Circles Collide

Chapter 3: Taxes, Trolls and Tribulations

Birmingham, United Kingdom

May 12, 1996

It was just past 11:00 PM in the Greenwich Mean Time Zone, which was defined by the planet Earth’s prime meridian. Just over an hour ago, the first of two Matt Tisdale concerts scheduled for Arena Birmingham had concluded. The band and Matt’s tour paramedic, Jim Ramos, had all had their post-performance food, their post-performance bonghits, and their post-performance blowjobs delivered by a gaggle of English groupies. They were now getting ready for some serious partying in Matt’s suite at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in the city center.

Nine groupies had accompanied them back to the hotel for the festivities, every last one of them hot, slutty, and dressed for easy access. Music was playing from the room’s sound system at a level that was undoubtedly disturbing other guests in the vicinity. Liquor was flowing freely from the room’s bar. Three joints were currently being passed around—Matt thought the English weed was pretty shitty compared to what he was used to—and two of the groupies were making out on the sitting room couch for the entertainment of all. Austin was getting a blowjob from the short-haired, punk looking groupie in the Metallica shirt. Matt himself was sitting between two of the groupies on the other couch, crunching up a healthy pile of cocaine on a mirror with his right hand while his left was feeling up the bare inner thigh of the groupie with the leather miniskirt.

The phone began to ring that shrill, rapid double ring that English phones were known for. Matt looked at the phone, which sat on the room’s writing desk, in annoyance. It was probably the manager wanting them to turn the music down. That happened quite frequently. Usually, if they called early enough in the festivities before Matt reached maximum belligerence, he would comply.

“Hey, Jimbo,” he barked at the medic, who was sitting in one of the chairs, his football on the floor next to him, watching the two groupies suck each other’s tongues. “Get that fuckin’ thing, will you?”

“Uh ... yeah, sure,” Jim said, reluctantly dragging his eyes away. “What’s your hotel name again?”

“Norm Worthington,” he said, telling Jim the diminutive of his middle name and the name of the street he had grown up on.

“Right,” Jim said, getting to his feet.

“Tell him we’ll turn the tunes down if he promises not to call up here again,” Matt said.

“Right,” Jim said again, heading over to the writing desk. He picked up the phone. “Norm Worthington’s room.” He listened for a moment. “What? Who?” A pause. “Oh ... hi, how are you?” Another pause. “Yeah ... he’s here. Just a minute.” He turned back to Matt. “It’s Kim.”

“Kim?” Matt asked. “What the fuck does she want?” Kim had never called him while he was on the road before.

“She didn’t tell me,” he said, “but she says it’s very important.”

“All right,” he sighed, wondering what kind of shit was hitting the fan now. “Tell her to hang on a second.”

Jim told her this and put the phone down on the desk. Matt quickly finished crunching up the cocaine and then expertly separated it into six fat rails. He picked up the mirror and then pulled his sterling silver straw from his shirt pocket. He snorted up two of the lines, one for each nostril, and then handed the mirror to the leather mini-skirt groupie.

“Here you go, hon,” he told her. “Fire up.”

She took the mirror and the straw from him. He got up, grabbed his Jack and Coke, and walked over to the desk. He picked up the phone and put it to his ear. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Mattie,” Kim’s voice said from five and a half thousand miles away. “It sounds like you’re having some fun there.”

“I’m trying to,” he said. “What’s the deal? Why did you call me?”

“I got a call from your accountant earlier today,” she said.

“Hopple?”

“That’s the one,” she said.

“What the fuck did he want?”

“He says he needs to talk to you right away,” she said. “That it’s very important.”

“Did he say what’s so important about it?”

“Not to me,” she said, “but he did make a point to stress that he really needs to talk to you today.”

“It’s not today anymore, it’s tonight.”

“Not here it isn’t,” she reminded him. “It’s just past three in the afternoon. He said he’ll be in his office until six tonight. He gave me the number in case you don’t have it with you.”

“I do not have it with me,” Matt sighed. “The last fucking thing I want to bring to Europe with me is that fucking asshole’s phone number.”

“You got a pen?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, picking one up and then pulling over the pad of courtesy hotel stationary. “Go ahead.”

She rattled off the number to him and he wrote it down. She made him repeat it, just to make sure he had written it correctly. He had.

“Okay, thanks,” he told Kim. “I guess I’d better see what dicknose wants.”

“I guess you’d better,” she said. “Talk to you later, Mattie.”

“Yep,” he said and then hung up. He looked at the number on the paper for a moment and picked up the phone. Just as he was about to dial, a loud cheer of enthusiasm erupted throughout the room. He looked and saw that the two groupies on the couch had progressed a bit in the action. The short-haired one had pulled off the long-haired one’s pants and was now licking away at her slit.

“Yeah!” cheered Corban. “Suck that fuckin’ snatch!”

“Make her come!” yelled one of the other groupies.

“And don’t try to fake no orgasm!” Jim yelled. “We know the difference.”

“If she keeps doing that, I won’t need to fake it,” the groupie said dreamily.

In a rare moment of discretion, Matt decided he should maybe make his phone call from the bedroom phone. He got up, taking the piece of paper with him. He walked by the two groupies he had staked his claim on and told them he would be back.

“Make it quick,” the leather mini-skirted one said, “or we might get started without you.”

“That works for me,” Matt said.

He picked up his pack of cigarettes and his lighter and went into the bedroom. He closed the door behind him, dampening down, but by no means eliminating, the whoops and cheers and shouts of those watching the two women going at it. He listened to the sounds of them with envy. Just as the party was getting good, he has to call his fucking accountant.

“I’m calling that motherfucker collect,” he said. And that was just what he did.

He went through the hotel operator to the international operator and gave her the number. The phone rang on the other end. A woman answered.

“Hopple and Hopple,” she said brightly. “How may I direct your call?”

“This is the international operator. I have a collect call from Mr. Tisdale to Mr. Hopple. Will you accept the charge from the United Kingdom?”

“Excuse me?” the secretary asked.

“This is a person to person call from Mr. Tisdale to Mr. Hopple,” she repeated in a nasally voice. “Will you accept the charge from the United Kingdom.”

“Whoa,” Matt said. “This is some serious Pink Floyd shit here.”

“I beg your pardon,” the secretary said, confused and upset.

“It’s Matt Tisdale calling,” Matt said impatiently. “Hopple needs to talk to me. Now accept the charges and put me through.”

“Uh ... well ... he did say he was expecting a call from you, but...”

“Then accept the fucking charges,” Matt barked. “Come on. I’ve got a couple of chicks dyking out in the other room and I’m not watching it because Hopple seems to think there is something more important than that. Now accept the goddamn charges, please.”

“Okay,” she said meekly. “I’ll accept the charges.”

“Thank you,” the operator said, seemingly unfazed by the conversation. With that, she clicked off the line.

“I’ll put you through, Mr. Tisdale,” the secretary said. There was brief pause and then, “Do you really have two women ... you know ... doing that in the other room?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “And I’m going to miss the finale if you don’t get dicknose on the line for me.”

“Right,” she said. “Putting you through.”

There was a brief period of on-hold music—the Muzak version of Motley Crue’s Home Sweet Home—and then the phone clicked. “Matt?” said Hopple’s voice. “Is that you?”

“It’s me, Hopple,” Matt said. “Kim said you have some shit you need to talk to me about?”

“Yes, yes I do,” he said. “Where are you at tonight?”

“In fucking England,” Matt said. “Birmingham, as a matter of fact. It’s eleven-fucking-thirty at night here, we just got back from the show, and I got a couple of English groupies munching each other’s muff on the couch of my suite. Now please tell me what is more important than that.”

“English groupies?” Hopple asked, his voice envious. “What do they look like?”

“Like fucking groupies!” Matt barked. “Why do you need to talk to me, Hopple? What kind of shit is hitting the fan back there?”

“Oh ... well ... it’s not really a big deal, actually, and I don’t want you to worry too much about this, but ... well ... uh...” He faded out.

“What?” Mat shouted, loud enough to drown out the sounds of the partying. “Spit it out, dude! Tell me what you don’t want me to fucking worry about!”

“Well ... it’s just that I got a notice that your taxes from 1995 are being audited.”

“Audited?” Matt asked, suddenly forgetting about the groupies outside. That was a terrifying word.

“Yeah, audited,” Hopple said, “but don’t worry. First of all, it’s not the IRS who is auditing you, it’s just the California Franchise Tax Board.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he asked. “An audit is an audit, right?”

“Well ... kind of,” Hopple said. “But this shouldn’t be bad at all. They’ve already told me what the issue is.”

“What is the issue?”

“It’s the one-hundred- and eighteen-thousand-dollar medical deduction you took for that heart surgery you had back in December. You remember? The one you paid out of pocket for?”

“Yes, Hopple,” Matt said, shaking his head. “I do seem to remember them burning away parts of my fucking heart and me paying a hundred and eighteen big for it. What is the issue? You said that out-of-pocket medical expenses are deductible.”

“They are,” Hopple said. “That’s why I don’t want you to worry about this. There is no question whatsoever that your heart surgery was a legitimate medical expense that was uncompensated by your medical insurance carrier.”

“Then why are they questioning it?”

“The amount you paid triggered an alarm,” Hopple said. “You see, paying that much out of pocket in medical expenses is far above the normal amount that the average taxpayer pays—even taxpayers at your income level. They just want to see documentation of the procedure, the financial transaction, and why the insurance company did not reimburse you. It’ll be nothing. Like I said, there is nothing the least bit questionable about the legitimacy of this deduction.”

“Are you sure about this?” Matt asked.

“Absolutely sure,” Hopple assured him. “I just need you to fax me a written authorization to represent you at the audit. Under the assumption that you did not want to fly all the way back home to appear in person for this minor matter, I’ve already taken the liberty of scheduling it for May 25^th at the Los Angeles branch office.”

“Uh ... well ... yeah, I guess I don’t want to come all the way back to LA for this shit. We’ll be in France then, I think. Do I just write this up on a piece of paper?”

“That’s right,” Hopple said. “A handwritten authorization is fine. Just say that you authorize the firm of Hopple and Hopple to represent you before the California Franchise Tax Board, date it, and then sign it. Let me give you our fax number.” He rattled the number off and Matt wrote it down.

“Does this shit have to be done tonight?” Matt asked.

“No, just do it in the next twenty-four hours,” Hopple said.

“All right,” Matt said. “I’ll do it in the morning, before we go out to do the meet and greets.”

“That will work,” Hopple said. “And, like I told you, don’t worry too much about this. It should be nothing.”

“Yeah,” Matt said bitterly. “A nothing tax audit. That happens all the time, right?”

“Actually, you’d be surprised,” the accountant reassured him.

“Uh huh,” Matt said. “I’m gonna go back to my groupies now.”

“Any chance you could snap some pictures?” Hopple asked.

“I already have,” Matt told him, “but you’re sure as shit not going to see any of them.”

“That’s too bad,” Hopple said, genuine regret in his tone. “Oh ... and one more thing before you go. I just wanted to say how happy I am about you and Jake Kingsley.”

Matt wrinkled his face in confusion. “What about me and Jake Kingsley?” he asked.

“It’s all over the entertainment news here in LA,” Hopple said. “About this Tsunami Sound Festival and about how you and Jake are going to share the stage for it.”

“What?!” Matt barked.

“You and Jake,” Hopple said, a little confusion in his tone now. “He’s going to be the act before yours on both nights of the festival. Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I did not fucking know that!” Matt nearly screamed. “Are you sure about this shit?”

“Very sure,” Hopple said. “Music Alive released their press release two days ago about the TSF. It listed the bands that will be playing on each night. Jake is there right before you on both of them. You can see it on their website if you have internet access there.”

“And the entertainment media are talking about this?” Matt asked next.

“They’re making a big deal out of it,” Hopple said. “They’re calling it the ‘first step toward a possible Intemperance reunion’. Is that true, Matt? Do you really think this might lead to that?”

“No, it’s not true,” Matt said through gritted teeth. “There is not going to be an Intemperance reunion—never! In fact, there’s not even going to be a ‘this’, as you put it. I will not share a stage with Jake fucking Kingsley. Either he is going to go, or I am.”

“Oh,” Hopple said slowly. “That’s too bad as well. I was kind of looking forward to it.”

“I gotta go, Hopple,” Matt told him. “You’ll have that fax tomorrow. For now, I got a few more phone calls to make.”

He hung up the phone without waiting for Hopple’s reply. He then got the hotel operator and then the international operator back. He had her ring the main line for his home in San Juan Capistrano, where he assumed Kim would be staying (she rarely went to her own house, even when Matt was away). It was an assumption that proved to be correct. She picked it up on the second ring and agreed to accept the international charge from the United Kingdom.

“Hey, Mattie,” she greeted once the operator clicked off the line. “Did you talk to Hopple?”

“I did,” he said. “It turns out I’m being audited by the state.”

“Oh,” she said, worry in her voice. “That could be bad.”

“He says it’s nothing,” he told her dismissively. “They just want documentation on my heart surgery and why I deducted it.”

“That should be okay then,” she said. “As long as that’s the only issue they look at.”

“I didn’t call about the audit,” he told her. “I called about the TSF.”

“The festival in September?” she asked. “What about it?”

“Have you heard anything about the lineup?” he asked. “Hopple told me the entertainment fucks are all talking about it.”

“I haven’t heard a thing,” she said, “but I don’t watch those entertainment shows. You know that.”

“Yeah, I do,” he said. “Are you at your desk right now?”

“I am,” she said. “I was just going through some emails.”

“Get on the internet and bring up Music Alive’s site. Hopple says that the press release is there.”

“Okay,” she said. “Hang on a minute. Let me close out the email and bring up Yahoo.” He heard the sound of her tapping on the keyboard and clicking the mouse. “It’s coming up now. I really love this DSL modem you had them put in. It’s so much faster than the dial-up.”

“It had to be,” Matt said. “It took forever to download a fucking porn video with the dial-up. Even the pictures took like fifteen minutes apiece. You can’t jack off at that pace.”

“I suppose that’s as good a reason as any,” she said. “Okay, here we go. Music Alive ... Music Alive ... where are you? I wish the damn search engine would give me the relevant fucking sites I’m looking for and not a bunch of articles about past concerts and speculation about whether or not music is still alive.”

“Yeah, that is a bitch, isn’t it?” Matt said. “Especially when you’re looking for porn.” Which was the only reason Matt ever used the search engine, or indeed the computer. “I was looking for some once and put in ‘great tits’ and do you know what it came up with at the top of the list? Pictures of fucking birds!”

“Birds?” she asked.

“Yeah. Apparently, there is some bird somewhere that is called a great tit. As if that is what anyone typing in ‘great tits’ is looking for.”

“Huh,” Kim said. “A bird called a great tit. Who would’ve thought? Well, hopefully, somebody somewhere is working on a better search engine. They’ll be able to dominate the market if they can come up with one. Here we are ... Music Alive Incorporated. Clicking the link now.” A pause. “Okay, here’s a link for the Tsunami Sound Festival. Loading ... Loading ... ahh, there it is. The lineup for both nights. Hopple was right. You’re listed as the headliner on both nights. Jake Kingsley is listed as the second-to-last act on both nights.”

“Motherfucker,” Matt said angrily.

“There’s even a teaser line here saying that this will be the first time that Matt Tisdale and Jake Kingsley have appeared together since the breakup of Intemperance.”

“Fuck me!” he barked. “Even if I would allow myself to step onto the same stage where Kingsley just fucking played—which I will not—we weren’t going to be playing together. Those fucking record people and their goddamn lies.”

“I’m sure they prefer to call it innuendo,” Kim offered.

“I’m sure they do,” he said. “Get in my rolodex and get me that fuckhead Stillson’s phone number. I need to give his ass a call.”

“All right, hang on.”

A minute later, the number was written down and Matt was making yet another international phone call. This time Jerry Stillson’s secretary tried to refuse to accept the international charge on the grounds that Mr. Stillson was unavailable to speak to Mr. Tisdale currently.

“You’d better make his ass available and do it now,” Matt cut in. “If he’s not talking to me on this phone in the next thirty seconds, he can take his fuckin’ Tsunami Sound Festival and shove it up his ass!”

“Uh ... well ... in that case ... uh ... let me see what I can do,” she stammered.

“Then you will accept the charge from the United Kingdom?” the operator enquired again, her voice still monotone and bored.

“Yes,” the secretary said. “I will accept the charge.”

“Thank you,” the operator said. She then promptly clicked off the line.

“I’m going to put you on hold, Mr. Tisdale and see if I can track down Mr. Stillson.”

“Thirty seconds,” Matt warned. “That’s all you got.”

“I will try,” she promised.

The phone clicked and the on-hold music began. It was classical music. Mozart’s Serenade No. 13 in G-major. Matt did not know that was the name of it, but he recognized it instantly because one of his favorite porno flicks had an awesome lesbian shower scene that was set to the piece.

Twenty-seven seconds later, the phone clicked in his ear, cutting off the Mozart. It was Stillson on the line. “Matt!” he said, his voice glad-handed and smooth. “Gloria came and got me out of a meeting. She said you had something of importance to discuss?”

“That’s right, Stillson,” Matt told him. “I just found out that you got fucking Kingsley set to open for me on both nights of the TSF.”

“Uh ... well ... yes, that is correct,” Stillson said.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me you were going after Kingsley before?” he demanded.

“Well ... the fact of the matter is, we just signed Mr. Kingsley a week or so ago. Until then, we weren’t sure he was going to be performing.”

“But you’ve been talking to him about this shit since long before then, haven’t you?”

“Well ... yes, we did approach Jake several months ago about the possibility of performing.”

“So, in other words, you didn’t tell me about that then because you knew it would fucking piss me off. And you didn’t tell me about it when he signed because you thought maybe I wouldn’t hear about it over here in Europe, right?”

“Matt,” Stillson said soothingly, “I think you’re reading too much into this. There was no conspiracy to withhold the truth from anyone.”

“Did Kingsley know I was going to be the headliner when he agreed to play?”

“Not at first,” Stillson admitted. “Of course, when we offered the gig to him initially, we had not even approached you yet.”

“But he knows about it now?”

“It did come to his attention,” Stillson said.

“And he still agreed to play?” Matt asked angrily. “Knowing that he would be opening for me?”

“I will admit that when he first found out that you were to be the headliner, he initially withdrew his verbal commitment to play. But then, a few days later, Pauline Kingsley called us up to tell us that he had changed his mind.”

“Really?” Matt asked. “Why the fuck would he do that?”

“He did not explain himself to us,” Stillson said. “Nor did we ask for an explanation.”

“Well, I’m going to explain myself to you,” Matt told him. “I will not play on the same stage as Jake Kingsley. Drop him from the lineup or drop me. The choice is yours.”

“We cannot drop Jake from the lineup at this point,” Stillson said. “We have signed a contract with him.”

“Then I guess you’re going to have to drop me. Good luck finding another headliner.”

“Matt, we have signed a contract with you as well,” Stillson reminded him.

“I don’t give a fuck about that contract,” Matt said. “You can shove it up your fuckin’ ass! Keep your million-four! I don’t fucking need it!”

“Matt, you need to be reasonable on this,” Stillson said. “And you need to consider the ramifications.”

“What ramifications?”

“We’ve already laid down a significant amount of money to National Records to obtain the performance rights for your music. That money is nonrefundable. That is the first thing.”

“Sue me then,” Matt challenged.

“Don’t you understand, Matt,” Stillson said, “that is exactly what you will be forcing us to do if you back out of this contract at this point in time. We have already publicly announced that you are the headliner for both nights of the TSF. People are already buying tickets for the event based on that information. We have already invested money and time into the event. If you back out without just cause—and the fact that you do not wish to have Jake Kingsley open for you is not just cause—you will be liable for all expenses related to your withdrawal and may be subject to punitive damages on top of that.”

“Do your fuckin’ worst,” Matt told him. “I’m giving you an ultimatum. Kingsley goes or I do. Make your choice.”

“We cannot ask Mr. Kingsley to stand down at this point.”

“Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about, do we?” Matt asked.

“Matt...”

“I’m hanging up the phone now so I can go tear me off some English gash,” he said. “I’ll give you thirty days to think this shit over and do the right thing. Call me if you decide to tell Kingsley to take a fuckin’ hike. Do not call me for any other reason.”

“Matt ... you can’t just...”

“Bye now,” Matt said.

With that, he hung up the phone. After that, he went and tore himself off some English gash.

Meanwhile, just across the pond in Boston, Massachusetts, it was 6:30 PM and Njord Miller was in his fourth-floor room of the Boston Sheraton Hotel scoring himself a little American gash (the only kind of gash he had ever scored, unless you counted, as a category of gash other than American, that one time he managed to get some Eskimo gash up in Alaska). Her name was Jessica something or other, and he had met her down in the bar about two hours ago. She was a cute brunette in her mid-thirties, big titties with huge nipples, and she had been impressed as hell to be meeting Celia Valdez’s personal pilot, which was how Njord had introduced himself to her.

“Yes! Yes! I’m coming!” Jessica cried out four minutes and eighteen seconds after Njord inserted his condom-capped member into her body in the missionary position and started thrusting away.

“Yeah, baby!” Njord said, picking up the pace a little. “You dig my cock, don’t you?”

Her answer was inarticulate, just a series of guttural moans. She scratched at his back with her fingernails. She thrust her pelvis erratically back at him. Njord had no doubt that this was the real deal here. In fact, the thought that she (or any woman he had ever fucked) might be faking an orgasm never even entered his mind. Which was probably for the best, since the orgasm Jessica was experiencing was indeed as artificial as NutraSweet, as phony as an email from a Nigerian prince in exile.

When she wrapped up her performance, Jessica began encouraging Njord to produce a real orgasm. It did not take long. She simply used a few aeronautical themed euphemisms, scratched at his back a little more, told him he was the best fuck she’d ever had, and his circuit breaker fell smoking to the ground. He spasmed and exploded, filling the little reservoir tip at the end of the condom with his offering.

He rolled off of her, onto his back, panting and sweaty. When he caught his breath, he pulled the condom off and dropped it into the little garbage can next to the bed. He looked over at his companion, seeing she was looking up at the ceiling, a contented expression on her face. He felt rather proud of himself for putting that expression there.

“You were great, baby,” he told her, reaching out to stroke her breast.

She cooed a little. “So were you,” she assured him. “I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of slut or anything.”

“Of course not,” he said, although he thought exactly that, but that was okay because he had absolutely nothing against sluts. In fact, he relied upon them for the majority of his sexual encounters.

“It just that ... you know ... there was such a chemistry between us, such a connection. I never jump into bed with a man two hours after meeting him, but with you ... I just couldn’t help myself. I knew five minutes after meeting you in the bar that I wanted you and I wanted you today.”

“And you got me,” Njord said slyly, quite enjoying the stroke to his ego she was giving him. She was a little different than the average slut he fucked. She was more intelligent, more articulate. He actually enjoyed talking to her. Usually, by this point in an encounter, he was trying to figure out a way to get them out of his room so he could take a nap.

“Yes, I did,” she said with a little giggle. She patted him high on his naked thigh affectionately. “And I’m glad I did. That was probably the best sex I’ve ever had. I don’t come very easily from fucking, but you pulled one right out of me. You’re a wonderful lover, Njord.”

“I’m just me,” he said modestly, though inside he was high-fiving himself, feeling very worthy of the name his parents had saddled him with.

“Just you,” she said with another giggle. “A man who gets to fly Celia Valdez and her band around all over the country. What a cool job! Where are you going next?”

“They have one more show to do in Boston tomorrow night and then we’ll be heading up to Portland the next morning. There will be two shows in Portland. From there, it’s up to Bangor to close out this leg. After that, we’re on break for five days and then we’re going to Quebec and then three dates in Montreal.”

“Up to Canada, huh?”

“That’s right,” he said. “The final leg of the tour is the Canadian cities. We’ll finish up in Victoria near the end of September.”

“That is just so cool,” she said. “What’s she like?”

“Who? Celia?”

“Yeah,” she said. “She’s so beautiful, so talented. Is she a nice person? Do you like working for her?”

“I don’t work for her,” he said stiffly. “She just flies on my aircraft. She does what the hell I tell her when she’s aboard.”

“Ohhh, I see,” Jessica said. “So ... you’re actually the boss then?”

“Goddamn right I’m the boss,” Njord said. “I don’t put up with no shit from no Hollywood rich bitch like her.”

“It sounds like you don’t like her much?”

“I can’t stand the bitch,” he said. “She’s a stuck-up, overrated lesbo.”

Jessica’s eyebrows went up. “Lesbo?” she asked. “Do you mean that in the literal sense?”

“I wouldn’t have said it otherwise,” he said. “She’s getting it on with my lesbian copilot. They’ve been rubbing their clams together for the past month or so now.”

“Really?” she said, obviously intrigued by this revelation. “Have you actually seen them doing it?”

“Well ... no,” he said. “It’s not like they invite me to their room to watch them, you know.” Although he would jump at the opportunity if they did. Bitch or not, Valdez was smoking hot, and Suzie wasn’t all that bad either, just a little masculine looking because of her haircut.

“Then how do you know they’re getting it on?” she enquired.

“It’s common knowledge among those of us on the tour,” he said. “They spend every night together in Celia’s hotel room. They used to just meet up there a couple times a week to smoke cigars and bullshit, but for the past month or so, Suzie stays every night with her, all night long. She hasn’t slept in her own room once.”

“That is rather suggestive,” Jessica had to agree. “Do they talk about their relationship?”

“They don’t,” he said. “I think maybe they’re under the impression that nobody knows they’re doing it. But we’re a small group of people who travel together and stay in the same hotels day after day. You can’t hide shit like that under those circumstances. And even if we didn’t know about the hotel rooms, you can tell just by watching them when they’re together. They share their flirty little looks with each other, they make allusions that they think are sly. Coop—he’s the drummer for the band and about the only one who isn’t a stuck-up asshole—told me that everyone is talking about it when they’re not around and everyone knows they’re doing the nasty with each other.”

“Very interesting,” Jessica said. “I never would have taken Celia Valdez for a lesbian.”

“Coop says she’s not a full-on lesbo,” Njord said. “He thinks she’s just trying the other team for a while since she got fucked so bad by Greg Oldfellow. Suzie, on the other hand, is a hard-core lesbo. She is probably in love with Celia, probably thinks she’s found Ms. Right.” He shook his head and chuckled. “I’m thinking that dyke bitch has got a whole lot of disappointment coming her way when Valdez decides to go back to the other side of the plate to bat.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she said, nodding a little.

“And do you know who else likes to munch muff in that band?” he asked her, getting into the pleasure of spreading gossip. He knew he was not supposed to be talking about his high-revenue passengers like this, but he couldn’t stand any of them except for Coop and it was pleasurable to spread their dirty laundry about. Besides, this traveling slut he had just boned (she had told him she worked for an insurance company in Hartford and often came to Boston on business) would not be able to spread his tales very far. His gossip was unverifiable, and it was very unlikely that anyone she told would even believe her.

“Who?” Jessica asked.

“Jake Kingsley’s wife,” he said slyly.

“Laura Kingsley?” she said, very surprised.

“That’s right,” Njord said. “She’s the sax player. It seems as if she likes to munch clam better than she likes blowing the horn though.”

“How do you know this?” she asked.

“The same way I know about Celia,” he said. “It’s a small group and everyone knows everyone else’s business. Laura—they call her Teach for some reason—brings female groupies back to the hotel with her on a regular basis. They stay for a few hours and then the limo takes them back to the arena with the other groupies that Coop and Charlie always have.”

“Female groupies, huh?” she said, quite intrigued by this piece of gossip. “And she does this openly? Right in front of the other band members?”

“Yep,” Njord confirmed. “I’ve actually seen her with a few of them myself—not in the bedroom, mind you, but in the hotel, heading up to her room. She likes the younger chicks, in their twenties, the sluttier the better.”

“Wow,” she whispered. “Does Jake Kingsley know about this?”

Njord shrugged. “I don’t know for sure,” he said, “but I think there’s a good chance he does. Coop told me that Kingsley and Valdez are pretty tight with each other; and that Laura and Celia are pretty close too. They have a saying that what happens on the road stays on the road, but that doesn’t generally apply to people who hang out together and do business together. I wouldn’t think, anyway.”

“What about Laura Kingsley and Celia?” she asked. “Or Laura and Suzie? Are they getting it on?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” Njord said. “Laura and Suzie do have this flirtatious relationship with each other, but it doesn’t seem ... you know ... real. She used to join Valdez and Suzie up in their room when they were smoking cigars up there—on the nights she didn’t have a lesbian groupie eating her out anyway—but I don’t think she’s been up there even once since the two of them started sleeping together every night.”

“Is she feeling a little left out, I wonder?”

Another shrug. “Maybe. The frequency of her bringing lesbo groupies back to the hotel with her has certainly increased since Valdez and Suzie started getting it on.”

They talked a little bit more, shifting away from tour gossip and back onto Njord’s favorite subject: his tales of being a daring, adventurous bush pilot in Alaska (even though he had never actually soloed there, had less than twenty flight hours logged in the Cessna Caravan, and all of the tales were either stories told to him by others or things he had simply made up). Jessica listened attentively, with seeming fascination and awe.

Finally, however, she declared that she really needed to get back to her hotel room and finish up her notes on the presentation she was going to be giving tomorrow. She got up and put her clothes back on while he continued to lay naked on the bed, watching her.

“Look me up the next time you’re in Boston,” she told him. “I’m in the book.”

“I’ll do that,” he said, and he was even semi-sincere about the promise. She had been pretty good in the old sack and she was enjoyable to talk to.

She picked up her purse from the nightstand next to the bed and, after one last smile, one last farewell, stepped out the hotel room door.

As soon as she was gone, Njord pulled the covers over himself and turned out the lights. He would take a little nap and then get up and have dinner. Later tonight, he would head down to the bar to check out the night action. If he were lucky, he might just score himself another piece to tear off.

Jessica Barstow did not go back to her hotel room to work on her presentation. She did not have a room in the hotel and she had no presentation to work on—at least not a presentation that had anything to do with insurance sales. Instead, she left the building and walked out to the parking lot where her 1994 Toyota Camry was parked.

She got inside and fired up the little engine to get the heat going as it was a bit of a chilly night. She then opened her purse and pulled out the battery powered cassette recorder that was inside. The tape was now rewound since she had pushed the button that did this shortly after stepping out of the pilot’s hotel room. She ejected it from the machine and put it into the Camry’s cassette player. It began to play. She fast forwarded it in spurts, skipping over all the parts where she had ridden upstairs in the elevator with Njord, where they had had a few minutes of risqué conversation after entering the room, and the five minutes or so of them having sex (what a crappy fucking lay that was, she thought sourly). Obviously, she would skip past that part entirely when she duplicated the tape later tonight.

As she drove to her modest home in Lowell, just northwest of the city, she listened to the conversation she and Njord had just had. She was still astounded by the allegations Njord had thrown out about Celia Valdez and Laura Kingsley.

Gold! she thought happily as she confirmed that the machine had captured the discussion in its entirety and with a decent amount of audio clarity. Absolute fucking gold!

She had time to listen to the tape twice on the drive. Once she got home to her three-bedroom cottage within walking distance of the Merrimack River, she put the original tape into her stereo system and ran it past the sex scene (it had really been fucking boring anyway). She placed a blank cassette in the second cassette slot, pushed play on the first one and then record on the second one. She then kicked her two cats off the couch so she could sit down, opened up a notebook, and listened to the conversation a third time, this time jotting down notes.

Once the recording was complete, she ejected the original and carried it over to her safe. She labeled it and placed in inside. She then took the second tape out of the machine, placed it into its case, and labeled that as well. Only then did she sit back down and pick up the phone. She dialed the number for the editor-in-chief of the regional weekly gossip magazine known as New England Reports. This was a publication that primarily concerned itself with the sex lives and financial malfeasance of political and business figures throughout the Boston metropolitan statistical region. However, they were certainly not above reporting on celebrities that came into their radar range.

Jessica Barstow was a graduate of the University of Massachusetts Lowell, where she had majored in Journalism. She was also a borderline sex addict, an affliction stemming from being molested on a semi-regular basis by her uncle from the ages of twelve to sixteen; incidents that, to this day, she had never spoken of with anyone. Unable to get a job as a journalist at any of the respectable publications in the region due to her young age (she was only twenty-six currently) and lack of experience, she had accepted the position at NER a year after her graduation and had been there ever since. It was not the most glamorous job she had hoped to get, but it did allow her to use her propensity for seducing men (and the occasional woman) professionally.

Her official title was “Investigative Reporter”. But to the targets she slept with for the purpose of opening their mouths and spilling information, she was known by a different title: Troll.

Ken Darby answered the phone on the third ring.

“Hey, Chief,” she greeted. “I just hit the motherload tonight.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked. It had been he who had assigned her to go to the hotel in Boston and see what she could dig up on Celia Valdez. A shot in the dark, true, but it seemed it had been an accurate shot. “What do you got?”

She told him.

“You’re fucking kidding me,” he declared.

“I wouldn’t kid about something like this, Chief,” she assured him.

“Will we be able to run it in the next edition?”

“I’ll start going full blast on it tomorrow morning,” she told him. “I’ll do a little more digging, verify what I can verify, and then call Kingsley’s agent, Celia’s agent, and Kingsley’s wife’s agent if she has one. They will undoubtedly deny everything, but we will have fulfilled our obligation to run the accusations by them.”

“All right,” he said happily. “Good job. Get it all written up and on my desk by Thursday night, if possible. I’ll get someone working on some file photos of everyone involved.”

“You got it, Chief,” she promised.

Since KVA Records had some business to discuss with the members of Brainwash—the negotiation and signing of the contract for their next album—and since the members of Brainwash lived and worked in Providence, which was pretty much next door to Boston, Pauline accompanied Jake on his flight to join Laura on her tour break. They figured they could knock out two birds with one stone.

Their flight touched down at Logan International at 5:37 PM, eastern daylight time. They rented a 1996 Lexus sedan and made the one-hour drive to the Hilton Hotel in Providence, where Jake had reserved two suites. After check-in, they both showered and put on business casual clothes for the upcoming dinner meeting. They met their one and only signed act in the restaurant on the top floor of the building.

Jake and Pauline had not kept in touch with Jim, Marcie, Jeremy, Steph, and Rick as much as they probably should have since the release of their debut album eighteen months before. Jake himself signed all of their royalty checks and occasionally updated them by phone on his promotional plans. Pauline called them once in a while on sales and income figures. That equation had changed of late, however. Both had been calling the bandmembers frequently to discuss the upcoming recording sessions for their next album, which would be put together over the summer. Neither of the siblings had actually been in the same room with any of the Brainwash members since they had left Coos Bay and gone home back in early September of 1994.

They did not look all that different, Jake noted as they all shook hands and/or hugged one another after meeting up. Jim had put on a little bit more pudge around his middle. Marcie had taken to dying her head a shade of auburn to cover her increasing supply of gray hairs. Steph had added a few tattoos to her upper arms. Jeremy still looked like a stereotypical teacher. Rick was still bald and shaving his head, though he had used some of his Brainwash money to have laser surgery on his eyeballs and no longer wore glasses.

“So, how has success been treating everyone?” Jake asked once they finished the greetings and sat down to enjoy their wine. “Is everyone still teaching?”

“We’re all still working full-time at the profession,” Jim said. “We pulled in some pretty good money from the album, but not quite enough that any of us are comfortable quitting our primary gigs.”

Jake nodded thoughtfully at this. Since he signed the checks, he knew exactly how much all of them had made (and were still making) in royalty money. Their album had just breached the triple platinum mark in the last quarter—more than three million copies sold in the United States. Each member of Brainwash had earned just a hair over five hundred and fifty thousand dollars in royalties since the debut. A tremendous amount to the group of lower middle-class teachers, and certainly very helpful to their cause, but nowhere near enough to comfortably retire on; especially when you considered that a sizable proportion of that $550K had gone to pay taxes to Uncle Sam and Aunt Rhode Island.

“It is nice to not be living paycheck to paycheck anymore,” Marcie put in. “To be able to put big chunks of money into savings each month. And we’ve splurged a little. We paid off all of our credit cards and don’t use them anymore. We’ve bought new cars—a Toyota Camry for me and a Beemer for Jim—and we’ve gone on several trips with the kids to Disney World and stayed in first-class rooms.”

“That’s good,” Jake said with a smile. “You should splurge with your money. Enjoy life.”

“I bought a Corvette,” Jeremy said. “And Jenny and I went on a cruise over last spring break; had a suite and everything.”

“We paid off our house,” said Rick. “It is so nice not having a mortgage payment every month.”

“I bought a new house,” said Steph. “A nice big two-story over in Blackstone.”

“That’s the hoity-toity neighborhood over on the east side,” Jim said. “Where all the doctors and dentists and lawyers and real estate developers live.”

“That’s right,” Steph said with a smile. “And you should see them look down their snobby fuckin’ noses at the lesbian schoolteacher musician that invaded their turf. There ain’t been this much uproar on my street since that black doctor moved in ten years ago.”

Jake chuckled. “I am familiar with the experience,” he told her, thinking of everything that had happened when he first moved into the Nottingham Drive home back when he first started making some real money. “Hopefully, they’re not throwing bowling balls through your window or cementing crosses into your front lawn.”

“Or putting acid in your hot tub,” added Pauline.

Steph was actually shocked by this suggestion. “No, nothing like that,” she said. “It’s more like ignoring me at the mailbox and giving me dirty looks in the grocery store. Oh ... and a couple times they called the cops on me when I had a girlfriend over.”

“Called the cops on you for that?” Pauline asked.

“Apparently, they are under the impression that me entertaining a sister lesbian is illegal under Rhode Island state law.”

Jake and Pauline shook their heads. “The more I get to know people, the more I dislike them,” Jake said.

“I’ll drink to that,” Steph said, picking up her wine glass and doing just that.

“What about the school district people and the PTA?” asked Pauline. “Are they still riding your asses?”

“They have permanent seats on our asses,” Jim assured her. “They have made it their mission to get rid of us by any means possible. They have tried appealing to our sense of professionalism by asking us to resign to protect the children from our influence. The PTA has tried to put pressure on the school board to dismiss us for cause because we are creating a distraction to the learning environment. The school board actually gave that a shot, by the way. They were shot down the first time the grievances we filed got in front of an arbitration board.”

“All of us have been written up for petty or even nonexistent offenses multiple times,” Marcie put in. “None of those writeups survived the arbitration process either, but they still keep trying.”

“My personal favorite,” Steph said, “was when they tried to promote me to management to get rid of me.”

“Promote you to get rid of you?” Jake asked. “How does that work?”

“Out of the blue one day, they offered to promote me to head of the physical education department,” she said. “That way, they explained, I would be out of the classroom and no longer a distraction to the children, and I would be able to shape the curriculum to my heart’s content.”

“An interesting offer,” Pauline said.

“Yeah,” said Steph with a grunt of disgust. “And it also would have made me part of management and therefore no longer protected by our collective bargaining agreement. Therefore, if I accepted the position, I automatically would have become an at-will employee. How long do you think I would have been head of the physical education department before they decided I wasn’t working out and fired me?”

“Not very long, I’m guessing,” Jake said.

“I told them where they could stick their offer,” Steph said with a smile.

“I wish I could have been there to see it,” Pauline replied.

They spent a few minutes looking at their menus and then put in their orders. Jake went with the prime rib, medium rare, and a fully loaded baked potato. Marcie, Jim, Steph, and Jeremy all followed his lead. Rick elected to go with the filet mignon. Pauline ordered the grilled swordfish with rice pilaf and steamed vegetables. Jake ordered two seventy-dollar bottles of Merlot to go with the meals. Pauline elected to join them in the wine even though she was eating white meat.

While waiting for their meals to arrive, they decided to go ahead and talk some business.

“I notice you did not bring your lawyer to the meeting,” Pauline pointed out. At her suggestion, they had hired a New York attorney who specialized in entertainment contracts to look over their last contract with KVA.

“We did not,” Jim said. “He charges five hundred and seventy-five dollars an hour for his services, with a minimum eight hours of billing, paid in advance.”

“That’s pretty steep,” Jake had to agree.

“And it was pretty big waste of money as well,” Jim said. “It only took him about thirty minutes to go over the contract with us and declare that it was extraordinarily generous and equitable for a first-time recording deal and that it contained no hidden loopholes or bear traps. He told us we would be fools not to accept it as is, and then went and cashed our check for four thousand, six hundred dollars.”

“And that was just what he charged for us to go to his office in New York,” Steph said. “If we were to employ him for his services at this meeting, he would have charged us another hundred an hour for travel fees and we would have had to pay for his first-class round trip air travel and put him up in a five-star hotel.”

Pauline nodded knowingly. That was pretty much standard pricing for such a service. “You can at least afford that now,” she pointed out.

“True,” Jim agreed. “But ... well ... I think we have learned to trust you two. We’ll hear what you have to say and we’ll read over any contract with the idea that you are not out to screw us.”

“We are not out to screw you,” Jake promised. “That is not how we operate.”

“We know that,” Steph said. “That’s why we voted—unanimously, I might add—to just negotiate the new contract with you the way we did the last one.”

“We appreciate that,” Pauline said. “Now ... how about we put our cards down on the table? Let’s start with the biggest issue first: royalties. We paid you fifteen percent for the last album. It was very successful and continues to get frequent national airplay and sell an average of ten to twenty thousand CDs each month. That puts you in a position of significantly increased strength for this negotiation. We are assuming you would like an increase in that royalty rate?”

“Well ... yes,” Jim said. “Naturally, we think we should get a little bigger piece of the pie now that we have established ourselves.”

“Give us a number,” Pauline said.

The five band members looked at each other, passing silent communication back and forth. It was obvious they had talked about this prior to the meeting and come up with a plan. But it seemed it was a plan they were not entirely comfortable with. The looks built in intensity and then mellowed as a consensus was seemingly reached. Nods were given. And then Jim looked at Pauline. “We think that twenty percent would be fair,” he said, his tone almost, but not quite, phrasing it as a question.

Pauline smiled. So did Jake.

“You’re right,” Jake said. “Twenty percent is perfectly fair. We agree.”

They all looked confused at his words. “You ... you agree?” Jim asked. “You mean ... like... agree agree? To twenty percent?”

“That is correct,” Pauline told him. “Twenty percent is not unreasonable in the least and we accept that offer.”

“Oh ... I see,” Jim said, obviously taken aback.

“Just out of curiosity,” Jake said, “what rate would you have accepted as your hard floor?”

“Uh ... well ... we agreed to offer twenty percent on the assumption that you would not take the first offer. We would have accepted nothing less than seventeen percent.”

“You sell yourselves a little short,” Jake suggested with a chuckle.

“What about you two?” Steph asked. “You said yes to twenty immediately. What was your hard ceiling?”

“Twenty percent,” Jake said.

“How’s that?” Steph asked.

“We agreed that we would pay you twenty percent royalties before we even got on the plane in Los Angeles,” Jake explained. “That’s at least five percent more than you could get from any of the big four; and, of course, we don’t tack on any recoupable expenses other than the advance money.”

“So...” Steph asked, “if we had offered seventeen percent right off the bat—and we had some discussion about doing just that—what would you have done?”

“We would have countered with twenty percent,” Pauline said. “The amount was not negotiable in either direction. Twenty percent is what we decided to offer and that is all we will accept.”

“Then why did you have us name a number?” Jim asked. “Why not just offer the twenty percent?”

“Because then you might have tried for twenty-five percent,” Pauline said. “And that might have led to hard feelings and mistrust when we turned you down.”

“Besides,” Jake added, “we were curious about where you would start your negotiations.”

They all had a little laugh about that.

“All right then,” Pauline said. “Twenty percent royalties is settled. Next subject: Advance money. We gave you fifty thousand dollars to live on during the recording process last time. That’s just your bill paying money and your money for incidentals while we’re down in LA for workups and then up in Oregon for the actual recording process. We pay for your housing, transportation, food, and household booze out of our own pockets. Does fifty thousand work for you this time around, or do you want a little more?”

They looked at each other for a moment and shrugged. “Fifty thousand is fine with us,” Jim replied. “In truth, we probably don’t even need an advance at all. We all have money in the bank now. We just need to remember to actually sit down and pay the bills while we’re away.”

“Yeah, and to have them forwarded to wherever we’re staying,” Steph said. “That is a pain in the ass that bit all of us in the butt a little the last time around.”

“Nerdly pays most of his bills online now,” Jake said.

“Online?” Steph asked. “How does that work?”

“His bank has a website,” Jake said. “He is able to log in and tell his bank who he owes money to, what the account numbers are, and how much to pay. Once he does that, the bank either mails or electronically sends the money to them. And then they save the account information for the next time so he doesn’t have to type it all in every month.”

“No shit?” Steph asked.

“No shit,” Jake confirmed. “I’ve seen him do it. He can even set it up so the bills that are the same amount every month get paid automatically.”

“Wow,” Jim said. “That’s pretty high-tech.”

“I’ll have him show you how to do it once you get up to Oregon,” Jake promised. “He just arranged for the latest, greatest computer technology up there, complete with a DSL line.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Steph said. “That would make it so much easier if my mortgage and my car payment just paid itself.”

“So ... anyway,” Pauline said. “Fifty K advance money works?”

“It works,” Jim said.

“That’s settled then,” she said. “Let’s move on to the next item.”

They moved on. And they agreed immediately on the clauses for how the royalties would be disbursed and distributed: just like they had been the last time, quarterly and individually. They then moved on to the next item, and then the next. And every time, there was no disagreement. In all but the signing, the entity known as KVA Records and the musical act known as Brainwash came to terms on a one CD contract and all of its provisions before their dinner was even served. This left them free to thoroughly enjoy their cuisine when it was put before them.

It was over desert and cognac that Jake brought up the actual itinerary for the summer months.

“You’ve been working up some tunes for us, right?”

“That’s right,” Jim said. “We still get together almost every weekend and jam. We didn’t tour at all last summer, so we didn’t want to get rusty.”

“No touring?” Jake asked. “Why not? I would’ve thought you would have been able to pull in pretty good money for agreeing to play in pretty much any club.”

“That’s what we thought as well,” Steph said. “And it was true. The one time we tried was at the Haymaker Club here in Providence; a place we’ve played dozens of times over the years. They offered us three grand for a Friday night show at the beginning of last summer. And they upped their cover charge to ten dollars for the event.”

“What happened?” Pauline asked.

“It was utter chaos,” Jim said. “Far too much demand and not enough supply. The venue only holds four hundred people, max. People started showing up on Wednesday night to get in line. They set up tents and had camp stoves and were going over to the Starbucks to pee and poop. By Friday morning it was insane. The police estimated there were more than two thousand people in the line. Fights were breaking out. People were getting cited for public urination. The cops and the fire department were forced to break up the line and cancel our permit as a danger to public safety.”

“Wow,” Jake said. “That’s insane.”

“After that, we didn’t even try anymore,” Steph said.

“I guess I can understand why,” Jake said. “Anyway, you’ve got at least sixteen tunes to present?”

“Closer to twenty, truth be told,” Jim said.

Jake nodded. “And you’re out of school on May 31?”

“That is our last day,” Steph confirmed.

“Will you be ready to travel on June 2? That’s the Sunday following the last day of school.”

“We’ll be ready,” Jim assured him.

“All right then,” Jake said. “Here’s the plan. You get your equipment all packed up and ready for shipping on your next weekend. Just the drums and the guitars and the piano, like last time. We’ll have the shipping company pick it all up next Monday. That way it will be in our studio in Santa Clarita well before you all arrive. We’ll charter a Gulfstream to fly you and the wives and kids to LA on June 2. We’ll put you all up in the hotel and get you some rental cars like before. Is Jenny up for being the nanny again?”

“She is,” Jeremy confirmed.

“We’ll get her the minivan again,” Jake said. “Once you’re all settled in, we’ll hit the studio and start going over the tunes. I will be involved in this process, like before, but once we make the move up to Oregon, I will be staying behind.”

“You will?” Steph asked.

“That’s right,” Jake said. “I’ve signed on to perform at the Tsunami Sound Festival down in the Vegas area in late September. And the band that I used to record my last two albums with is currently getting ready to go out on a tour of Europe. I’ll need to break in a new band and rehearse up for the show. That is what is going to be occupying most of my summer.”

Jim and Steph both seemed taken aback by this revelation. “But ... but ... we need you in the studio, Jake,” Jim protested. “You’re the one who shapes our tunes for the recording. The one who suggests when to put in slow intros, or to work up a bridge a little more, or to add those little fills here and there that enhance the tunes.”

“I’ll try to do as much of that as I can during the workup phase,” Jake promised. “But you are all professional musicians with tons of experience at putting complex tunes together. You should be able to do all of that yourselves.”

“You’re also the one who tells the Nerdlys when enough is enough,” Steph added. “The one who gets them to move on from the sound checks, when to stop making us repeat takes, when we’ve done enough overdubs.”

“You’re just going to have to learn to be a little more assertive with the Nerdlys,” Jake said. “And, besides, I’ll try my damndest to get up there a few times during the overdub portion. And I will also insist upon being a part of the mixing and mastering process. Hopefully, by the time we get there, my new band and I will be clicking together and not have to work eight hours a day, six days a week.”

“It’ll be weird not having you there, Jake,” Jeremy said.

“Yeah,” said Jim. “The Nerdlys are great at what they do, but they’re more like engineers, not architects. You know what I’m saying?”

Jake nodded. “I know what you’re saying,” he said. “But I have my own commitment I have to fulfill. The show must go on, right?”

They all agreed that the show must go on. That was sacred.

Pauline stayed in Providence to formally draft the Brainwash contract and get it signed. Jake moved on. The next morning, he checked out of the hotel and took a taxi to North Central State Airport, just north of the city of Providence. Here, there was an aircraft rental and flight school available for his use and enjoyment. He had already reserved a 1989 Mooney Bravo M20 TLS. This aircraft had a single turbocharged six-cylinder piston engine that could drive it at two hundred knots indicated airspeed. Jake had never piloted a Mooney Bravo before. Though he was not required by the FAA to be type-certified in it because it was not a turboprop or a jet aircraft, he was not a reckless fool. He hired one of the flight instructors to check him out on the aircraft. They spent two hours together, flying around the Providence and Boston area, getting Jake familiar with the controls, the stall speed, the flap settings, the takeoff speed, the fuel calculations, and a dozen other things that were unique to each individual aircraft type.

After completing a series of turns and banks, touch and goes, and two full stop landings and takeoffs, Jake felt enough confidence to solo. He thanked the instructor for his time, made the entries in his logbook, and then paid the school with his bottomless credit card. It was now time to go see his wife.

He lifted off from North Central just past noon on a beautiful spring day and made the ninety-minute flight to Bar Harbor Airport, about thirty-five miles southeast of Bangor. It was a nice flight, fast, very scenic, and very soothing to Jake’s soul. He touched down neatly and taxied over to the general aviation area where he was able to tie down the plane and rent an Audi convertible for his stay. He loaded his bag into the trunk and then drove forty-five minutes to downtown Bangor, where he drove around until he happened across Bangor Memorial Auditorium, the eight thousand seat venue where the final American show of the 1996 Celia Valdez tour would be performed on this night.

He pulled around to the back and parked amid the tractor-trailers and the roadie buses. He then walked up to the freight loading door, which was standing open. Inside, the roadies were hard at work. The stage had already been built and they were now working on raising the scaffolding for the lights up to attachment points where the climbing roadies known as “monkeys” would attach them. Dan Baldovino, head of tour security, was standing post himself, his all-access pass around his neck, his portable radio in his back pocket. He smiled when he saw Jake approaching him.

“Jake!” he greeted. “How the hell are you? Laura told me you would be showing up here today.”

“I’m doing good, Dan,” Jake said, shaking hands with him. “Just flew in from Providence and drove here from Bar Harbor.”

“A nice day for flying,” Dan observed.

“It was,” Jake agreed. “The scenery was incredible.”

“I bet,” he said. “Are you and Laura going to stay in Bar Harbor for the break?”

“Not at first,” Jake said. “We’re going to stay in the hotel tonight and then drive back to Bar Harbor after we get up. From there we’re going to do some exploring. We haven’t even picked a destination yet.”

“That sounds like fun,” Dan said. “The band is still out doing the meet and greet thing. They usually get to the venue around four o’clock or so.”

“Sounds about right,” Jake said. “Is it cool if I kick it in the dressing room until they get here?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Let me just have someone bring an all-access down here for you.” He pulled his walkie-talkie from his pocket and began to speak into it.

The pass arrived a few minutes later and Jake put it around his neck. He was then led through the bowels of the arena to the dressing area. He felt a lot of nostalgia for the old days as they made the trip. This was the same arena he and Matt and Coop and Darren and Nerdly had performed their first tour date in after the release of their debut album thirteen years before. New Year’s Day of 1983, that had been. And they had had no idea of what they had gotten themselves into. He went through the same tunnel and to the same dressing room as that day. It really did not look or smell any different.

He sat down in one of the easy chairs that was arrayed here and took a little nap while he waited. He was awakened sometime later by a familiar female voice saying, “Well, look what el gato dragged in here.”

“It’s a fuckin’ hairball,” said another familiar voice, this one male.

He opened his eyes and looked up to see Celia and Coop standing there, looking down at him. He was about to make a witty reply—though he had not actually thought of one yet—when another familiar female came in just behind them. It was Laura, looking ragged and worn, dressed in pair of tattered jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt, with bags under her eyes and her hair in disarray. And she was absolutely beautiful.

He stood and they embraced warmly, exchanging a few kisses, one of which involved a brief touching of their tongues.

“It is soooo good to see you,” she told him.

“Yes, it is,” he replied, deadpan.

He hung out with the band for the entire evening. He watched the soundcheck and watched Laura change into her stage clothes (managing to slip in a couple of feels of her intimate parts as she did so, but nothing else). He watched the hairdresser put her hair into a tightly woven braid and blast it with hairspray. He even went backstage with them when it was time to meet the locals, though he stayed in the shadows to keep any of said locals from seeing him.

He watched the show from beginning to end, singing along with most of the tunes, taking several moments to appreciate the sheer talent that was out on that stage. Celia was breathtakingly beautiful, and her voice was absolutely stunning on every level. Laura could blow a saxophone and make you feel in your very soul the emotion that she was trying to convey. Coop and Charlie were masters of laying down the rhythm, could shift tempo so smoothly that one was left with a sense of awe. Eric the violinist was not only impeccable with his instrument, he was also an excellent stage performer, all of the shyness, anxiety, and self-doubt he was saddled with gone the instant he stepped onto the stage in front of an audience. Little Stevie, though not able to come up with his own original compositions, was a master of the guitar nonetheless, able to perfectly imitate any tune he had taken the time to learn and practice. And Liz the pianist was also in the groove, able to wrench emotion out of the audience and perfectly accompany or set a primary melody with equal skill. And then there were the sound techs and the roadies. They were firmly in the rhythm as well, able to do their jobs with precision and skill, able to improvise when they had to and adjust to any situation on the fly. He felt proud to be associated with such an act, proud that, although he was not out here night after night playing with them, he had had a part in setting the whole thing into motion.

The show ended and the house lights came up. Jake and the band returned to the dressing area, where the beer and the wine and the catered food had been set up. Everyone sat down and had a few bottles of Gatorade, followed by wine or beer or something a little harder. Coop and Laura and Little Stevie passed a joint around, smoking it until it was gone. Jake abstained for the time being. After getting their therapeutic high, everyone went to the catering table, Jake included.

They munched on barbequed ribs and potato salad and coleslaw (except for Charlie, who had been given a tofu stir fry dish) and then leaned back to let the food start to digest. Laura called first dibs on the shower.

“Why don’t I join you?” Jake offered, imagining her naked, soapy body and his hands all over it.

“No way,” Celia said. “If you go in there with her it’ll be an hour before you come back out.”

“Not an hour,” Laura protested. “Probably only thirty minutes or so.”

“Uh huh,” Celia said. “Save it for the hotel.”

“All right,” Laura pouted, heading dejectedly off to the locker room.

She came back out fifteen minutes later, smelling sexy and clean and wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a fresh t-shirt.

“You know, something occurred to me while I was showering,” she told him.

“What’s that?”

“You have a car here. There is no need to wait for the limo and the groupies and all that.”

“Unless you put in a request for this evening,” he said with a smile.

“I did not,” she said. “I know the name of the person who will have their face between my legs tonight.”

“All right then,” Jake said. “Let’s go.”

They went.

It was well past ten o’clock when they awoke, both of them naked, cuddled against each other, reeking of each other’s sex secretions. It had been a good night and they had become very well reacquainted with each other’s bodies. Jake disentangled himself from his wife and then padded into the bathroom to relieve his straining bladder. When he returned, Laura was sitting up in the bed, her naked breasts on display, while she perused the room service menu.

“What looks good?” he asked.

“I’m thinking the eggs benedict and the fruit cup for me,” she said.

“That’s what you always get when we have breakfast,” he said.

“I like eggs benedict,” she said.

“There are other things you might like too,” he suggested.

She gave him a naughty smile. “Oh, there are,” she said. “And I’ll tell you about some of them later.”

He chuckled and picked up the menu. No sooner had he gotten started in his examination of it than the telephone on the nightstand began to ring. They both looked at it.

“Who in the hell can that be?” Laura asked. “I specifically told them no wakeup call this morning.”

Jake shrugged. “Only one way to find out.” He walked over and picked up the handset. “Lynn Dolan’s room. How can I help you?”

“It’s me, Jake,” said a female voice.

“Pauline? What’s up?”

“I’m downstairs in the lobby,” she said.

“Of this hotel?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I drove up here in the rental car. Took me five fucking hours. I had to leave at five this morning.”

“You drove here from Providence?” he asked, incredulous. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Because there were no flights until two o’clock this afternoon,” she said.

“I mean why are you here at all?” he said. “You were going to fly back to LA tomorrow.”

“Change of plans,” she said. “Like I told you, we need to talk some serious shit. Get Laura on the line. I’m going to give the phone to the registration girl. She needs to tell her it’s okay for me to come up to your room.”

“What is this about?” Jake asked.

“I’ll tell you when I get up there,” she said. “And call Celia and have her come meet us. Suzie too.”

“What?”

“If my information is correct, they’re in the same room anyway. Just do it.”

“All right,” he said with a sigh. There was a feeling of dread and disaster starting to creep into the fibers of his being. He did not enjoy the sensation. He handed the handset to Laura. “Tell the registration girl that Pauline can come up here.”

“What’s going on?” Laura asked.

“I guess we’ll find out shortly, whether we want to or not.”