Circles Collide

Chapter 2: Tonight’s the Night

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

April 18, 1996

Suzie Granderson was behind the controls of the King Air as it turned onto final approach toward General Mitchell International Airport’s Runway 01-L. She was starting to get a little bit nervous as she still could not see the runway she was about to land on, could not see anything at all outside of the windows except a thick gray cloud cover. The autopilot was currently locked onto the ILS localizer for their runway and was dropping them down at a rate of six hundred feet per minute. According to the instruments, which Suzie had long since learned to trust with, quite literally, her very life and the lives of her passengers, she was right on the glideslope, poised to touch down neatly on the centerline of the runway. But she still needed to visualize the runway in order to accomplish that.

“Flaps to approach,” she told Njord, who was supposed have been flying the approach and landing leg, but Suzie had pulled rank when she heard the conditions at the airport on the ATIS.

“Flaps to approach,” Njord replied automatically as he manipulated the lever.

“Airspeed to one-two-five indicated,” she said next.

“Airspeed one-two-five indicated ... set,” Njord said, spinning the dial on the auto throttle.

“Gear down,” she said next.

“Lowering gear,” Njord told her, pulling the handle and watching the indicator lights as the machinery whirred. Finally, he announced: “Three greens on the gear.”

“Three greens on the gear,” Suzie repeated. “Altitude?”

“One-one-two-five,” he told her.

“Okay,” she said, still alternating her eyes between the glideslope display and the gray nothingness outside. “The ceiling is supposed to be at one thousand. We should be coming out of it soon.”

“We should be,” Njord agreed.

The MKE approach controller told them they were clear for landing and that the winds were one-two knots from zero-zero-five. He then asked if they had the runway in sight.

“Not yet,” Njord replied. “We are still in zero visibility conditions.”

“Advise when runway in sight,” they were told.

They passed through eleven hundred feet and still there was nothing but gray fog and rain to be seen. And then a thousand. Suzie was starting to think that maybe they would have to abort the landing and divert somewhere else. They were rapidly approaching the decision altitude of two hundred feet above the ground. If they could not see the runway at that point, it would be unsafe to land. She was just about to verbalize this to Njord when finally, at just a smidge above nine hundred and fifty feet of altitude—only three hundred fifty above the runway elevation—they finally reached the ceiling of the cloud cover and broke into rainy but visible conditions. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw a subdivision of houses and acres and acres of soggy parkland below. And in front of them, just where she was expecting it, was the runway, its approach lights pulsing invitingly.

“There we go,” she said with a smile. “Report runway in sight. Flaps to full. Speed to one-one-zero.”

Njord reported the runway in sight and then repeated her other instructions back as he performed them. They continued to sink toward the runway.

“Check that auto-feather is set,” she said, reading off the final item on her landing checklist.

“Auto-feather is set,” Njord confirmed.

“All right then,” she said. “Let’s bring it down.”

She turned off the autopilot just as they cleared the perimeter fence of the airport. She throttled them back to ten percent and she pushed gently down on the yoke, adjusting their slope a bit. She used her feet on the rudder pedals to keep the nose pointed at the center line of the runway. They passed over the threshold and she pulled up on the yoke, flaring them for landing. A few seconds later, the rear wheels touched down gently on the wet pavement.

“Throttle to idle,” she said aloud as she eased the nose gear down. “No need for reverse thrust on this long of a runway.” They had already discussed this in the landing briefing, but it never hurt to reiterate things.

“Agreed,” Njord said. “Retracting the flaps.”

“Copy that,” Suzie said, steering them and using gentle braking motions to slow them down. The approach controller told them to exit the runway when able. They were able at the next exit. Suzie turned them to the left and they contacted the ground controller for directions to the general aviation terminal.

Ten minutes later, they were parked and going through the shutdown checklist. They powered down the engines and then the exterior lights and then the avionics before declaring that they were secure.

“Good flight,” Suzie told her copilot. “Sorry about taking that last leg from you, but I thought it best under the circumstances.”

“It’s your prerogative,” Njord told her grumpily, letting some of his true emotion show now that they were out of the sterile cockpit condition.

“Yes, it is,” she said simply. She did not like Njord one little bit—and the feeling was mutual, she had no doubt about that—but still, she had to work with him every day.

Njord looked like he wanted to say something else, but he did not. Instead, he turned and opened the cockpit door. On the other side were their seven passengers, all standing near the exit door, their bags in hand. All knew that they were forbidden from opening the door themselves unless the aircraft was actually on fire—”and even then,” they had all been told, “if at all feasible, you’d still better fucking ask one of us first.”

“Welcome to Milwaukee, everyone,” Suzie told them. “As you no doubt noticed by now, the snow we had in Minneapolis has converted to rain here. It’s a perfectly dreary spring day here on Lake Michigan, with a temperature of forty-two degrees and a north wind—presumably one of those icy-ass winds the Midwest is famous for—is blowing at twelve knots.”

“Wonderful,” Celia said. “Nothing like nice spring weather.” At their last two stops—Duluth and Minneapolis—it had been snowing, heavily in the former, lightly in the latter, and very cold for late April. Unseasonably cold, the locals all told them, usually in an apologetic manner, as if they had been responsible for not setting up nicer weather for their visitors.

“How is the weather in Chicago?” asked Little Stevie. They would be flying there tomorrow to do three shows over four nights.

“More of the same for tomorrow,” Suzie told them. “It is, after all, on the same lake and is being hit with the same storm system. But the forecast says that Thursday and Friday it will clear up and return to more seasonable conditions.”

“Which means wind off the lake in Chicago,” said Celia.

“Most likely,” agreed Suzie with a shrug. “But at least we won’t have to fly above the clouds to see the sun.”

“At least there’s that,” she said. “Good landing, by the way. I was starting to get a little nervous when I couldn’t see the ground yet after the gear went down.”

“That’s why they make ILS systems,” Suzie said with a smile. “It was nothing. Routine.”

“Yeah,” Njord said bitterly. “It was so routine she took the leg from me.”

Suzie cast an irritated look at her copilot. He had a habit of blurting out crap like that—disagreements between the two of them, his thoughts on Suzie’s abilities as a team leader, the fact that she would not give him any supervised PIC time to help build up his hours for his logbook—and it needed to stop. It undermined the confidence her passengers were supposed to have in their flight crew and it undermined morale.

“Anyway,” she said, “I saw when we parked that your limo is here. You are free to deplane and if we don’t see you at the hotel, we’ll see you here tomorrow for the Chicago flight.”

Everyone began to filter out the door and down the steps to the tarmac before making the rush through the rain to the waiting limo. Celia was the last to go. Before she stepped out, she turned to Suzie.

“Think you can scrounge us up a few cigars for tonight?” she asked.

This question served to alleviate a little bit of Suzie’s irritation with Njord. She was definitely up for a little balcony therapy in Celia’s room tonight, even if it was raining and windy. It had been more than a week since they had last done this. “I think I can probably come up with something,” she said.

Celia smiled. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” she said.

With that, she walked down the steps and out into the rain. She did not say anything to Njord or even look at him. He said nothing to her (though he did take a good long look at her ass as she walked away). This was pretty much the status quo between Njord and all of the female passengers and most of the male ones. They disliked the man and spoke to him as little as possible. The only one who seemed to enjoy his company in any way was Coop. The two of them liked to go to the hotel bars together and tell pussy stories to each other while trying to pick up women. The difference was that most of Coop’s pussy stories were true and most of Njord’s were embellishments at the least, out and out fabrications at worst.

“All right,” Njord said as soon as Celia’s derriere disappeared from his view. “How about we fuel this thing now, so we don’t have to worry about it tomorrow?”

Suzie thought this over for perhaps two seconds and then shook her head. “No,” she said. “Let’s just get it secured for now and we’ll fuel in the morning. The weather might be better then.”

“Or it might be worse,” Njord said.

Suzie shook her head again. “If it’s much worse than this, we won’t be flying. We’ll do it tomorrow.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re the boss,” he said, though with far from the amount of respect such a statement should contain.

She looked at him pointedly. “Yes,” she said. “I am the boss. And that means you support my decisions, whether you agree with them or not. And it also means that you do not make snide little comments about my decisions, or about your personal opinions on my leadership skills, in front of the passengers.”

“I was just joking,” he said defensively.

“You were not just joking,” she said sternly. “You were undermining my authority and making the passengers aware that there is strife and disagreement between us. That erodes their faith in us. It makes them nervous about stepping onto the aircraft with us.”

This did not impress Njord. “So?” he asked. “It’s not like they have anyone else to fly them around to their little music shows.”

“At this moment in time, no they don’t. But what about for the next tour? What about when Jake Kingsley or Brainwash needs someone to fly them around for their shows? Those acts are also on the KVA label and KVA Records is an extremely valuable contract for our employers, Njord. Do you really think the big bosses would be happy if KVA decided to contract with another carrier for their future needs because you are making an ass out of yourself and making their musicians uncomfortable?”

“I think you’re reading too much into all this,” he said. “Is it that time of the month or something?”

She started to see red. Her fists clenched. She really wanted to strike the asshole with them, was pretty sure she could take him in a fair fight, but, only by invoking the years of training and discipline that her profession demanded, she held back—at least from using her fists. She stepped forward toward him and glared directly into his eyes.

“Listen to me, you fuckin’ weasel,” she told him, “if you ever say anything like that to me again, I go official and start filing reports with HR.”

“You’ve already done that,” he said, unimpressed. “Didn’t think I knew about your requests to have me reassigned to another aircraft? You’ve put in three of them since we started flying together.”

“Those were requests,” Suzie said. “Not official complaints. I called the bosses up and said that you and I have a personality conflict—which we do. I gave no details about the issue, just asked that you be sent somewhere else away from me. They turned down those requests because I would not answer their questions about my issues with you. You see, I’m not a narc. I would not report you to HR lightly. I have put up with a lot of shit from you in the name of the code we follow that what happens on the mission stays on the mission, but that shit ends today. If you ever utter a discouraging word about me in front of the passengers again, if you ever make a snide comment about my leadership abilities, and if you ever make some misogynistic fucking remark like you just made again, it is fucking on. Do you understand me? I go to HR and tell everything, and you’ll be lucky to get a job de-icing wings on DC-fucking-9s flying out of Asshole Fissure, North Dakota. You get what I’m saying, Njord?”

Njord, suddenly looking nervous, held up his hands in appeasement. “Whoa, whoa, hold up a second here,” he said. “I think that maybe you’re misunderstanding things a little.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “You’re a male chauvinist piece of shit who doesn’t like working with a female PIC and thinks you’re better than me even though I have ten times the flight hours you do. Even though I used to fly C5s all around the world, but this King Air is the biggest thing you’ve ever sat in the copilot’s seat for. You want to believe that you’re a better pilot than me just because you’re a man, fine. I don’t give a shit. But you will obey my fucking commands, you will do what I say, when I say it, and you will do it with a smile, especially in front of the passengers. One more fucking remark, Njord, just one more, no matter how slight, and it is on. HR gets involved and I go for your fucking throat. Do I make myself clear?”

His face was red and his fists were now clenched, but he nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” he said stiffly. “You make yourself clear.”

“Good,” she said lightly. “I’m glad we were able to clear that up. Now then, let’s get this aircraft secured so we can get to the hotel and check in.”

They got the aircraft secured. They then went to the hotel and got checked in. They did this with no unnecessary conversation.

They were staying in the Hotel Pfister in downtown Milwaukee, just five minutes away from Bradley Center, home of the Milwaukee Bucks (who were not in the NBA playoffs yet again) and the site of tonight’s Celia Valdez concert. Suzie and Njord were given standard rooms on the third floor, Suzie in 307, Njord in 309. Suzie’s room featured a queen-sized bed, a small couch, a refrigerator, and a bathroom. The window looked out onto the back parking lot of the hotel, the lot where the valets parked guest vehicles.

Suzie had lunch in the hotel’s café shortly after checking in. She then went back to her room and spent about an hour making arrangements for the King Air to undergo an A-level maintenance check at Midway Airport while they were in Chicago. After that, she took a little nap. After awakening, she made her way back downstairs and had a little chat with the concierge.

“I’d like to get my hands on some Cuban cigars and have them delivered to my room before ten o’clock tonight,” she told him.

“But, Ms. Granderson,” the mid-forties, fussy little man told her, “surely you are aware that Cuban cigars are illegal for importation into the United States and are therefore rather hard to come by.”

She pulled out a wad of twenty dollar bills that Celia kept her supplied with just for such occasions. She peeled off five of them and slapped them down on his desk. “This would be the finder’s fee,” she told him. “Assuming you are able to scrounge up a box for me.”

His eyes widened as he saw the money. “Well ... perhaps I might be able to get my hands on some.”

“I thought you might,” she said with a smile. “How much for a box of Montecristos?”

“That would run ... oh ... around four hundred dollars, I suppose, including the markup.”

She nodded and then peeled of another twenty of the twenties, putting them in a separate pile. “Now don’t even think of trying to fuck me and get me counterfeits,” she warned. “I know the difference; and I would take such an insult very personally, you know what I mean?”

“I would never do such a thing,” he said, clearly insulted by her suggestion. “I take my job very seriously.”

“Forgive me,” she said appeasingly. “I have every confidence in you.”

He picked up the money and made it disappear. “I will make sure that the item is delivered before ten o’clock,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“Is there ... uh ... anything else I can arrange for you? Some marijuana perhaps? Or some cocaine? Or even ... you know ... some companionship?”

“No,” Suzie said. “The cigars will do me for now.”

“As you wish,” he said.

She went back to her room and watched TV for a little bit. When she got bored with this, she opened the book she had been reading and worked her way through a few dozen pages. This made her feel sleepy, so she took another nap. She awoke just past 6:00 PM and headed downstairs again, where she ate dinner at a table by herself in the hotel restaurant. That brought her to 7:00 PM. At the arena, Celia and the band would now be dressed in their stage clothes and heading backstage to meet the locals. She had attended the show five times during the tour and was familiar with the routine.

She went back to her room and flipped on the television and channel surfed for a bit before finding that one of the cable stations was showing older episodes of Seinfeld one after the other. She smiled and settled in to watch. It was just as Jerry, Elaine, Kramer, and George were making their bet to see who could go the longest without masturbation, there was a knock at the door.

It was the concierge. He had a box in his hands. Suzie smiled, thanked him, and tipped him another twenty dollars for bringing them to her. Once the door was closed, she opened the box and inhaled the aroma. They were Montecristos all right. She set the box down on the writing desk and then sat back down to watch the rest of The Contest.

Seinfeld gave way to Cheers at 10:00 PM, right about the time that Celia and the band would be finishing their final encores. Next would come the showers and the food and the groupies, if there were going to be any. Charlie and Coop usually imbibed in this particular activity every night. Every once in a while, Laura would as well; always a female—a thought that Suzie found quite arousing. And last night, even Celia had made a request—her first one since her separation from Greg as far as Suzie knew—though she had yet to share any details about it. Suzie knew it had been a man, younger than Celia by a considerable margin, and that he had been good looking (if you were into that sort of thing, which she was not), but that was all she knew. She felt a little bit of dark jealousy at the thought of Celia sharing her body with such a creature, but that was Celia’s business, not hers.

It was just past 11:15 when the phone next to her bed started to ring. She smiled, feeling a little jolt of exhilaration surge through her. She quickly snatched it up. “This is Suzie,” she said.

“Hey, Fly Girl,” Celia’s voice said in her ear. “Still awake?”

“You know it,” she replied.

“Were you able to score?”

“Was there ever any doubt?” she returned.

Celia chuckled a little. “It’s still raining outside, but a good part of my balcony is covered. You up for a little smoke in the rain?”

“Sounds like fun,” Suzie said. “What room are you in?”

“Fourteen-oh-two,” she said. “Bring a sweater.”

“I’ll be there in a few. Should I bring a cigar for Teach?”

“No,” Celia said. “She has ... you know ... something else to occupy her time tonight.”

“Ohhhh, I see,” Suzie said with a smile. It was one of those nights for Jake Kingsley’s wife. It seemed like they were getting a little more frequent of late.

“I’m actually a little bit jealous of her,” Celia said. “She was pretty cute. Has braces.”

“Braces, huh?”

“Yeah,” Celia said dreamily. “Braces. Is it bad that I find that kind of hot?”

“Uh ... no,” Suzie said. “Not at all.”

“That’s good,” Celia’s voice said. “Now hurry up here and let’s get this thing started.”

“Right,” she said slowly. “Get it started.” Had there been perhaps of hint of something in Celia’s tone? Or was it wishful thinking?

She hung up the phone, thinking it was probably the latter. Though the two of them shared a flirtatious relationship, Celia had never made any attempt to advance that relationship any further. Well ... except for that one time, after the last flight of the last tour, when Celia had kissed her, and in more than a friendly manner.

“I just wanted to see what it could be like,” had been her explanation.

Suzie had hoped that maybe the beautiful singer would decide to try a little experimentation after her breakup with Greg, had been highly anticipating such a thing, in fact, but so far ... nothing. Just the normal flirtation and innuendo.

She pulled a sweater out of her travel bag and put it on. She then pulled two of the Montecristos out of the cigar box. She picked up her room key and walked out the door. The elevator was only a few steps away, just past the door to Njord’s room. She pushed the button. When the door opened, she stepped inside and pushed the number 14. Ninety seconds later, she was knocking on the door to Room 1402.

The door opened and there stood Celia. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a button-up burgundy sweater. Her hair was down and she had no makeup on. And she was absolutely beautiful, Suzie thought. It was apparent by the way her breasts jiggled when she moved that she was not wearing her bra currently. Interesting. And unusual for their get-togethers.

“Come in,” Celia said brightly, standing aside to let her enter.

Suzie came in. Celia’s suite was quite opulent. It had a large sitting room and a bar. The window looked out to the east, to the high rises of downtown and Lake Michigan beyond them, though they could not see the lake currently because of the darkness and the rain.

“What can I get you to drink?” Celia asked.

“Just a bottle of water,” she replied.

“I have some of that fancy French water with the bubbles in it.”

“That will work,” Suzie said.

Celia grabbed one of the green bottles and then pulled down a highball glass for herself. She quickly mixed herself a gin and tonic, squeezing a little lime juice into it.

“How was the show tonight?” Suzie asked.

“We nailed it, like always,” she said. “Left them wanting more.”

“And that’s the rule, right?”

“Right,” Celia said, carrying the drinks over. “Shall we retire to the smoking area?”

“We shall,” Suzie said, noticing that Celia was wearing some kind of perfume. It smelled like vanilla.

They walked out on the balcony and closed the sliding door behind them. As she had mentioned, the portion closest to the door had an awning over it, keeping out the rain. There was a table and a few chairs here and they sat down. The temperature was in the forties still, so it was a bit brisk, but the wind was still coming from the north and was not able to reach them. Suzie prepped the two cigars with her cutting tool and then handed one of them to Celia. She then flicked her Bic lighter and held the flame to Celia’s smoke.

“Mmm,” Celia said after the primary ignition sequence was complete. She blew out a stream of fragrant smoke into the night air. “Best thing I’ve had in my mouth in a while.”

“Is that a fact?” Suzie asked, lighting her own smoke.

“A cold, hard fact,” she said, taking another puff.

“Just so I’m clear,” Suzie said. “Are you making allusions to your companion from last night?”

“You could say that,” she said sourly.

“You did not enjoy the experience?”

She laughed, a strong tone of bitterness in it. “No,” she said. “I did not.”

“What happened?”

She leaned back in her chair a little and took a large sip from her drink. “Well ... we went up to my room after we got back to the hotel. We sat down on the couch. I asked him if he wanted to see my tits. He told me that he did. So ... I took my shirt off. And then I took off my bra. And he just stared at them like they were exhibits in an art museum or something. He couldn’t form a coherent sentence.”

“Wow,” she said. “You struck him dumb.”

“Yeah, apparently so. So, then I took his hands and placed them on my tits. He proceeded to squeeze and palpate them in a most unsatisfying manner. I did notice that the interaction was pleasurable to him, as he developed a prominent bulge in his pants. Since that bulge was what I was really after, I reached down and touched it. This struck him even dumber. I unbuttoned his pants and reached inside to see what he had.” She paused, taking another drink of her drink, another puff of her cigar.

“And then what happened?” Suzie asked.

Celia sighed. “As soon as I touched him, he came all over my fingers.”

“He didn’t!”

She nodded. “He did. After that, he became all apologetic, started telling me that nothing like that had ever happened to him before but that I was just so beautiful, and I was Celia Valdez and he just couldn’t help it. He told me to give him a few minutes and he would be ready to go again.”

“Did you give him a few minutes?” she asked.

“I gave him a few minutes to go clean himself up in the bathroom,” she said. “While he was doing that, I washed my hands and then put my shirt back on. When he came out, I showed him the door and told him the limo would take him back to the arena.”

“Wow,” she said again. “And he just went?”

“He seemed rather embarrassed about the whole thing. In truth, I’m kind of glad that nothing beyond that happened.”

“Why is that?”

“Because that’s not me,” she said. “It’s not who I am. I am not the kind of person who has meaningless sex with someone I just met.”

“Why did you put in the request then?” Suzie asked.

Celia sighed. “Because I was horny,” she said. “Why else? I haven’t had sex since the night Greg told me he knocked up Mindy Snow. That was back in February. It’s almost May now. That’s a long time to go without it when you’re used to getting it regularly. Paddling the pink canoe wasn’t doing it for me anymore, so I thought if I got some good-looking guy to dick me it would make everything better. But as soon as I felt him spurting on my fingers, I realized I was traveling down the wrong road.”

“I guess you had a bit of an epiphany,” Suzie suggested, inwardly ecstatic that Celia’s groupie date had fallen through.

“Maybe,” she said. “I just know that grabbing some random guy is not the answer to my problem.”

“What is then?” Suzie asked. “Teach’s solution?”

“Lesbian groupies?” Celia said. “I’ve thought about it.”

“It seems to work for Teach,” Suzie offered, feeling a little thrill at the idea of Celia letting a young female fan go to work on her.

“Her situation is kind of unique,” Celia said. “She has a husband and has found an interesting way to take care of her horniness out on the road—a way that her husband knows about and approves of. I no longer have a husband so I’m looking at a long stretch with no dick because I have the need to have some sort of relationship with a person I’m giving my body to. I think if I did the lesbian groupie thing it would be just as unsatisfying as my friend from last night, though probably not as messy.”

“An interesting point of view,” Suzie said.

“Not the word I would use,” she said. “However ... well ... I would like to make an experiment.”

“What do you mean?” Suzie asked.

“You and I have a meaningful relationship with each other, don’t we?”

Suzie stared at her, feeling that little jolt of excitement going through her again. “Uh ... yes, we do,” she said. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m going to open my sweater,” Celia said softly. “I’m not wearing anything under it, as I’m sure you’ve already picked up on.”

“Uh ... well ... yeah,” she said, licking her lips a little.

“I want you to put your hands on my tits,” she said. “I want you to touch them, caress them, like a lover would.”

“Uh ... okay,” Suzie stammered, feeling wetness starting to surge below. Celia wanted her to touch her tits! Right here and right now!

“The experiment is to see if I feel pleasure and sexual excitement from your touch. I am attracted to you. I think I always have been. More important though, you are meaningful to me. I was attracted to my little boy toy last night, but I felt nothing when he touched me. If I feel something when you touch me, well ... my theory is validated, right?”

“Right!” Suzie agreed. “Totally validated!”

“Empirical evidence is what I’m after here. That’s what Nerdly would say.”

“He sounds like a very wise man,” Suzie said.

Celia giggled a little. “He is,” she said. “Are you ready to try this?”

“Yes,” she breathed. “I’m ready.”

Celia put her cigar in the ashtray on the table. She then took one more large drink of her gin and tonic. She set the glass down and then reached for the top button on her sweater. She unbuttoned it. She then did the button below that one; and then the one below that. She unbuttoned all the way down to the bottom but kept the sweater closed for the moment. “Come over here,” she told Suzie. “Stand in front of me.”

Suzie put her own cigar down and stood up. She walked two steps forward until she was standing directly in front of Celia’s chair, their knees nearly touching. Slowly, Celia pulled the sweater open, revealing a magnificent pair of mammaries, hands-down the finest pair that Suzie had ever had the privilege of casting her eyes on. The nipples were erect, standing up proudly, just begging to be touched and sucked.

“My God, Celia,” Suzie said. “They’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Celia said. “Now ... how about we proceed with the experiment?”

“Right,” she breathed. “The experiment.”

She reached forward and took one breast in each hand. She had to suppress a moan as she felt them. They were so soft, so sexy, so pliable. It was like shaking hands with God.

“Mmm,” Celia sighed at the touch. “That feels nice. You’ve already got my boy from last night beat. Now feel them. Caress them. Treat them the way they should be treated.”

Suzie needed no encouragement. She began to caress and squeeze them, feeling the nipples pushing into her palms, hefting the weight of them up and down, enjoying the silky feminine softness of the flesh.

“Mmmm, yessss,” Celia sighed, shifting back and forth in her chair a little. “I think we have empirical evidence in progress here.”

“That’s good to hear,” Suzie said, continuing her palpations.

“I am definitely enjoying this.”

“That’s the idea,” Suzie said.

“I think I would also enjoy it if you were to suck on them.”

“Should we make the experiment?” Suzie asked.

“Si, I think we should.”

Suzie dropped to her knees before Celia’s chair. Celia spread her legs apart to give her room to work. Suzie moved her hands from the breasts to Celia’s bare back. She pulled her body toward her and, at the same time, moved her face forward until the breasts were touching her face. She took Celia’s left nipple in her mouth and started to gently suckle it.

“Ohhhh, si,” Celia moaned. “That feels lovely.”

“Mmmm hmmm,” Suzie said, tonguing the nipple a bit and then switched to the right nipple. She felt Celia’s hand go to her hair and begin stroking it.

She sucked and suckled, caressed and kissed Celia’s breasts for the better part of five minutes; long enough for their cigars to go out. Neither of them noticed. Finally, Celia put her hands in Suzie’s armpits and pulled her up.

“Why don’t we go back inside?” Celia suggested. “I have some more experiments I would like to try.”

Suzie smiled at her. “Why don’t we?”

They went to the bedroom. Celia made sure all of the curtains and blinds were drawn and then sat on the edge of the bed, leaving the lights on.

“Show me what it’s like,” she told Suzie.

“What it’s like?” asked Suzie, who was still staring in awe at Celia’s bare breasts.

“To be loved by a woman,” she said.

Suzie smiled. “I can do that,” she said.

She showed her. The first lesson was that women made love with each other slowly, thoroughly, softly. They kissed for the better part of twenty minutes, long, tongue-swirling kisses, soft gentle pecks, occasional nibbles at the lips, the odd sucking of the tongue now and then. Suzie kept her hands confined to Celia’s arms and breasts during this portion of the experiment and Celia kept hers confined to Suzie’s back, which was still covered with her shirt.

Finally, Suzie pushed Celia back on the bed. She kissed her way downward, spending a few minutes at the belly button before continuing down to the waist of Celia’s jeans. She undid the snap and then lowered the zipper. She kissed the flesh that was revealed with this motion, making Celia moan. She then worked the pants down Celia’s legs, leaving her red panties in place. She kissed her way up each leg, starting at the ankle and spending a lot of time on the knees and the upper thighs before finally working her way to the junction between. There was a visible wet spot on the crotch of Celia’s panties and the odor of fresh, clean feminine arousal was quite prominent in the air here. Suzie hooked her fingers into the crotch of the panties and pulled them to one side, revealing a glistening wet vagina, the lips swollen, the flesh cleanly shaven. She licked slowly from the bottom to the top, tasting Celia for the first time, reveling in the bite of her juices.

“Ohhhhh, Madres de Dios,” Celia moaned, her fingers going back to Suzie’s hair.

Suzie pulled the panties off and went to work on her. She had first put her mouth on a vagina back in high school when she had gone down on one of her friends at a sleepover. Since then, she had done it hundreds more times. She called on all of that knowledge and experience now and gave Celia the ride of her life, pulling two orgasms out of her and then working her well toward a third before she finally pulled her face back up.

“Oh my God, that was intense,” Celia moaned. “Come up here and kiss me some more.”

Suzie did as requested, sliding up Celia’s now naked body and putting her tongue back in her mouth. They kissed and kissed, with Celia licking the essence of herself from Suzie’s face, sucking on her tongue some more.

“I want to suck your tits,” Celia said at last. “Can I do that?”

“Of course,” Suzie said, raising up in the bed. She whipped her shirt off and threw it across the room. She unsnapped her bra, revealing her medium-sized breasts to Celia’s eyes.

“Put them in my mouth,” Celia commanded.

Suzie did this and felt Celia’s wet, girly tongue slurping at her. She was not experienced at this, but she was enthusiastic, and it felt very good. She continued to caress Celia’s body with her hands as she was being suckled.

After ten or fifteen minutes of this—it was hard to judge time passage currently—Celia pulled her face free and looked up at her.

“I’m not quite ready to ... you know ... go down there yet,” she said apologetically.

“I understand,” Suzie said gently. Already she had done more than she had ever dreamed possible with the beautiful singer.

“But Teach told me about something that women do with each other. It’s called ... uh ... tribbing. Do you know how to do that?”

Suzie smiled. “I am familiar with the activity,” she said.

“I think I’d like to try it,” Celia said.

“Well, all right then,” Suzie said, standing and unbuttoning her jeans. “Let’s trib for a bit.”

Meanwhile, in Palm Springs, inside a large house owned by Greg Oldfellow, there was some pretty steamy lesbian action going on as well. Greg was watching it intently from the couch in his entertainment room. Only this action was not live and in the flesh. It was the latest release from Mary Ann Cummings Productions’ most popular line of videos. It’s title was simple and to the point: Amateur Lesbians—Volume 5. Greg had ordered the video from Kim Kowalski’s company using his computer and the MACP website one week ago and it had arrived today, wrapped in a discrete, brown paper wrapper. The scene he was currently watching featured a beautiful young brunette with nipple piercings getting it on with an older (mid-thirties or so), slightly chubby (but not unattractive) blonde woman with a wedding ring and a hairy blonde bush on the bed of some anonymous bedroom. According to the brief interview at the beginning of the scene, neither woman had ever met before, neither had ever had sex with another woman before, but both had always been curious about it.

Greg had his pants and underwear down around his ankles, a bath towel under his naked ass, and a large bottle of unscented hand lotion on the end table next to him. He had himself well in hand as he watched the chubby blonde licking between the widely spread legs of the young brunette. This was the only sort of action that Greg had scored since that last night with Celia in El Paso, Texas months before.

It was not that he couldn’t get laid if he wanted to. On the contrary, there were hundreds, maybe thousands of women in southern California alone who would gladly jump into bed with him without the slightest hesitation. Many of them even sent him letters, many with enclosed Polaroids, offering to spread their legs for him if he would just give a little ring on the phone. Most of these women (but not all) were very attractive. Most promised that no strings would be attached. In addition, on the few occasions he had ventured out in public since the messiness of his divorce started to fade a little from daily entertainment press reports, he was always offered sex by some female he encountered, sometimes subtly, sometimes quite overtly.

He had taken none up on the offer. It was not that he did not want to have sex. On the contrary, he craved it very intensely, thus his current activity. It was that he was not ready to throw himself out into that scene, was not sure if he would ever be ready. Even before he had become involved with Celia—that seemed so long ago now—he had never been a fan of the one-night stand; of picking up some anonymous bimbo, using her, and then discarding her when he was finished. Like Celia herself, he needed to have some sort of connection with someone he was having sex with. It did not have to be love. He had not loved Cheryl the makeup girl and he most certainly had not loved Mindy Snow, but there had been a connection, a certain kind of chemistry with them. Even the two bimbos he was watching on the video screen now. He had to come up with a fantasy in his mind in order to enjoy the sight of the two of them, some sort of fantasy that would explain why they were having sex with each other and allowing him to watch it. It did not have to be a realistic fantasy (and it was not—in his mind the two women were support staff on a project who had confessed their bisexual curiosity to him separately and, grateful that he had introduced them to each other, invited him to watch and participate) but it had to meet the basic requirements of suspension of disbelief. Even when he had looked at the pictures in the edition of Smooth Operator where Mindy’s escapades had been documented, some form of fantasy was required for him to become aroused. It was just the way he was wired.

And he was not ready to go out and make that sort of required connection with a real woman just yet. It was still too soon after the breakup, for one thing. And if he were to meet such a woman, there was the small fact that he was a multi-millionaire and thus a prime target for a pregnancy scam—again. He would certainly never be able to trust any woman—no matter how trustworthy she seemed—if she told him she was on birth control pills. And even if he did not deplore using condoms—he did—they were far from a perfect method of contraception, especially when dealing with a possibly conniving female. Jake had told him horror stories of women would go so far as to dig a condom out of the trash after use just to impregnate themselves. And even if there was no conniving, accidents happened. Jake had told him the story of Celia’s drummer, Coop, who was now paying five-digit per month child support to a woman he had had a brief affair with because the condom he was using had come off in the middle of the act.

“Never let a chick suck your dick right before you put the rubber on,” Jake had advised sternly (and in all seriousness) during this discussion. “That’s just asking for a Coop incident.”

And so that was why the man who could have almost any woman he desired was sitting on his couch and whacking off to high quality lesbian porn. And why he had no serious prospect for changing the equation on the horizon.

When the two women on the screen switched into a sixty-nine position—blondie on the bottom, brunette on the top—and the camera focused on brunette’s rear end and blondie’s tongue licking at her swollen, wet, gaping vagina, Greg finally reached the point of no return. In his mind, this was when the two women invited him to get in on the action. This was where he would walk up and slip his member into the brunette’s body while the blonde licked and sucked his testicles. This is where the spasms started and he shot his load all over the towel that was arranged specifically to catch it.

When his breathing returned to normal, he took a few deep breaths and then wiped his right hand, which was sticky with semen and slippery with hand lotion, on a clean part of the towel. He then picked up the remote control, stopped the VCR and ejected the tape. He stood carefully, extricating the towel from beneath him and then bunching it up into a ball, dirty side inward. He pulled up his pants and buttoned them and then fastened his belt. He then carried the towel up to his bedroom and tossed it into the hamper. After this, he washed his hands in the bathroom sink, doing a thorough job of it. He sighed. After releasing his tension, he always felt a little ashamed of himself for indulging. But he was getting used to it now.

He went back downstairs and finished the job of covering his tracks. He pulled the cassette from the machine and placed it back in its cover. He used the remote to return the television to the Discovery Channel before turning it off. He picked up his glass, which still contained half of the third shot of rye whiskey he had poured, and the bottle of hand lotion, and went upstairs. He put the porno tape and the lotion in a drawer at the foot of the bed—a drawer that could be locked and that his housekeeper was forbidden to get into. In addition to twelve other pornographic video tapes (eight of which had been distributed by Mary Ann Cummings Productions) and three pornographic magazines (two Smooth Operators and a Penthouse), there was a bottle of Ambien that his doctor had prescribed for him about two weeks ago. He opened the bottle, took out one of the pills, replaced the bottle, and then closed and locked the drawer. He carried the pill over to the nightstand next to his bed and picked up his rye. He washed the pill down with the remainder of the whiskey.

Once that was done, the clock was ticking. He had learned very quickly that once the Ambien was in his stomach, he had about thirty minutes before he fell asleep, whether he wanted to or not and no matter where he was or what he was doing. When they said that Ambien make you sleep, they had not been kidding.

He quickly undressed down to his underwear and put all of his clothing into the laundry hamper on top of the bunched-up towel. He then pulled on his silk pajamas and got into bed. He turned off the lights and looked up at the dark ceiling.

It was now just past eleven o’clock. Right on schedule, sleep sucked him down forcefully at 11:33 PM.

Such ended another day in the post-breakup life of Greg Oldfellow.

Jake spent much of the latter half of April 1996 traveling with Bigg G and the boys as they pounded out the final eleven dates of the Livin’ It tour. The final stop was Detroit, where they played three dates at the historic Cobo Arena. All three of those shows were recorded in digital audio and videotaped by multiple cameras in anticipation of a probable live album and video release later in the year.

G then threw an after-tour party for all of the band, roadies, techies, and everyone else involved in making the show what it was. It was a party that lasted for three days and nights and quickly became the stuff of mythology and legend. He rented out the entire Detroit Civic Center and Hotel for the occasion. Five open, unlimited bars were stocked and staffed throughout the facility, operating from seven in the morning until two the following morning each day of the party. Catering was available in the convention center auditorium twenty-four hours a day. Four separate DJs kept music playing in the auditorium for the entirety of the event by rotating every six hours. The Detroit Police Department was called to the event eight times during its run, resulting in fourteen arrests on a variety of charges. Two police officers and four party guests were injured and had to visit the hospital due to these encounters. The entire thing finally wound down after last call on the morning of April 27^th. When all the expenses were added up, the party ended up costing Gordon just a hair over a million dollars, not including bail money, which totaled another sixty thousand but was theoretically refundable.

“Yeah, it was an okay party, I guess,” G was quoted as saying afterward.

Jake flew back to Los Angeles on April 27^th, taking an early evening Delta Airlines flight and arriving wasted, fatigued, and about as hungover as he had ever been in recent times. He had slept for much of the flight and slept even more on the limo ride from LAX to the Granada Hills house. By the time he let himself inside, travel bag in hand, it was after eight o’clock and the sun was below the horizon.

He passed by the bar and grimaced as he saw the bottles of booze neatly in their places. He wondered if he would ever feel like drinking alcohol again. He went to the freezer and pulled one of the frozen dinners out—it was the chicken and rice one, about all he thought his stomach would be able to handle. He vented the lid and placed in in the microwave. He then opened the refrigerator and pulled out one of the quart bottles of Gatorade. He opened it and had a long drink, draining away nearly a third of the bottle.

He took a few deep breaths, closed his eyes for a moment to get the spinning sensation under control, and then walked back into the living room. He opened his travel bag and rummaged around for a minute until he found his calendar. He flipped it open to April and looked at the entry for the 27^th. Celia and the band had performed in Syracuse, New York tonight and were staying at the Sheraton Hotel there, assuming that had not changed in the months since the booking had been made. He checked his watch. It was 8:23 PM here in California, which meant it was 11:23 PM in Syracuse, the same time that Jake’s jet-lagged body felt it was. Unless Laura had a friend visiting her tonight, or unless she was having a smoke out on a balcony with Celia and Suzie the pilot, she would likely answer the phone in her room. He called information by using an area code map he kept in the back of the calendar and got the number for the hotel. He then placed his call, asking to be connected to Lynn Dolan’s room.

“Hey, sweetie!” Laura said brightly when she heard his voice. “It’s good to hear from you. Where are you?”

“Granada Hills,” he told her. “Just got back to LA tonight.”

“Wasn’t the last show on the 23^rd?” she asked.

“It was,” he confirmed. “G threw us all a little party after the last date.”

“That was nice of him,” she said. “But why did you stay another three days after the party?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “The party just ended this morning.”

“A three-day party?” she asked, incredulous.

“And three nights,” he added. “I am seriously considering giving up alcohol at this point.”

“Wow,” she said. “That’s some shindig.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad,” he said.

“I’m guessing you’re not going to fly back home tonight?”

“God no,” he said. “I’m going to choke down some food and then go directly to bed and stay there until the sun is high in the sky tomorrow.”

“Mmmm,” she said. “I wish I was there to get into bed with you.”

“Me too,” he said. And this was true. And not just for the sex. He truly missed having her around.

“Our tour break is coming up after the Bangor show,” she reminded him. “That’s only two weeks away.”

“It’s only a five-day break,” he said, choosing to look at that glass as half-empty in his current mood. “And you’re not coming home for it.”

“True,” she said, “but you can fly out to me, can’t you?” She gave a naughty little giggle. “I’ve never been banged in Bangor before.”

Jake could not make the same claim. He prudently did not mention this, however. “Well, yeah, I could do that,” he said. “I could catch a flight to Boston and then maybe rent a plane there and fly up to Bangor. We could explore the area a little.”

“Now that sounds like fun,” she said enthusiastically. “I hear it’s beautiful in Maine in the late spring.”

“They have lots of lakes, some mountains, some bitchin’ coastline,” Jake said, warming more and more to the idea.

“And you don’t have anything else going on, right?” she asked.

“I’m going to need to start putting a band together for the TSF show in September since Coop and Charlie and you are committed to the European tour now.” That commitment had been made two weeks before. Aristocrat Records would finance an eleven-week tour of Europe starting with the first of four shows in London on July 10. From the British Isles they would work their way through dates in Spain, France, Belgium, Germany, and round it out in Poland. There was talk of a South American tour after that—Celia was extremely popular in South America for obvious reasons—but so far, the suits at Aristocrat had not agreed to fund such an endeavor.

“Can that wait until you come back from my tour break?” she asked.

“I think so,” he said. “I’ll talk to Paulie in the morning and have her start putting out some feelers for musicians. Maybe I can get the auditions going now and then start rehearsing after I come back from Maine.”

“You are not allowed to have a female saxophonist,” Laura said with mock sternness. “Look what happened the last time you had such a thing.”

He laughed. “I did end up nailing that little slut, didn’t I?”

“She was asking for it,” Laura said with a giggle.

“They all are,” he returned. “Anyway, I’m not going to bother recruiting a saxophonist. Blur is the only tune that needs one.”

“You’re not going to perform Blur?” she asked, clearly disappointed. South Island Blur, the song about Jake’s exile in New Zealand after the breakup of Intemperance and his breakup with Helen, was her favorite song that Jake had written. This was partly because it was the only song in which she performed with him, but mostly because it had been during the recording of the tune that they had fallen in love. And strangely enough, it was also one of Jake’s most popular commercial hits as well. People who did not like any other Jake Kingsley or Intemperance tune loved Blur and perceived it as a song about partying on a tropical island and not a dissertation about depression and alcoholism, which was how Jake had composed it.

“Well ... I didn’t say that,” he said.

“What are you going to do then?” she asked. “Try to play it without a sax? In a different key maybe?”

“That is one option,” he said. “There is another though.”

“What’s that?”

“Your last date in Europe is going to be September 25^th in Warsaw, correct?”

“I believe so,” she said. “I don’t have the schedule right in front of me.”

“Me either,” he said, “but I looked into it. The third and final Warsaw date is September 25^th. If you hop on a flight the morning of the 26^th, you can be back home that night. The first show of the TSF is on the 27^th.”

She suddenly understood what he was getting at. “You want me to play the sax for Blur?” she asked.

“I do,” he confirmed. “You’re the one who laid down the track for it on the recording.”

“Jake, there will be no rehearsal time,” she protested. “I haven’t played that piece since you came and joined us on the Bobby Z tour.”

“True,” he said, “but you’re intimately familiar with the piece. And we’ll be able to get in some rehearsal time during the sound check.”

“That’s not enough rehearsal time,” she said.

“It was enough for us when we worked it up that first night on the Z tour, wasn’t it?”

“Well ... yeah,” she said, “but we were not that far downstream from the recording sessions when we did that. I haven’t played the tune in almost three years.”

“But you still hear it on the radio on occasion, right?”

“Well ... yeah,” she admitted.

“And you still remember the notes, right?”

“Of course,” she said, “but...”

“How about this?” he interrupted. “I can get Nerdly to punch you out a copy of the tune without the sax track in it. You can take your soprano with you to Europe and practice your part in your spare time out on the road.”

“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully. “That might work, assuming you’re going to be performing the tune in the same time signature and key as the recording.”

“That is absolutely what I plan to do,” he said. “In fact, now that I’m thinking about it, I’ll have Nerdly pound out a CD that only has the saxophone track on it as well. That way, when we’re rehearsing for the show, we can play it through the speakers for the other musicians.”

“Oh ... that is a good idea,” she said. “But still ... I’m not accustomed to stepping onto a stage without tons of rehearsal time.”

“The only other option is not to perform Blur,” he said. “And I’d hate to have to do that, and so would the audience.”

She sighed. “All right,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

“That’s my girl,” he said. “I knew you’d have my back.”

“I think you’re exploiting my love for you,” she accused lightly.

“What love?” he asked. “I thought you were just with me for my money,” he said.

“Oh yeah,” she said with a giggle. “I forgot about that.”

He chuckled a little and then asked, “So, how are things out on tour? Everything still running smoothly?”

“For the most part,” she said. “There’s some pretty palpable tension between Suzie and Njord.”

“Worse than normal?” he asked.

“Yeah. Something happened between them a few weeks ago. I don’t know what—no one does—but the tension started to ramp up at that point. They don’t talk to each other anymore at all unless it’s mission related.”

“I wouldn’t want to talk to that asshole either,” Jake opined.

“I’m not saying this is a bad thing,” Laura said. “It just makes things a little uncomfortable on the plane.”

“What about at night when you’re smoking cigars with her? Is she her normal self then?”

“It’s funny you should mention that,” Laura said.

“Cigars?”

“That’s right,” she said. “I haven’t been invited to a cigar session in a few weeks now.”

“Really? Why not? Is Celia or Suzie mad at you about something?”

“No,” she said. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“If I tell you, this stays between us,” she said.

“Of course,” he said.

“I’m pretty sure that Celia and Suzie are still getting together in C’s room every night. And I don’t believe they’re smoking cigars in there.”

Jake was astounded by what she was suggesting. “You mean ... Celia and Suzie are ... are ... getting it on?”

“I believe they are,” she said. “I haven’t actually seen them doing it, of course.”

“Damn,” Jake said, imagining it. “That would be something to watch, wouldn’t it?”

“I know, right?” she said. “Anyway, Celia hasn’t said anything about it either. But when the two of them are in the same room ... well ... you know how it is when two people are involved with each other but aren’t telling anyone about it. There’s a certain way they look at each other, a certain way they talk to each other. They’re both giving off a lot of vibes. When you couple that with the lack of cigar time for me ... well ... it suggests something.”

“Does anyone else suspect anything?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Nobody has verbalized anything anyway.”

“Well ... I guess this is Celia’s way of dealing with the divorce ... assuming that any of this is true.”

“I guess so,” Laura said. “I just hope she’s careful. If the entertainment press gets ahold of this rumor ... I can only imagine the response.”

“It would be a shitshow,” Jake agreed.

They talked a little more about inconsequential things and then said they loved each other. As always, Jake did not promise to call her tomorrow, though he probably would.

He went back to the kitchen and pulled his dinner out of the microwave. He ate it slowly, waiting after each bite to make sure his stomach was going to accept the offering. It did so on a trial basis.

After eating, he went to bed without bothering to clean up his mess. He sincerely and whole-heartedly hoped he would feel better in the morning.

As it turned out, he did feel better. He got up just past nine o’clock with only a mild headache, a bit of stomach queasiness, and a vague feeling of disconnect. He took a few antacid pills and some Tylenol, washing them down with the rest of the Gatorade from last night’s bottle. He then made himself a little breakfast, scrambling three eggs and adding some shredded cheese and some peppers to it. He felt even better after eating. Not quite all the way back to normal, but better.

He called Pauline’s personal number and she answered on the second ring.

“Hey, sis,” he said. “It’s me. I’m back in town.”

“Thank God,” she said, an audible tone of relief in her voice.

Jake raised his eyebrows. “Why do you say that?” he asked. “Did some shit hit the fan?”

“No, not that I know of,” she said, “but I was worried about you being at that party in Detroit.”

“How do you know about that?” he asked, surprised.

“The whole fucking world knows about that party,” she said. “It went out on the AP wire. Did they really have to send in a SWAT team?”

“Only that one time,” Jake said with a shrug. “It wasn’t really that big of a deal. A few people tried to crash it and things got a little out of hand, I guess. The SWAT team stayed outside.”

“They’re reporting that fourteen people were arrested,” she said.

“Not all at one time,” he said. “And it was mostly just marijuana charges ... oh, and a few resisting arrests. You know how it is.”

“No,” she said, “I really don’t. You were not one of the people arrested?”

“I was not,” he said. “I got a really vicious hangover though. I’m thinking about not drinking anymore.”

She laughed as if that was the funniest thing she had ever heard. “Anyway,” she said. “I’m glad you’re safely home.”

“Me too,” he said. “I’m gonna be flying home to Oceano in a little bit. Just wanted to check in with you and let you know I was back. Also, I wanted to talk to you about the TSF.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I think it’s time to start looking for some musicians. I’m going to fly to Bangor when Laura is on her tour break and spend some time with her. After I get back, I want to hit the ground running if I can. My hope is that we can at least do some auditions and pin down the primary positions before I leave.”

“Interesting that you should bring that up,” she said.

“Is it?”

“Yes, because I wanted to talk to you about that very subject.”

“Oh ... okay. Let’s talk then.”

“Not over the phone,” she said. “I’m going to head to my office in the studio in about half an hour. Can you meet me there?”

“Sure,” he said. “No problem.”

“All right then,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”

He hung up the phone and then went into the master suite. There, he shaved four days worth of stubble off of his face, brushed his teeth, and then showered. He dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a simple pullover t-shirt. All of this made him feel almost human again.

He packed up his travel bag and made sure he had the keys to the Oceano house. He then went out to his truck and made the drive to Santa Clarita. When he arrived at KVA’s studio building, he saw that, in addition to Pauline’s Lexus, there were several other vehicles parked in front of the entrance. He puzzled over this for a moment and then remembered it was Sunday. Lighthouse, the band consisting of Ben Ping, Ted Duncan, Phil Genkins and Lenny Harris—the first three of whom had been instrumental in the recording of Jake and Celia’s first solo albums—were here for rehearsal of their material. They were represented by Pauline, who helped get them gigs all over southern California, and were allowed to use the studio when Jake or Celia or Brainwash were not using it because they had helped Jake and Celia work up the tunes for their second albums.

Jake opened the front door using the code box and stepped inside. The receptionist’s desk was empty as it was her day off. Faintly, from the direction of the soundproof studio, he could hear the rhythmic thumping of Ben Ping’s bass guitar but little else. He put it out of his mind and walked down the hallway to Pauline’s office. She was sitting behind her desk, her hair down, wearing a blouse and a pair of jeans.

“Hey, Paulie,” he greeted. “Where’s Tabby?”

“Obie’s in town for a few weeks,” she said. “She’s with him.”

“Oh, that’s cool.” He walked over to the chair in front of her desk.

“Before you sit down,” Pauline said, “and before we talk, I want you to do something for me.”

“What’s that?”

“Go over to the studio door and pop it open just a little, so the sound can get out, but the band doesn’t know you’re there.”

“Why would I do that?” he asked.

“I want you to listen to them play for a few minutes,” she said.

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you after you do it,” she said. “Give it at least five minutes or so.”

He looked at her quizzically but saw that he was going to get no further information until he did what she asked. So, he did what she asked. He walked back to the studio and punched in the code for the heavy door that guarded access. The lock clicked. Slowly, he turned the knob and pulled the door open a few inches.

The moment he did so, the volume of the music increased significantly, enough that he could hear each instrument playing, could hear the words that Phil was singing. It was a fast-paced tune, going at about one-thirty beats per minute or so. The guitar was lightly distorted and being played in a drop-E tuning. Phil was singing in good voice. Jake listened to the tune they were rehearsing. It had a good beat and a good hook line. After hearing two verses and two choruses, he realized that the song was about suicide. Phil seemed to be pleading with the person contemplating this act not to do it, that life could be handled despite its drawbacks. He found himself tapping his foot and nodding his head to the beat.

They’ve gotten better since I last heard them, he thought appreciatively. Not that they were terrible before, but if this was an example of their latest work, it was significantly improved.

When they finished up the tune and started discussing the ins and outs of what should come next, Jake gently closed the door again. He walked back to Pauline’s office and sat down at her desk.

“They’ve gotten a lot better,” he said. “Is that what you wanted me to hear?”

“Yes,” she said. “And you’re right. They’ve gotten much better over the past year. They are very popular in the region now, headlining in the clubs from San Diego to Oxnard to San Bernardino almost every weekend. They are pulling in anywhere from fifteen hundred to twenty-five hundred dollars a gig now, and I’ve got club managers calling me up almost every day trying to book them. They sell out every venue that they play in.”

“Good for them,” Jake said with a smile. He remembered his own club days fondly, especially the part when they had really started to become popular.

“I’ve also gotten enquiries from National and Capitol Records asking me to send them demo tapes of Lighthouse’s material.”

“No shit?” Jake asked.

“No shit,” she confirmed. “It seems that Lighthouse is now on the radar screen.”

“What did they say when you told them about the demos?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I haven’t told them about it yet.”

“You haven’t told them? Why not?”

“Because I wanted to talk to you first,” she said. “I’m not the music expert like you are. I’m not as good at evaluating music on the consumer level like you are. But I do know that when National and Capitol sends out unsolicited enquiries, it’s because they have a good feeling about a band.”

“What are you suggesting?” he asked.

“Maybe it’s time for KVA to sign another act,” she said.

“You want to sign Lighthouse to a contract?” he asked, just to make sure he was on the same page as her.

“I want you to go out to their next gig—it’s at the Zebra Club in San Pedro next Friday night—and give them a listen and make that determination for yourself. If you think they have what it takes, you’ll have me onboard with the plan.”

Jake was shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter how good they are,” he said. “We don’t have time to record another act right now. We have Brainwash coming here in late May to start working on their next album. I have the TSF that I have to hire musicians for and then rehearse up. It just isn’t a good time.”

“I know that,” she said. “I was not suggesting that we start this project right away. It would have to wait until after the TSF in September at the very least.”

“That’s almost six months from now,” he said. “I guess we could consider this then, but...”

“We won’t be able to record them now,” Pauline interrupted, “but we still should get them under contract as quickly as possible.”

“Why?” he asked.

“The primary reason is to keep National or one of the other bigs from getting their greasy little hands on them first. I am ethically and morally bound to tell them about the demo requests. I have no doubt that they would jump at the offer. And if one of the bigs offers to sign them, you know what that means.”

Jake saw what she was getting at and nodded slowly. “A first-time contract,” he said.

“Right,” she said. “They’ll get screwed, blued, and tattooed, just like you and the rest of Intemperance. I do not want that to happen to them. I do not want to be pulling in my percentage off the top and fattening my bank account while they end up hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt. I cannot and I will not be a party to that.”

“I understand,” Jake said.

“I thought you might.”

“That’s the primary reason,” Pauline said. “There’s a secondary reason as well.”

“What’s that?”

“You need musicians for the TSF,” she said. “In that room over there are four musicians, all of whom have played with you before, all of whom are veterans of live performance. If we told them that we would sign them to our label with the stipulation that they assist you with your TSF obligation prior to the recording of their own album, do you think they would agree to that?”

Jake thought about that for a moment and then smiled. “You know, I think they might; especially if we pay them what we were paying them back when we worked up and recorded the first albums.”

“Then you think it’s a good idea?” she asked.

“I’ll have to give them a good listen first,” he said. “I’ll go to their next gig, and I’ll take Nerdly with me. If they’re as good as you think and if Nerdly is onboard, we’ll talk to Celia. If she’s onboard as well ... well, I guess we do some paperwork.”

“All right then,” Pauline said with a smile. “I’ll hold off on telling them about the demo offers until next week.”

“Even if this works out,” Jake said, “I’ll still need a pianist and a violinist and probably a female backing singer for the TSF.”

“I understand,” she said. “And I’m confident we will be able to find such creatures.”