The bar was tucked away on the Lower East Side, the kind of place where the lights were low, the whiskey was overpriced, and the music never stopped. A soft hum of '70s blues drifted from the corner speakers, drowning in the quiet chatter of the after-work crowd.
Lex slid into a booth near the back, drumming his fingers lightly on the table. Across from him sat Marcus Dillard, an old-school music producer with silver hair slicked back and a leather jacket that looked like it hadn't left his shoulders in twenty years.
Jason Wilde sat beside him, arms stretched across the back of the seat like he was perfectly at home.
Marcus swirled the ice in his glass, sizing Lex up like he wasn't sure if he was being pitched to or hustled.
"Jason tells me you're looking to buy," Marcus said, his raspy voice cutting through the noise. His gaze didn't waver. "Music catalogs. Old ones."
Lex smiled faintly. "Not old. Timeless."
Marcus chuckled, leaning back in his seat. "You talk like one of those Wall Street boys who thinks he can flip an artist's legacy like a real estate deal."
Jason grinned but didn't interrupt. Lex didn't take the bait.
"I'm not flipping anything," Lex replied, resting his hands on the table. "I'm preserving it. Streaming changed the game—every song with a decent hook is earning again. The labels know it, and so do you."
Marcus took a slow sip of his drink, watching Lex carefully.
"I've got rights to a few things," Marcus admitted. "But I don't sell cheap. Most of these artists—they're dead, retired, or forgotten. Their families don't even know what they own. Why should I give it up to some kid with a trust fund?"
Lex smiled, leaning forward slightly. "Because their families aren't paying attention… but I am. And you know how this works, Marcus. If you don't sell to me, you'll sit on those songs until the labels bleed them dry with licensing deals that pay pennies. I'm offering you cash, today."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. He glanced at Jason, who just shrugged like he was enjoying the show.
"Alright, Latham," Marcus said, tapping the side of his glass. "I'll bite. I've got a catalog from The Mavericks. Late '80s soft rock. Three albums, two minor hits. Never broke platinum, but they're still in syndication."
Lex's mind immediately started calculating. The Mavericks' songs had resurfaced in a few commercials last year—their main single had gained traction after being featured in a Netflix series. It wasn't a gold mine, but it was low risk with steady returns.
"How much?" Lex asked, meeting Marcus's eyes directly.
"One million. Flat," Marcus replied without hesitation.
Jason let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "Come on, Marcus. That's steep."
Lex didn't flinch.
"Seven hundred thousand." Lex's tone was calm, like he was negotiating for a suit.
Marcus arched a brow but didn't immediately refuse. "Seven fifty, and I keep the rights to one track for licensing. The rest is yours."
Lex paused, mulling it over. One track wouldn't kill the deal—the rest of the catalog was where the long-term play sat.
"Done," Lex said, extending his hand.
Marcus smirked faintly, shaking it firmly.
"I'll have the paperwork sent by the end of the week," Marcus said, leaning back in his seat. "But don't expect to make a killing off this, kid. The music business is slow money."
Lex smiled as he finished his drink. "That's the point."
Jason laughed, shaking his head. "You've got a strange way of building your empire, Lex. Buying up old songs like real estate."
Lex stood, straightening his coat as he glanced toward the bar, where the next band was setting up.
"Old songs last longer than most companies," Lex said quietly. "I'm just getting started."
As Lex stepped outside, the crisp night air hit his face. He could almost hear his great-grandfather's voice in his head.
"You don't need to own the whole city, Lex. Just the pieces people forget they need."
Barnie could have the boardrooms.
Lex was buying everything else.