parallel

Agustina was red-eyed, having gone three weeks without sleeping well, eating properly, and crying every night over the loss of her baby. Her beautiful child was forgotten due to some trickery by an arrogant member of law enforcement.

-Even in the world of the 'whities,' there's corruption, - Agustina thought despondently, wiping the tables in the place.

Then, two older men entered, in character. Because Spencer barely touched 35 years old, he was anything but young, raised among the elderly, his soul accustomed to the age of his years.

-She's working, and I don't think it's right to disturb her, - Spencer said.

Jerry Wrexler knew many people; a housewife was the least of his problems. Everyone fell under the right words; the gesture of his hand pointing to the woman was enough for Spencer to run to call her. But she responded to Spencer's exact call almost timidly, unable to recognize him, and only saw him from afar, attending to the gentlemen.

-Good afternoon from the Irish bar. It's a pleasure to assist you. How may I help you? - Agustina asked, looking devastated.

A mother's love.

-Bring me a pint of beer and a good side dish. For my companion, the same. I want a dark beer, - Jerry Wexler said.

-All right, - Agustina replied, without jotting anything down.

-I thought you would talk to her about... 'business'? - Spencer said, somewhat surprised.

-We will, but all in due time. For now, we can't be rude and just talk like that. If the manager passes by and sees us talking with nothing in hand, he'll think the young lady is inviting her friends. The point is to attract less attention, - Jerry Wexler said.

Spencer intended to communicate that he didn't drink beer, not very fond of the pleasures of alcohol, but he kept quiet. Something deep inside told him that Jerry was too rushed to hear his complaints. The fiasco of transferring Billy changed plans from heaven to earth, and now they had to act with more force, disrupting the process, but in his possession was a contract worth more than any restaurant or car. The last time a contract was signed was a long time ago and for an offer that needed to be made.

Jerry was particularly silent, like a winter night. Sheltered in a facade of serenity, while Spencer used the table to grade some quick assignments from his university students; duty was a thick glass to swallow.

--Gentlemen, -- Agustina said with two pints in her hands and a tray of fries and wings. -- If you need anything, just let me know. --

-Wait a moment, young lady. If I wish, I have something important to communicate to you, - Jerry Wexler said, raising his cane as a signal to stop.

-Is there any problem? - Agustina asked defensively. Her voice was sharper, but only due to the sore throat she had.

-You see, even if you don't know him. This is Spencer, and his son Billy is his student. We're deeply moved by Billy's injustice, and we want to help you, - Jerry said smoothly.

Agustina's brown eyes widened in acknowledgment; Jerry managed to hit the mark to get the woman's attention.

-Now I remember the teacher, - Agustina said.

-Mrs. Carson, I apologize for disturbing you at work, - Spencer said.

Jerry halted.

-Let's get to the point of the matter. I'm a very important music producer; I can mobilize my lawyers to get my future artist out next month. But even if I do, the process will take three months, and well, the legal battle with the state is never pretty, the irregularities reported are strange, - Jerry Wexler said.

-Irregularities! What are you talking about, sir? - Agustina asked.

-Yes, the case. There are quite a few contradictions pointed out by Spencer that can help us with the case. My lawyer will go tomorrow to review them as long as he gets the quick approval. But as you know, I can't just move around like that, - Jerry Wexler said.

-Damned white folks, - Agustina muttered in Spanish, tinged with a clear South American accent.

-I understand some Spanish, ma'am. Please don't use profanity, -- Jerry said, in Spanish, marked with the accent of non-natives. -- My Spanish is somewhat rusty. But please, feel free to ask any questions you may have, - Jerry said.

Agustina blushed with decency but didn't admit her mistake. She only raised her chin with pride.

-Well, that's what I think. Everyone wants to take advantage of Billy, - Agustina said.

Jerry sighed; his wife would know what to do in these moments; she was patient.

-Well, I want to help Billy. I know him; he's a person with infinite talent, and being in the correctional facility doesn't serve me. Let's talk in utilitarian terms: I want to see your son as the next singer of Atlanta Records, and I want him to have a healthy life. If his mother helps me safeguard his passions and be my guide on this journey, it would be a relief. I want the boy to study music, stay away from vices, and become a singer. He should do what he's destined to do. A talent like his, I've seen it twice. And the first time was someone you've even heard of somewhere, ma'am, - Jerry Wexler said.

He uncapped an eight-page contract and a pen.

-You don't beat around the bush, well, I hope you don't betray my trust. If you do, you'll never gain it back. This will take me; I know someone who can review this contract for me, - Agustina said.

-He'd better hurry, - Jerry said.

-If the contract is good and trustworthy, I'll sign it and won't lie. I'll do it. Turns out the gentleman is an acquaintance; you can take it yourself if you wish, or you can wait for him to come. Sometimes he comes to the bar to say hello; if I call him, he'll probably come, - Agustina said.

-Call him; tell him I'll pay for the consultation myself. If that helps us avoid the sin of your son spending another day in that dangerous correctional facility, - Jerry said, knowing from rumors and some data that Arizona was one of the most dangerous places on the West Coast, with some dangerous gangs that not only recruited unsuspecting young people but also older adults and others.

***********************************************************

Billy was having another concert at the basketball courts, singing, and rocking with all the power of his voice. He had done three of these concerts, and now his followers were becoming more visible. The radius of a star was brilliantly wider than any other radius; the power of Billy's voice was enough for some people to enjoy six minutes a day of something different. Music wasn't allowed, and only occasionally would a guard turn it on to clear the dark thoughts swirling in people, caregivers, and officers.

Billy's cronies, the brutal Sam, the giant Fred nicknamed the troll, a large and dangerous man with tremendous strength who could beat even the biggest with just two fists, Jimmy the sidekick, and Connor, who had arrived after his brutal injury. They asked him how he was, and he just shrugged, unconcerned.

They were joined by Joseph Marshall, known as LCD, a dealer, a troublemaker who, at fourteen, already had his entire body tattooed. His dream was to be a tattoo artist, and he didn't hesitate to say it. He was skinny, and according to many, dangerous. A dangerous man.

Billy breathed deeply, trying to calm down; singing had exhausted him. The strength he had put into it left him drained. It was an attempt to unify a makeshift band; Connor beat a paint bucket and an oval tinplate along with two old pots lined with transparent paper, simulating a drum kit. It worked, but Connor didn't complain; he just played.

-I'm exhausted, - Billy said, catching his breath.

-I still don't understand how you end up sweating after singing; I mean, I never expected singing to be so demanding, - Sam said, with a black eye courtesy of a fight. Billy wasn't the only one; he had a bump on his head and a big scratch on his shoulder.

-I sing with everything I have. If I didn't do it that way, I would be completely disappointed. It's not the force of the singing; it's the force of your soul," Billy said, recovering little by little. "You see, I understand music as a spiritual principle. I convey my emotions; I make them see what they love, what they fear, or sometimes they just see me, - he said.

-Like a superpower, - Connor said, who had seen some details of his life when Billy sang; sometimes he even saw a vast ocean.

-Enough, Billy Wayne, and his steeds, - Sam said, moving a stick between his fingers as if it were a knife.

-I'd like to support you; sometimes I see the park where I camped with my parents or the hospital, - Fred said.

-Damn sentimental giant, - Sam whispered.

-Fred is a good and knowledgeable man, - Billy said, laughing.

-The only one who hasn't seen anything is Sam, oh... he's embarrassed and hides in his shame, - Jimmy said, managing to make the group laugh, even a stunned Connor.

Billy pacified them.

-It doesn't matter, Sam! The fact is, you like my music. Tomorrow or the day after, there will be a gig; I need to rest my voice; I've been singing nonstop this week, - Billy said.

Not long into the night, he had another fight, nothing serious, just some punches, and other blows. He had had five fights, eight if you

...