You’d have to give him forty before he reacts.”
Lil D clenched his teeth.
Forty percent.
If the track blew up, that meant nearly half the profit would be going to a beatmaker whose name nobody even knew.
He checked the Asian guy’s expression again.
“……”
Still expressionless, staring only at the laptop.
I had been frozen stiff for a while now.
Off to the side, other producers and nameless rappers were openly glaring at me.
Their eyes looked too much like Jamal’s, and it felt like if I answered wrong, my head would get blown off right there on the spot.
And more than anything—
H-hiiik!
Right in front of me were the gang boss and Lil D, with gold grills in his mouth.
My heart was one step away from stopping.
“…Aight.”
Lil D squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again.
He looked like a man making an important decision that would change his life.
“OG. Let’s make it fifty.”
Those words finally registered in my ears.
Still not understanding what was going on, I nodded.
Big Joe picked up a black bag sitting beside him.
Then he opened the zipper and pulled out a bundle of cash.
A thick stack of hundred-dollar bills bound together.
He placed it on the table in front of me with a thud.
“Two thousand upfront.”
…! Th-this…
Money laundering.
Making income from illegal activity look like legitimate business.
Maximum sentence: twenty years.
Don’t take it.
I decided that even now, I had to tell the truth.
That all that fucking genius talk had been a lie.
That I was an amateur who had never uploaded anything to SoundCloud.
That, on top of that, I was a complete outsider who knew nothing about producing.
But wait.
The moment I took those words back?
That meant I had lied in front of a gang.
It meant I had made the gang boss lose face too.
The result?
Farewell to the world of the living.
“……”
At that moment, my eyes met Big Joe’s.
My hand moved on its own.
I picked up the money bundle.
“…Thank you.”
Big Joe nodded.
Lil D uncrossed his arms and let out a sigh.
“…Um, what’s the deadline?”
“The sooner, the better.”
“…!”
How soon is that supposed to mean?!
We stepped outside.
Dustin was leaning against the Ford Mustang, looking at his phone.
“You done?”
“…Yeah.”
Dustin grinned and opened the door for me.
I got in and fastened my seat belt.
I set the carrier bag on my lap and hugged it tightly.
Inside were two thousand dollars in cash and my MIDI keyboard.
…So this is really how it ends up.
Second-year student at UCLA Law School.
And as of today…
an accomplice in money laundering for the Crips gang.
Mom, Dad. I’m sorry.
Your son has become a criminal.
“Yo, Shotgun. I know a good burger place around here. Wanna go together?”
I flinched and turned to look at him.
The moment my eyes met the huge guy’s, I felt my life being threatened all over again.
“S-sure. Let’s go!”
“Ayyyy! Hold on tight!”
“…!”
The two thousand dollars handed to Park Geon was not dirty money.
HOOVER SOUND, the label Big Joe operated, was a legitimately registered independent label, and the income that came out of clubs near Crenshaw was also lawful business income.
The two-thousand-dollar advance had come from there.
It was clean money.
Two days later.
HOOVER SOUND studio.
Lil D was sitting on the sofa beside the recording booth.
“Listen to this, Lil D. I worked on it all night yesterday.”
A trap beat flowed from the speakers.
808s, hi-hat rolls, a decent enough arrangement.
But Lil D’s head didn’t move.
(Translator’s Note:Trap beat — a hip-hop production style characterized by heavy 808s, hi-hat rolls/triplets, and dark synth textures)
The problem was what he had heard two days earlier.
That Asian guy’s demo had lodged itself in his ears.
That melody sliding down by semitones.
That weight of a single kick shaking the entire room.
After hearing that, every other beat felt flat.
“Then what about this one? I tried going for a more old-school vibe…”
A second beat started playing.
It didn’t land either.
“Oh, Lil D… don’t tell me this is because of that Asian guy?”
The beatmaker’s face hardened.
He had been laying beats for Lil D for three years, and now he was losing his place to some nameless Asian.
Another beatmaker, who had been watching the mood from the corner, crept over cautiously.
“Lil D, let me play you one too. I just cooked up something killer this time.”
“Later.”
Lil D turned his head away.
Fifty percent publishing, huh.
It still stung.
But that expressionless face of the Asian guy kept resurfacing in his mind.
That face that hadn’t reacted at all to thirty, or forty.
Just like Big Joe had said, maybe it really was nerve.
Or maybe it was something else.
Is he really that amazing, or is he just insane?
That was when the call came in.
It was Dustin.
“—Yo, Lil D! Shotgun says the beat’s already finished!”
“…What? In only two days?”
The studio went silent.
The other composers’ eyes widened.
“—On God, he says he’s gonna send the file right now! Haha, he’s right next to me. He’s hanging out with Jamal, drinking beer!”
…The guy’s fucking insane.