Circles Collide

Chapter 11: The Water Recedes

Indian Springs, Nevada

September 28, 1996

Matt was tired and moderately hungover as he and his band reported for their morning sound check on Stage 1 at 9:00 AM. He had been up until nearly 4:00 AM and had been awakened at 7:30 to get ready for his 8:00 AM pickup. He and the boys had not even made it back to the hotel room until nearly 2:00 AM and had partied it up in Austin’s room after finally making it there.

We’ll do the sound check and then my ass is climbing into that bed in the trailer and getting some sleep, Matt thought as he mounted the stage. He was wearing a tattered pair of sweatpants and a sleeveless shirt. He long hair was uncombed and somewhat ratty in appearance. He wore a pair of sunglasses to protect his eyes from the brutal glare of the desert sun off to the east. The rest of the band were dressed pretty similarly, except for Corban, who had taken the time to dress in a fashionable shirt and spike his hair with gel.

Roland Argyle was the head of concert sound for Matt’s crew. He and his team of three technicians had been flown to Vegas at Music Alive’s expense along with a team of six roadies (Matt had negotiated that into his contract). Argyle—who like to be called Rollie—was short, chubby, and sported a full beard and long hair, which made him look a little bit like a short, chubby version of the traditional Jesus. He was not someone that Matt had hired to be in charge of his sound on the road, but someone that National had assigned. He was adequate at his position, but that was about it. He certainly could not hold a candle to the Nerdlys.

“Hey, Matt. Hey, boys,” he greeted as they took their positions on the stage.

“Hey, Rollie,” Matt said unenthusiastically, walking over to where his microphone stand was situated. The rest of the band offered similar greetings.

“I still have all the settings marked from last night’s performance,” Rollie told them. “This shouldn’t take long at all. It’ll be mostly a verification process.”

“Well ... yeah, about that,” Matt said. “Last night’s sound kind of sucked.”

“Sucked?” Rollie said, clearly taken aback by this suggestion.

“Sucked,” Matt repeated. “As in it slurped the big fuckin’ schlong. It wasn’t as bad as Pantera’s, but it sounded like a pile of dogshit when held up against how Kingsley’s sound team had him dialed in.”

“But ... but Kingsley has the Nerdlys,” Rollie said, nearly whispering their name, speaking it the one does when talking about a worshiped deity.

“Yes, he does,” a voice said from the stage left entrance.

It was a familiar voice and Matt knew who it was even before he turned to look. Sure enough, Nerdly and Mrs. Nerdly were both standing there. Both were dressed in jeans and baggy pullover t-shirts. Two of the security guys were flanking them, obviously distressed that they had made it up here. They had not put their hands on them yet, but they would if Matt gave them the nod. Matt did not give the nod—at least not yet. He noticed that Nerdly had a bruise on his cheek and some swelling under his left eye that would soon become a pretty decent shiner. He also had some sort of brace on his right wrist.

“Nerdly,” Matt said, taking a step toward him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m sorry, Matt,” the lead security guy told him. “They used their all-access passes to get past the first layer and then they just strolled up here like they belonged. We didn’t notice them until they were actually at the door.”

“Well, it’s a good thing they weren’t a couple of crazy-ass psychos with a gun, isn’t it?” Matt asked.

“It won’t happen again,” the man promised. “Shall we eject them?”

“In a minute,” Matt said, stepping a little closer. He stopped just in front of the skinny, nerdy sound genius and his wife. “What the fuck happened to you?”

“The bruises and the wrist brace?” Nerdly asked. “I had a bit of a fisticuff with Pantera’s sound engineer and two of their roadies.”

“A fisticuff with Pantera’s roadies?” Matt asked incredulously. “Three of them? You?”

“It started off just with me,” Nerdly explained. “You see, I went to try to advise their sound team on how they might better perform their duties and make the band sound like something other than incomprehensible noise that does nothing but blast everyone’s eardrums. Jake came along with me just in case things led to violence, which, as it turned out, they did.”

“What the fuck happened?” Matt asked.

“You know how it is,” Nerdly said in a wise-to-the-ways-of-the-world voice. “The lead engineer did not appreciate my suggestions. I wanted to appeal to Dimebag Darrel or maybe Vinnie Paul—you know, his brother who plays the drums for the band—but they were not even there. Apparently, they do not attend their own sound checks.”

“Yeah, listening to how they sounded last night, I can believe that shit,” Matt said.

“Anyway,” Nerdly went on, “I persisted in explaining how they could improve their basic sound, but the lead engineer did not want to hear it. He became downright hostile. Words were exchanged. And then he said something extremely insulting to Sharon and I was obligated to defend her honor using physical violence.”

“You started the fight?” Matt asked.

“And finished it,” Sharon said, her eyes shining a little. “He put that engineer on the ground in five seconds flat. And then two of the other roadies came over to get in on it and he knocked one off the stage and dropped the other one with a very impressive back kick.”

“A back kick?” Matt nearly screamed. “You? You put down three fuckin’ roadies?”

“I have been studying Renbukai karate for nearly fifteen years now, Matt,” Nerdly told him, pronouncing it ‘ka-rot-ay’, with a distinct roll on the R. “It is a particularly good method of obtaining discipline and focus as well as aerobic exercise. I’ve never had occasion to use it outside of sparring practice in the dojo, but when Sharon’s honor required defense, it came in quite handy, although I did sprain my wrist quite badly when I punched the first roadie in the face. I did not have time to properly stretch out and limber up before engaging in combat.”

“Son of a bitch,” Matt said in wonder. Nerdly actually knew how to fight? It was like the universe did not work as he had always thought it did. “What happened to your eye? Did one of them get a shot in?”

“Not the roadies or the sound tech,” Nerdly said, “but their head of security sucker-punched me and knocked me down. Before I could get back up, Jake jumped in and knocked him out with a punch to the face. Then one of the other security men—a huge brute who looks like a football linebacker—tackled Jake and started to punch on him. I was able to dislodge him with a side-kick to his ribs, but by then, the rest of roadies were moving in on us. Things were starting to look a little worrisome for a moment, but then, before we could go any further in the scuffle, the venue’s security team arrived in force and broke it up.”

“No shit?” Matt asked, shaking his head as he pictured it. Nerdly kicking ass? Jake punching out a head of security (those people obtained that position because they knew how to kick some serious ass)? Nerdly kicking a football linebacker sized man off of Jake? Astounding!

“No shit,” Nerdly said matter-of-factly.

“It would seem that the gentlemen did not wish to be advised on their sound adjustments,” Sharon said.

“God knows they could use some advice,” said Rollie, who had listened to the story with the air of one who had been around rock bands his entire career: completely unfazed by it.

“How is Jake?” asked Matt, part of him hoping that Jake would not be able to go on, part of him feeling a strange emotion that was similar to concern.

“He claims he is within acceptable parameters,” Nerdly said. “He has a bruise on his cheek and some sore ribs. He also hurt his hand when he punched the security head, though he says he’ll be able to play for the performance tonight.”

“I see,” Matt said, unable to think of anything else.

“Anyway,” Nerdly said. “That is how I came by these injuries.

“A very interesting story,” Matt said with complete sincerity. “But why are you here, right now, telling me about it?”

“We did not come here to tell the story,” Nerdly said, “but you did ask, so I shared the tale. The reason we are actually here is to extend the same offer to you that we offered to Pantera.”

“What do you mean?” Matt asked.

“We are here to offer our services with your sound check,” Nerdly said.

Matt’s eyes widened. “You want to help us with our sound check?” he asked, just to make sure he was hearing correctly.

“That is correct,” Nerdly said. “I heard your performance from the band city last night and it is clear you could use our help.”

“Now wait just a minute here,” Rollie suddenly spoke up. “I am the head of concert sound for Matt and his band, and I do not require any assistance, even if it is from the Nerdlys.”

“I disagree,” Nerdly said simply. “Your levels last night were maladjusted and detracted from the proper enjoyment of the performance.”

“What?” Rollie yelled.

“He said your sound sucked,” Matt interpreted. He was still capable of translating Nerdly-speak into English. “And I agree completely with that fuckin’ assessment.”

“Exactly,” said Sharon. “Your midrange and your low end were far too loud. Your high range was far too low. The net effect of this is to drown out the vocals and make it impossible to differentiate between the stringed instruments.”

“People want Matt’s music to be loud,” Rollie insisted. “He’s a heavy metal guitarist. His instrument has to be the primary source of output.”

“I disagree,” Nerdly said again. “It is possible—quite easy in fact—to balance the ranges so that all instruments and vocalizations can be heard and enjoyed—even if they are loud. That should be what any sound engineer strives for.”

“The recording studio is the place for that shit,” Rollie said. “We have twenty-five minutes to make things the best they can be here. And speaking of that, Matt, three of those minutes have already ticked away. Can we please get rid of these people so we can get to work?”

“We do need to get to work,” Matt agreed, looking at his sound engineer. He then looked back at the Nerdlys. “But I don’t want to get rid of them. I’m taking you up on your offer, Nerdlys. You’re in charge of the sound as long you can dial my shit in in twenty-two minutes.”

“Matt! I most protest this!” Rollie yelled.

“Protest noted,” Matt said. “Now get on that fuckin’ walkie-talkie and tell the guys on the soundboard that Sharon is coming over there and they will follow her directions.”

“This is not how I do things,” Rollie insisted. “I am in charge of sound.”

“You’ve just been demoted, asshole,” Matt told him. “Now get on that walkie-talkie and fuckin’ talk! And if you can’t obey the Nerdlys’ orders, get the fuck off my stage.”

Rollie, fuming with anger, his face red, did as he was told. He keyed up his radio and told the lead board tech that Mrs. Nerdly was on her way and that they needed to do what she told them. They agreed to do so.

“Very good,” Matt said. “Now give that radio to Nerdly here and let’s get to work.”

Silently, Rollie handed over the radio.

“All right,” Nerdly said, taking it. “We have twenty-one minutes left. Get Matt’s Strat out here and let us dial that in first.”

“You heard the man!” Matt barked. A moment later, a stagehand came running out with Matt’s beloved guitar in hand.

“Plug in and we’ll dial in the basic distortion level first,” Nerdly said.

“Right,” said Matt, nodding. He slung the instrument over his shoulder and plugged in the guitar cord. He turned the volume knob all the way up and then pulled a pick from the microphone stand. Before he strummed out the first chord, however, he turned back to the Nerdlys. “I appreciate the help,” he told them.

Nerdly nodded. “I assumed that you would,” he said.

Approximately four hundred yards away, in the band city, Jake was sitting in a chair outside the trailer. He was munching on a breakfast burrito from the catering truck with his left hand, which was awkward for him. He could not use his right hand, however, because it was currently wrapped in an ice pack. His knuckles were throbbing and his middle and fourth fingers were swollen and painful from the punch he had delivered to Pantera’s security guy. Every once in a while he flexed the hand a few times to make sure he could still move it with the limberness required to play his guitar. It was uncomfortable, but he could do it. The show would go on. It had to. And then, after the show, he might find his way to one of the Vegas emergency rooms to have a little x-ray taken.

The sound of a guitar chord rolled over the band city and then cut off. It had been short, but Jake could tell it had been Matt playing it. Another one rolled out, this one a riff that Jake was not quite familiar with, though he had heard it before. The volume and the range were audibly adjusted while the riff was being played and Jake smiled. He was familiar enough with the Nerdlys and how they did business to tell that the adjustment was being directed by them—Nerdly on the stage, Sharon on the soundboard relaying his instructions to the crew. That crazy nerd had actually gone and convinced Matt to let him help.

“That sounds like the Nerdlys in action,” Laura remarked from the chair next to him. She too was quite familiar with how they did business.

“Yep,” Jake agreed.

She reached up and touched the purple bruise and swelling on Jake’s right cheek, the result of a blow by that three-hundred-pound bouncer while he had been on his back on the stage. The brute packed a pretty good punch.

“How is it looking?” Jake asked her.

“It looks like the swelling has stopped,” she said. “Does it hurt?”

Jake shrugged. “I’ve had worse,” he said. And this was true. The beating he had received from the truckers in Texarkana and the police in New York City had been considerably worse.

“I still can’t believe that Nerdly started a fight with Pantera’s crew,” she said.

“Well,” Jake said, “one could make the argument that it was Pantera’s sound guy who started the fight when he called Sharon a ‘dick sucking kike cunt’ and then grabbed his crotch and told her to drop down and start sucking.” Jake chuckled. “And man, did he laugh when Nerdly told him that was going to have to ‘engage in honor-defending hand to hand combat’ with him for making that remark. And then Nerdly did one of those straight punches right to the asshole’s forehead. He didn’t laugh anymore after that.”

“Who would’ve thought that Nerdly could do that,” she said. “I mean, I knew he went to karate classes and all, but I never, in my wildest dreams, imagined that he could take on three guys at once.”

Jake nodded. “I never would’ve believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes,” Jake said. “I mean, I’ve seen him take on three girls at a time before, but never three guys.”

Laura shook her head and rolled her eyes as another riff came blasting out over them, this one the riff from Early Grave. More adjustments could be heard as it played out.

“Adjusting down the midrange,” Jake remarked. “Just like it should be adjusted.”

“He really is doing them a big favor,” Laura said.

“I only hope Matt appreciates it,” Jake said.

“What about you?” she asked. “Does it bother you that the Nerdlys are helping them. You’ve got this competition thing with Matt, after all.”

“Yeah, we’ve got this competition thing going, I guess,” Jake said. “But no, it doesn’t bother me. Music should be as good as it is possible for it to be, even if it’s not my music. All Nerdly and Sharon are doing is following that rule.”

She nodded slowly. “I guess that makes sense,” she said.

The second and final day of the Tsunami Sound Festival rolled on. The lineups of the earlier bands were a bit different from yesterday’s show, but the last four bands were the same. The crowd was a little less than yesterday as well, but there were still nearly ninety thousand people out there. Jake and Laura were able to get a little bit of sleep after lunch was served, climbing into the main bed in the trailer and cuddling together under the blanket. When he woke up, his hand was throbbing so badly that he needed to pop some ibuprofen and Tylenol just to be able to keep flexing it.

“Are you sure you’re going to be able to go on?” Laura asked him, worried.

“I’ll be okay,” he assured her.

She looked very concerned but made no further mention of it.

Pantera took to Stage 1 on schedule. Their head of security was sporting a pretty spectacular bruise on his forehead and the large bouncer type, who was in charge of stagefront security, was forced to perform his role with a tight restraining band wrapped around his ribcage where Nerdly had kicked him. The band itself played as usual and made no mention of the event. Their sound, also as usual, was overly loud and atrocious. Still, their fans cheered them enthusiastically, maybe even more so than normal. By this point wildly inaccurate rumors had spread about the physical confrontation that had occurred. In all the stories it had been Dimebag Darrel and the boys who had had the confrontation with Jake and his boys. The Pantera fans all heard that Dimebag and Vinnie Paul had beaten the shit out of Jake and his drummer. And the Jake fans all heard that Jake and his bass guitarist had been the ones to beat the shit out of Darrel and Vinnie Paul (they had heard that martial arts had been involved and, since Ben was Asian, it had to have been him that practiced it). Nerdly’s name never came up in the discussion at all.

Jake popped another eight hundred milligrams of ibuprofen and another thousand of Tylenol just before they reported to the stage. Once again, Pantera’s final number, Walk, was winding down as they made the journey.

“Yeah,” Jake said with a smile as he heard the hook line for the tune, “we were talking to you, motherfuckers.”

Jake continued to flex and unflex his right hand as the crew worked their way through the volume checks again. It hurt each time he did it, but he determined he was loose enough to play and not fuck up. The medications started to kick in about five minutes before showtime, bringing the throb down to a dull ache. I got this, he thought confidently.

And he did have it. He stepped out onto the stage with his band and he played and he sang his songs. His hand throbbed the entire show, the pain growing worse with each song that he played, but his fingers kept doing what he told them to do and he put on another flawless performance. The crowd was just as enthusiastic as they had been last night and they were once more given a standing ovation after finishing up I Am High and another after the final number itself.

“Thank you, and good night!” Jake told them after flipping his final guitar pick into the crowd. A sharp stab of pain shot up his forearm to his elbow when he did it. He looked down and saw that the entire back of his right hand was quite swollen and purple now. By the time they finished their final bow and walked off the stage, he could barely move his fingers at all and could not grasp anything with his right hand.

“Good heavens!” Laura exclaimed when she saw the condition of his hand. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

“I think I might need to go see a doc about this,” he said.

“Absolutely,” she said. “We’ll go right now.”

“Not just yet,” Jake said. “I am drenched in sweat and need to take a shower first.”

“Well ... I guess you can do that,” she said.

“And you and I have a little business to take care of before I shower,” he said slyly.

She shook her head. “I don’t expect you to do that in this condition,” she said. “There will be other times.”

“I can’t think of when that might be,” he said. “We’re doing it. The show must go on.”

“Are you sure?” she asked.

He smiled. “I’m sure. I even scoped out the perfect spot.”

“Really?” she asked, that lustful look coming back into her eyes now.

“Really,” he assured her.

“Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure it’s safe.”

“It’s safe,” he said. “Come on. Let’s go.”

They broke away from the others and Jake led her to another section of band city. They went to the trailer that had been assigned to Seavey Circle. The band itself had cut out long before Pantera had even taken the stage, leaving the trailer empty. Jake had slipped one of the venue’s security guys a picture of Ben Franklin to provide him with the access code and not ask any questions. The security guy—who was a hard-core Intemperance fan, hated Pantera, and had heard a firsthand report of what had gone down earlier—thought this an acceptable business deal.

“I want you to leave your sweaty shirt on while we fuck,” Laura told him, her face now flushed with sexual excitement.

“You got it,” Jake said, feeling himself starting to stiffen despite the pain in his hand. “As long as you leave that dress on.”

She smiled. “Great minds think alike,” she said.

They coupled lustily and frantically. Laura pulled her panties off and then sat on the table with her legs spread. Jake embraced her, his feet still on the floor, his pants and underwear down around his ankles, his sweaty shirt and his shoes still on. They kissed passionately, without the least bit of tenderness or affection, tongues driving deeply into each other’s mouths, Laura’s hands running over his sweaty skin, beneath his sweaty shirt, Jake’s good hand touching her inner thighs and her bare ass. He slid himself inside of her. She was extremely wet and ready. As he began to thrust in and out, she alternated between kissing his neck and rubbing her face into the sweat stains on his shirt, particularly around his armpits, inhaling deeply through her nose while her hands squeezed his ass and pulled him deeper inside of her body. She came quickly and he was right behind her.

“Oh my God, that was fucking hot!” she breathed as they finally broke their embrace.

“Yeah,” Jake commented insouciantly, “it was all right.”

They made their way back to their own trailer where, once again, the party was in progress. No one commented on where they had been, but they got quite a few knowing looks, particularly among those they passed close enough to to catch a whiff of them.

“I’m going to need to be in the shower rotation tonight, Paulie,” Laura told her, blushing furiously.

“Understood,” Pauline said. She was, after all, close enough to catch their aroma.

“And I’m going to need to get out of here as soon as possible and get to an emergency room,” Jake told her.

“An emergency room?” Pauline asked, alarmed. “What is it?”

Jake smiled. “It’s a part of the hospital where they see emergent patients who need immediate care,” he said, “but that’s not important now.”

Pauline shook her head and rolled her eyes. “I guess I walked into that one,” she said. “Is it your hand?”

“Yeah,” he said, showing it to her.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jake!” she exclaimed. “That looks like a cartoon hand!”

“It kind of does, doesn’t it?” Jake replied.

“Okay,” she said. “Ted’s in there right now. You go next, Jake, and then you after him, Teach. While you’re showering, I’ll get the security guy to break loose a car of some kind to get you back.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said. “Let me go dig out some clothes.”

It took Jake a little longer than normal to shower as he was hampered by being unable to use his dominant hand. It proved impossible to get dressed using only his left hand, so he had to call Laura into the tiny, cramped shower room to assist him with buttoning and zipping his pants and putting on his belt. And then, once she was finished showering and dressing, she had to help him put on his shoes and socks as well.

“Are you going to be able to fly tomorrow?” Pauline asked as she watched all of this.

“I guess we’ll find out,” he replied.

A driver in one of the smaller limousines picked them up five minutes later and they headed back to Las Vegas.

“Do you want a drink, sweetie?” Laura asked him.

“I’d love one, but I’ll pass for now,” he replied. “I don’t want to go into the ER smelling like booze.”

“I’m sure they’re used to it in there,” she suggested.

“True, but I’ll pass just the same.”

They were taken to Mountainview Hospital, a new facility that had only been open a few months. Jake noted there were several Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department patrol cars parked in the parking lot as he and Laura made their way from the limo to the ED entrance but did not think too much about it. Police cars in an ER parking lot were a pretty normal thing. They went in the door and found the waiting room was all but empty.

“Thank God this happened on a Sunday,” Laura said.

“Yep,” Jake agreed.

They followed the signs to the registration desks, where a young, cute woman in her early twenties was sitting at a computer terminal behind a layer of bulletproof glass. She gave them a professional smile and asked if Jake was here to check into the emergency room.

No, I’m here for you to suck my dick, Jake thought in irritation at the blindingly obvious enquiry. Why the fuck else would I be walking up to your desk which is labeled: Emergency Department Check-In?

He kept his thought to himself, however, and politely agreed that yes, he was here to check into the emergency room.

“And what is the problem today?” she asked.

“I have an injury to my hand,” he said, showing her his swollen and discolored extremity.

“I see,” she said, looking at it without expression. “And your name?”

He gave her his name. As soon as she heard it, she looked up at his face, seeing it for the first time. “The Jake Kingsley?” she asked, seemingly in awe.

“That’s right,” he said. “The Jake Kingsley.”

“Oh my God,” she said. “You must be the one who...” she stopped, seemingly catching herself. “Never mind. Almost did a HIPAA violation there. Your date of birth?”

“March 7, 1960,” he said.

She quickly checked him in and then told him to have a seat in the waiting room and that the triage nurse would be with him shortly. They barely had time to sit down before a door was opened and a chunky middle-aged woman dressed in blue scrubs called out his name. He and Laura entered the little room and took seats where directed. The woman who had called them in had on a name badge that identified her as Annabelle Simmons, RN. Her face had the cynical, seen-it-all pose that Jake associated with long-term police officers. She had a clipboard with a complex, preprinted sheet upon it. At the top of the sheet was the word: TRIAGE ASSESSMENT in bold letters.

“Tell me why you’re here tonight, Mr. Kingsley,” she said.

“I injured my hand,” he said, showing her the extremity.

She looked at it for a moment, neither impressed or unimpressed with it. “Yep,” she agreed. “It certainly looks like you did. What happened?”

“I was uh ... well, in a bit of a scuffle with some people earlier today,” he said. “I punched one of them in the face. I think I might have a broken hand.”

“I see,” she said. “And what time did this happen?”

“Around seven-thirty,” he said.

“Seven-thirty this evening?”

“Seven-thirty this morning,” he corrected.

She raised her brows a bit. “Why did you wait so long to come in?” she asked.

“Well ... I’m a musician and I had to perform at the Tsunami Sound Festival tonight. Not going onstage was not an option. In fact, I think my performing is part of the problem. I did a sixty-five-minute set playing guitar up there and that’s when it really started to throb and swell. My punching hand is also my strumming and picking hand, you see.”

Her eyes looked at him, a certain understanding suddenly appearing there. “You’re the Jake Kingsley,” she said. “The musician.”

“That’s right,” he said. “This is my wife, Laura. She’s a musician too.”

Her eyes shifted over to Laura for a moment, looking her up and down. “I see,” she said. “And was a police report made about this incident you were involved in?”

“Not by me,” Jake replied.

“Do you wish to make one?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary,” he said.

“I understand,” she said. “And I hope you understand that we will be required to report this injury to the police and they may wish to speak to you about it, particularly in light of the fact that we have two other crewmembers here from the TSF that have fight injuries as well.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked. “Did those assholes from Pantera’s crew show up here too?”

“I am not authorized to tell you that,” she said. “Now, how about we get some vitals taken and then get you to x-ray?”

“Sounds good,” Jake said. “But if those dudes are here, you should probably keep us away from each other.”

“I will take that under consideration,” she said. She pulled a thermometer out of a holder. “Under your tongue, please?”

She took his vital signs and wrote them down on the triage form. She added in his height and weight—allowing him to self-report the figures instead of actually measuring them—and then went over his medical history (he did not really have one), what prescription medications he was taking (none) and what medications he was allergic to (again, none). She then wrote out a brief summary of what had happened to Jake and where he was injured.

“All right,” she said. “I’m going to order an x-ray of your right hand. Go ahead and pop back out into the waiting room and someone will come get you and take you over to diagnostic imaging. Once the films are read, we’ll get you in a room and go from there.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said.

It took about thirty minutes for Jake to be x-rayed and placed in one of the rooms in the ER. A young male technician housed him and Laura in one of the enclosed rooms near the front of the department. It was one of the big rooms, with a cardiac monitor on the wall and all the bells and whistles as far as equipment went. Jake wondered if there was some reason they had put him in here instead of a smaller room. This looked like the room they dealt with serious shit in—heart attacks and CPRs and things like that. Was it just VIP treatment because he was Jake Kingsley, or was there another explanation?

They sat in the room for almost twenty minutes before the door opened and a tall, trim Asian featured woman of about Jake’s age came in. She wore grey scrubs and had the letters MD after her name on her name badge. She wore an expensive looking stethoscope around her neck. Her face was completely expressionless.

“Hi, I’m Doctor Wei,” she introduced, without a hint of accent. “What is your emergency tonight?”

“I got in a scuffle this morning and punched someone in the face with my right hand,” he said. “I think I broke something.”

“Yes, you did,” the doctor told him. “You have fractures to the third and fourth metacarpal bones of your hand. Those are the bones between your knuckles and your wrist. This is what is commonly known as a boxer’s fracture, although most of the time it is the fourth and fifth metacarpals that are fractured.”

If you already knew why I was here and that my bones were broken, why the hell did you ask? Jake wondered but did not say aloud. “How bad is it?” he did say.

“You did a pretty good job of it,” she said. “Both bones are displaced by more than eighty degrees. We’re going to have to put them back together and you’re going to have to be in a splint for some time. I’m not sure if surgery will be needed—it usually is not with this injury, although you did a better than average job of breaking them—so you’ll need to follow up with an orthopedist.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “What does putting them back together entail?”

“We’ll do what we call a procedural sedation,” she said. “The nurse will start an IV on you and we’ll give you propofol through it so you go to sleep for a bit. I’ll then reduce the fractures the best I can and we’ll put a splint on the hand to keep the bones immobilized.”

“Okay,” Jake said carefully. He had never had surgery or been anesthetized before and the thought of being put to sleep was a bit disconcerting. But he had to trust modern medicine, right? “What about functionality?”

“What about it?” she asked.

“I’m a musician,” he said. “I play guitar for a living. Will I still be able to do that?”

“Not until the injury heals,” she said, “but I do not see any reason why you should not be able to play guitar after that.”

Jake breathed a little sigh of relief. “That’s good,” he said. “I’m also a pilot. Will I be able to fly my plane with this splint on?”

Dr. Wei’s expression changed for the first time. It darkened. “You are a pilot?” she asked.

“That’s right,” he said. “My plane is currently parked at Henderson Airport here in Vegas and I was planning to fly it home to Los Angeles tomorrow. And then I need to fly to Oregon from there a few days later. Will I still be able to do that?”

“Uh ... well ... I’m not really sure,” she said. “If I make a good reduction and the splint is applied correctly, you will have some basic movement and function of the distal joints of your fingers, but no grasping ability. Will you be able to operate the controls of your plane under those circumstances?”

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “I guess we’ll find out.”

“I would strongly suggest that if you have any doubt whatsoever, that you refrain from flying until you have full use of the appendage again.”

“I understand, doc,” he said. “Trust me, if I don’t think it’s safe, I won’t do it.”

Dr. Wei looked a little dubious about this but said nothing. “Let me make an examination of the hand,” she said.

Jake showed it to her, and she seemed impressed. “It is extremely swollen,” she said. “This was just from one punch?”

“Well ... only one punch, but I probably did not help things by playing out my set after it happened.”

“Your set?” She was unfamiliar with this term.

“I was at the Tsunami Sound Festival,” he explained.

“Ahh yes,” she said. “We’ve had a number of people come in here from there this weekend. The nurses tell me that you were one of the musicians playing there tonight?”

“Yeah,” he said, realizing that the doctor had no idea who he was—even after being told. “Laura and I—Laura here is my wife, by the way—we both played last night and tonight. It was a sixty-five-minute set and on every number I played the guitar with this hurt hand. It started to hurt more and more as the night went on.”

This time her expression became something that almost looked like respect. “You played guitar for sixty-five minutes with his injury?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s right,” he said.

“We’re you taking any analgesic medications? Opioids, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t even know where to get opioids. Wouldn’t want them even if I could get them. I just took Motrin and Tylenol,” he said. “That helped a little—at first anyway.”

“Wow,” she whispered as she palpated his hand gently. “That is probably how the fractures ended up so displaced. Going out to play after this injury was not a very good idea.”

“I had to,” Jake said.

“You had to?”

“The show must go on,” he said simply, the way she would have said ‘brain perfusion is life’.

“Even when it is detrimental to your health?” she asked.

“I didn’t know it was going to be that detrimental,” Jake said. “But even if I had, a whole bunch of people paid good money to see me there tonight and there would have been wide-reaching repercussions if I had not been able to play, not to mention that I would have been out more than half a million dollars.”

She raised her eyebrows a bit at this. “They paid you half a million dollars just to play your guitar?”

“And sing,” he said. “And it was actually six hundred thousand ... per show.”

“Per show?” She shook her head. “I think maybe I picked the wrong profession.”

“Trust me, doc, I paid some serious dues to get where I am. And besides, I don’t get to keep all the money. I have to pay my band members and my road crew and my sound people and, of course, the good old IRS and state franchise tax board.”

“Interesting,” she said, finally releasing his hand. “Are you injured anywhere else? I see you have that swelling on your face. Is that from the same incident?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I got tackled and punched by a guy who was about the size of a refrigerator/freezer combo you might have in your kitchen. He tagged me in the face and a couple of times in the ribs.”

She examined his face and then his ribs. She told him she was going to order x-rays of the ribs and a CT scan of his facial bones and brain. She then asked him if he would like some pain medication.

“I’ll pass on that,” he said.

“Are you sure?” she enquired. “It’s going to be a little while before we’re able to do the sedation and reduction. A little Demerol will take the edge off for you and get you more comfortable.”

“I’m cool, doc,” he said. “A good friend of mine started taking that Demerol shit once. It didn’t work out too well for him in the end.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “Well ... let one of the nurses know if you change your mind. I’m going to put these orders in and we’ll hopefully get you out of here in a few hours.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said.

She left the room. The little stool she had sat her butt on did not even have a chance to return to room temperature before the door opened again. This time it was a uniformed Las Vegas Metropolitan police officer. He was tall, looked to be in good shape, sported a mustache, and had a reasonably friendly expression on his face. He carried a metal clipboard in his left hand. He introduced himself as Officer Levitt and asked if he could come in and have a few words.

“Sure, why not?” Jake replied.

Levitt came in the room and shut the door behind him. He did not sit down. “I just want to tell you, Jake,” he said, “that I’m a big fan of yours. I was at the TSF last night and you put on an incredible show; the best live performance I’ve ever seen, and I’ve been to quite a few in my time.”

“Thanks,” Jake said. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“I enjoyed your playing as well, Mrs. Kingsley,” he told Laura. “It was a pleasant surprise when you stepped out there with him to do South Island Blur. Did you really fly in from Poland the night before?”

“I really did,” she confirmed. “The last show of Celia Valdez’s tour was Thursday night. I got on a plane in Warsaw the next morning and made it here by eight o’clock the night before the show.”

“That’s a lot of traveling,” he said.

“It’s part of the life we choose,” she said, using a Jake-ism.

“Well, I’m glad you made it. I just wanted the two of you to know that before we get to why I’m really here.”

“The fight I was involved in,” Jake said. It was not a question.

“That’s correct,” Levitt said. “My partner and I just got done interviewing two of the other parties involved in the confrontation you had this morning. They named you and Nerdly Archer as the primary aggressors in the fight.”

“Did they now?” Jake asked. “Are they planning to press charges against us?”

“They do not wish to do that,” Levitt said. “However, one of them has fractured facial bones and a concussion.”

“I’m guessing that would be the one I punched,” Jake said with a smile.

“Uh ... Jake, before you say anything else,” Levitt said, “I think I need to advise you of your rights.”

“My rights?” Jake asked. “You just said they’re not pressing charges.”

“They’re not,” he said, “but, as I said, one of them has fractured facial bones and a concussion. The other has several broken ribs and is being checked for internal injuries or a collapsed lung. These injuries are on the border of what we call ‘great bodily harm’, which elevates a simple misdemeanor assault up into the land of a felonious assault. If the assault is classified as a felony, they have no choice in the matter. The state of Nevada will then pursue prosecution.”

“I see,” Jake said. “This same shit happened to Coop a few months ago in Bangor.”

“Coop?” Levitt asked. “The drummer for Intemperance?”

“Yeah, he’s Celia Valdez’s drummer now,” Jake said. “He punched a copilot in the face and broke his jaw. Ended up with the same fracture I have now—life really is a wheel, isn’t it? The Bangor PD charged Coop with felony assault, but the DA ended up reducing it to a misdemeanor. And then they eventually just dropped the whole thing because Njord the copilot didn’t want to come back to Bangor to testify against him.”

“That is a remarkably similar parallel,” Levitt said. “And that is undoubtedly exactly what will happen in this case, assuming we even decide to charge anyone with a felony. I am, however, still obligated to read you your Miranda rights at this point in the interview.”

“Read away,” Jake said. “I’ll answer your questions.”

Levitt read him his rights. Jake agreed to waive them for the time being and signed a piece of paper attesting that he was voluntarily waiving those rights. Levitt then began to ask him questions, walking him through the entire incident. Jake, as he had promised, answered everything truthfully.

“So ... Nerdly Archer threw the first punch?” Levitt asked incredulously.

“He did, but only after the guy he punched called Nerdly’s wife a ‘dick-sucking kike cunt’ and then ordered her to drop down and start sucking his dick.”

“Did he make any threatening move toward Mrs. Archer?” Levitt asked next.

“No, but Nerdly believed—and I agree—that he was obligated to defend her honor at that point.”

“Under the law, mere words are not considered justification for assault,” Levitt pointed out.

“Perhaps,” Jake said, “but if someone had said that to your wife right in front of you, would you have punched him out?”

Levitt nodded. “I very likely would have,” he admitted. He, after all, was Jewish as well.

They went through the rest of the story, Levitt making notes in his little book all the while. Finally, he summarized everything Jake had said and asked him of that was a fair representation of his statement.

“Yes,” Jake said. “That is a fair representation.”

“Okay,” Levitt said. “I will confer with my partner and we’ll see what we’re going to do with this information. I will tell you that the Pantera crew members in question are telling pretty much the same story—though they did not mention exactly what was said to provoke Nerdly’s assault. In any case, it’s kind of refreshing for us cops when people actually tell us the truth. We’re not accustomed to that.”

“No reason to lie,” Jake said. “It was a brawl. It’s over now and we’re dealing with the consequences.”

“I’ll let you know what we decide,” Levitt said.

A moment later, he left the room. A few minutes after that, a male nurse named Robert came in, introduced himself, told Jake that he was a fan, and then started an IV in Jake’s left forearm. After taping it down, he offered Jake some Demerol for pain, telling him that Dr. Wei had put in an order for it if Jake wanted some. Jake turned him down and then Robert personally wheeled Jake on his gurney over to the diagnostic imaging department, waited around until the imaging was done, and then wheeled him back to his room.

It took almost an hour before the imaging was read. It turned out that Jake had two cracked ribs but no signs of internal injury or lung involvement. He had no broken bones in his face and no signs of bleeding in his brain. It was now time for the procedural sedation.

Dr. Wei and another ER doctor came into the room, followed by Robert the nurse, a respiratory therapist, and an ER technician with an armful of splinting supplies. Jake eyed the group nervously.

“Is all this really necessary?” he asked.

“It is the standard of care when doing a procedural sedation,” Dr. Wei told him. “Dr. Jones will administer and monitor the sedation while I perform the actual reduction. The respiratory therapist will keep an eye on your breathing and oxygen levels and respond as necessary. Robert will document everything and keep overwatch on your general condition. And Kelly here will put the splint on once the reduction is done.”

“I see,” Jake said, feeling his nervousness ramp up a little bit. “And I won’t remember any of this?”

“Not a thing,” Dr. Wei assured him.

And she was right. Jake remembered them escorting Laura out of the room and telling her she could come back once he started to come out of the sedation. He remembered Dr. Jones drawing up a milky white substance into a big syringe and injecting it into his IV line. After that, he remembered nothing else until he woke up with Laura back by his side and his right hand encased and immobilized in a fiberglass splint wrapped in an ace wrap. The hand was throbbing steadily and insistently, much worse than it had been before.

“Are you sure I can’t talk you into that Demerol?” Robert asked him.

“I’m sure,” Jake said through gritted teeth.

Shortly after a portable x-ray was done to evaluate how well Dr. Wei had put him back together, Officer Levitt came back into the room.

Jake was still groggy from the propofol, but he was lucid. “Well,” he asked, “am I under arrest?”

“You are not,” Levitt informed him. “We talked to our sergeant, and he talked to the lieutenant, who actually called the on-call deputy DA at home, and it has been decided that none of this rises to the level of a felony assault. Not your assault on the security guard, not his assault on Nerdly Archer, not even Nerdly Archer’s assault on the sound engineer. And, since none of you want to press charges on each other for misdemeanor assault, the entire matter will be dropped.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said, relieved. Although he had no doubt he never would have actually been convicted of any crime, it was nice to know he did not have to deal with the matter any further.

They kept an eye on Jake for another hour just to make sure he was having no delayed effect from the sedation and then he was put up for discharge. Dr. Wei told Jake he was going to be uncomfortable for the next few days and tried to push a prescription for Vicodin on him.

“No way, doc,” he said. “I don’t need any of that stuff.”

She tried to get him to at least take the prescription with him in case he changed his mind, but he assured her that he would not. He thanked her for her care and did the same for Robert after he pulled the IV out of his arm and read off his discharge directions for him.

They then made their way out front, to where the limousine that had brought them here was still patiently waiting.

“Back to the hotel, Jake?” the driver asked.

“Please,” Jake said gratefully.

They arrived back at Caesars Palace fifteen minutes later. It was now nearly three o’clock in the morning. They went directly to their room where they found the message light blinking on the phone. Laura listened to the message and told Jake it was from Pauline, who wanted an update from them as soon as they arrived, no matter what time it was.

“Can you handle that?” Jake asked his wife.

“Sure,” she said. “What are you going to do? Go to bed?”

“Soon,” he said, “but first I need a little painkiller.”

“But you didn’t take that prescription,” she said.

“Not that kind of painkiller,” he said, walking over to the bar.

“Ohhh, I see,” she said.

And so, while Laura called Pauline and let her know what was going on, Jake poured himself a quadruple Macmillan single malt over ice and went to work killing the pain. It worked pretty well.

It turned out that Jake could fly. He had just enough maneuverability of his fingertips to be able to manipulate the switches and dials that he needed to manipulate. As for the yoke, he could use his left hand only on that without any problems. As for the throttles, it was a bit clumsy, but he could push and pull them well enough to achieve control for those periods of flight—takeoff, landing, and taxiing—where he was not using the auto-throttle. The most awkward parts were filling out his flight plan—he was right-handed and could not write with a pen in his current condition—and programming the flight plan into his flight director screen, as he was used to doing this by punching the buttons with his right index finger and now had to switch to the left.

The Avanti roared into the sky at one o’clock the next afternoon and climbed to twenty-one thousand feet. Jake sat in the pilot’s seat and Nerdly sat next to him in the copilot’s seat (Jake had disabled the controls on that side). Sharon and Laura sat behind them (Laura had fallen asleep shortly after they had passed ten thousand feet). Obie and Pauline were sitting in the rear facing seats. G and Celia were sitting on the side seats in the rear.

“So ... how did Matt’s sound come out?” Jake asked Nerdly as they bumped and bounced a little over the mountainous terrain below. Nerdly now had a very respectable shiner going on, but he seemed rather proud of it.

“It was not our best work,” Nerdly admitted, “and I only listened to his first three numbers before it was time for us to board the limo for the ride back to the hotel, but I believe it was exponentially better than the Saturday night performance.”

“I concur,” Sharon said from behind them. “I could actually understand his lyrics and hear his guitar and the backing guitar as two distinct instruments.”

“And the volume was not as ear-shattering,” Nerdly put in. “It was still louder than your performance by a considerable margin, but not overwhelming. He and the band also seemed to be considerably more in synchronicity last night.”

“Well, I hope that asshole is grateful for what you did for him,” Jake said.

“I believe he is,” Nerdly said. “Remember, he actually shook my hand and thanked me for helping them after we completed the sound check.”

“That is very unlike Matt,” Jake pointed out.

“True, but he did also make a point to let me know that he still considered me complicit in Darren’s death and that he would never forgive me for it.”

Jake chuckled a little. “Now that sounds like Matt.”

“Indeed,” Nerdly agreed.

JAKE KINGSLEY STEALS THE SHOW AT THE TSF read the headline in the LA Times concert review on Tuesday morning. The article that followed was a ten-thousand-word piece, of which about five thousand were dedicated to Jake’s performance and two thousand to Matt’s. All the other bands’ performances were encompassed into about a thousand words (Pantera was particularly lambasted, mostly because of the ear-shattering volume, which made the set almost completely incomprehensible), while the remaining two thousand words was dedicated to the event as a whole.

Matt’s review was not a bad one by any means. The author of the article, who was enjoying his dream job of doing nothing but attending regional concerts so he could review them, commented that Tisdale’s set was “hard driving and full of emotion” and that “the former Intemperance guitarist proved to all that he is the best heavy-metal artist currently slinging an axe”. He did call Matt out for using the same setlist as his tour shows and for the initial miscues and lack of synchronicity during the first night’s performance. He did report, however, that the second night was far superior both in sound and group cohesion.

As for Jake’s performances, he flat out stated that even Tisdale could not hold a candle to them, declaring them to be two of the best live shows he had ever had the privilege of attending. He made note that Jake’s first solo performance since the Intemperance breakup was well put together and obviously extensively rehearsed. The band members were all talented, though unknown musicians who had come through for Jake exquisitely and had been the prime movers in making the show what it was. Though there were some who had suggested that Kingsley did not belong at the TSF with his progressive rock sound and his ballads (the article’s author had made such a suggestion himself only a few weeks before), he had proven them wrong by focusing heavily on his harder-driving tunes that served to compliment the more mellow pieces instead of contrasting them. He went on for a bit about Jake’s previously unrealized lead guitar skills and the use of the talk-box on I Am High. “In one extended song near the end of the show,” the reviewer reported, “Jake Kingsley stepped fully out of the shadow of Matt Tisdale in playing lead guitar, while simultaneously bringing back an icon from the seventies with a distinct modern flair that bordered on musical genius”. He even mentioned how touching it was for Laura Kingsley to join her husband on stage and lay down an impressive performance during South Island Blur. He had no real criticisms of Jake or his band and he did not mention anything about the fight between Jake and the members of Pantera’s crew.

As for the festival as a whole, he gave it four stars, citing, once again, Jake’s and Matt’s sets as the reason for such a high rating. He could not, however, give it five stars due to a few shortcomings that had nothing to do with the performers. The biggest was the lack of video screens, which made it very difficult for those sitting in the back of the venue to see the performers as anything but tiny little figures who could have been anyone. There had also been long lines at the portable toilet clusters and the concession stands. The food sold had been bland and uninspiring. And, lastly, it had been quite warm during the daylight portion of the shows, as this was the Mojave desert in autumn. Perhaps moving subsequent TSFs to November or even early December might be more comfortable?

Jake had the LA Times delivered daily to the mailbox outside his gate. He read the review the morning it came out while sipping his Jamaica Blue coffee out on the deck of his home and waiting for Elsa to bring he and Laura their breakfast. Reading the paper was awkward because he had trouble turning the pages with his right hand and there was a slight breeze blowing in off the ocean, blowing the pages about, but he got through it, smiling as he absorbed the sentiment being laid down.

“Good review?” Laura asked, watching the expression on his face.

“It is,” he said. “It even mentions you. Do you want to read it?”

“Yes, please,” she said.

He handed the paper over to her so she could see her name in print in a favorable light for once.

Meanwhile, about two hundred miles to the south, on a stretch of oceanfront property just outside of San Juan Capistrano, Matt Tisdale had just finished reading the same article out on his deck. His instinct was to be angry at the suggestion that Jake Kingsley’s performance had ‘stolen the show’ from him, but his instinct could not stand up to cold, hard reality. Jake had put on a better show. He could not even begin to deny it. And he and his band had had shitty sound and had been out of synch the first night. The reviewer was not being biased. He was speaking the truth.

At least I had the fucking Nerdlys to help us through the second night, he thought.

He had mixed emotions about that as well. He had vowed multiple times since the death of Darren Appleman that he would never speak to or share a stage with any member of Intemperance again. And he had now broken that vow twice—the first time when he had accepted a ride home from Jake after the suits at National conspired to put them together, and now by allowing Nerdly and his wife to actually take over their sound check and dial in their sound.

But goddamned if we didn’t sound good up there, he mused. The Nerdlys didn’t care about the things I’ve said in the past, the bad blood between us. They just wanted to help me sound good. They had even offered to help train up his sound team the next time he went out on tour. Matt had not agreed to that, but he also had not yet disagreed to it.

Is it maybe time to let some of this shit go? he wondered. There’s been a lot of water under the fuckin’ bridge now. Why am I still holding onto this grudge?

He did not know. And he did not want to think it about it right now. So, he did what he always did when doubt started to creep into his mind. He crunched up a couple lines of cocaine and made them disappear.