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The crowd cheered. Reporters jotted down her exact words.
Jack smiled cautiously, hoping to God there were, in fact, no kickbacks to his client from piracy websites.
Chapter 7
Theo poured Imani another shot of tequila and set it on the bar in front of her.
“This time without training wheels,” he said. “No lemon, no salt.”
A small group of Imani’s old friends from Miami was with them at the bar, and they let out a collective “ooooh” in response to Theo’s challenge.
“Challenge accepted,” said Imani.
Theo had closed down one side of the bar for the celebration. Drinks were flowing and, as always, Cy’s Place was oozing that certain vibe of a jazz-loving crowd. Creaky wood floors, redbrick walls, and high ceilings were the perfect bones for Theo’s club. Art nouveau chandeliers cast just the right mood lighting. Crowded café tables fronted a small stage for live music, where Imani had once performed—too young to drink, but talented enough to grab a microphone and sing the blues in ways that conjured up the likes of Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. Theo had accompanied her on the saxophone, blowing an old Buescher 400 that had passed down from one of the most talented musicians ever to play in Miami’s “Little Harlem” during its mid-twentieth-century heyday—his great-uncle Cy, the club’s namesake.
“Take that!” she shouted as she slammed down the empty glass on the bar top. Her friends cheered. Theo kept his word and matched her shot, two-for-one, which roughly evened the playing field in terms of body mass. Another round followed and, before long, Theo was standing on the bar leading the entire club in singing, “Yo-ho, yo-ho, a pirate’s life for me!”
Imani was laughing so hard she nearly fell off her stool. Then her expression changed suddenly. Theo climbed down from the bar.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Imani didn’t answer. Theo followed her line of sight across the club, toward the entrance doors, and his gaze landed on the man wearing a flat-brim fedora who had locked eyes with Imani. Theo had never met him in person, but he knew his music and his reputation, and he’d seen his image countless times in the media.
“Amongus is here,” Imani said softly.
Before Shaky, Imani had been a celebrity couple with a Latino rapper who called himself Amongus. The press called it “Imani’s bad-girl stage.” His full street name was reversed as “Sicario Amongus,” the Spanglish translation of which was simply “hit man among us.”
“Should I tell him to leave?” asked Theo.
Amongus’s story was well known to Theo and anyone else who followed Imani’s career. He and his brother were deep into the drug trade in Mexico, until they stupidly made a sale to a DEA agent. His brother was beaten to death in a Mexican jail. Amongus was extradited and spent three years in a U.S. prison. From his cell, he wrote violent and angry rap music. His cop-killing, anarchistic, and strongly anti-American message made him popular with young people all over the world who rejected any form of authority. His core followers believed that, by purchasing music through legitimate channels, they were only benefiting the billionaire pigs who ran American corporations. They worshiped Amongus but felt totally justified in ripping off his music from the internet. With that kind of fan base, no record label ever got behind him, and without the support of a label, it didn’t take long for him and his posse to blow through every penny he made from performances and selling branded merch. Despite millions of downloads, Amongus was broke. When he met Imani, he did the math and realized he wasn’t quite as anti-capitalist as he had once thought. Together, they started the anti-piracy movement that became MAP.
“Let him stay,” said Imani. “If MAP sent him, there’s a conversation that needs to be had.”
Amongus walked straight toward the bar. Two men were with him. Both ex-cons, in Theo’s expert judgment. Theo knew the walk—the “I got eyes behind my head” swagger that only prison could cultivate. Theostepped between him and Imani as he reached the bar, a full head taller than the rapper.
“Wassup?” asked Theo.
“Here to talk to the lady,” he said.
Theo glanced at Imani, knowing better than to speak for her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “Join us.”
Amongus pulled up the barstool beside her. Imani asked her friends to give her a minute, and they drifted away from the bar toward the billiard table. Theo walked around to the other side of the bar.
“Whattaya drinking?” he asked.
“Club soda,” said Amongus.
“Club soda and what?”
“Ice.”
Imani looked at him, not comprehending. “Dude, I’m buying. Have a drink.”
“Don’t drink. Don’t do drugs.”
“Since when?” asked Imani.
