Circles Collide

Chapter 5: The Tax Man

Rotterdam, Netherlands

May 30, 1996

The flight from Brussels to Rotterdam had only taken about twenty minutes from wheels up to touchdown. Though the flight was international—from Belgium to Netherlands—it was within the European Union and therefore no border check or customs clearance was required. As such, Matt and his band were checking into the Hilton of Rotterdam Hotel only fifty-eight minutes after stepping onto the plane at Brussels International. It took them even less time to find the nearest hash bar.

It was only a block from the hotel, an easy three-minute walk. The establishment was brightly lit, with a large counter where the cannabis products (as well as some underwhelming coffee, since the purported business of the establishment was selling coffee) were sold. The counter was staffed by two young Dutch men and one reasonably attractive Dutch woman. The customers were a mixture of European and American men and women with the notable exception being that none of them were Dutch. These customers sat at tables or played on the dozen or so pinball machines while listening to psychedelic music that played from the business’s sound system. The haze of marijuana smoke was heavy in the air.

Matt, Corban, Austin and Steve were recognized the moment they entered the establishment. They were mobbed by the crowd, fielding requests for autographs and concert tickets. They signed a few pieces of paper and two breasts, told everyone politely that they had no concert tickets to offer, turned down several offers to come smoke out and several more for blowjobs, before they were finally able to go to the counter and order up some quasi-legal smoke.

Overall, Matt found the experience a little disappointing. True, it was quite a novelty to walk into a licensed business and buy weed like he was buying beer in a 7-11, and then to sit down at a table and fire it up like he was in a local bar drinking a Jack and Coke, but, in truth, the ganja was not any better than the illicit European bud they had been smoking (which was nowhere near as good as the California-grown shit they smoked at home) and it was not all that interesting to just sit there and listen to trippy music and watch people playing pinball. And they also did not serve alcohol, just fruit drinks, sodas, and the mediocre coffee.

“Come on,” he said to his band after only thirty minutes in the shop. “Let’s blow this scene.”

“Works for me,” said Austin. “I’m gonna go hit the red-light district and give the legal hookers a try.”

“Hell yeah!” agreed Corban. “I’ve been looking forward to that. You down with some government approved prostitution, Matt?”

“Fuck that shit,” Matt scoffed. “I don’t pay for it, even if it is legal. I’ll score me some Dutch gash back at the hotel—Dutch gash that’s fuckin’ free, and where the bitch is slurping my schlong because she wants to slurp my schlong, not because I opened my wallet.”

“You don’t even want to try it?” asked Austin. “Just to say you’ve done it?”

“I don’t pay for it,” Matt repeated. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“I guess a man has to make a stand about some things,” Austin said with a smile.

“Goddamn right,” Matt said, standing up.

“Think we should buy some of this weed to keep us supplied while we’re in Holland?” Steve asked. “We’re each allowed to buy five grams to take with us.”

“Yeah, I guess we might as well,” Matt said. “I don’t think that grinning Mormon freak has any connections in Rotterdam so he would probably just get our smoke from here anyway.”

“Probably,” Steve agreed.

They walked up to the female behind the counter. Her name, she told them, was Anna and she was a big Intemperance fan. She was quite awed to be serving them. She put four five-gram bags of Sativa on the table and Matt paid for it with a wad full of guilders he had scored back in Belgium.

“Will there be anything else?” she asked saucily after putting the purchases in a plain brown paper bag.

Matt looked her up and down again, noting that she had a pretty good set of titties on her and a body that had curves in all the right places. Her accent was pretty cool too. “What would you suggest?” he asked her.

“Have you ever tried edibles?” she asked.

“You mean like eating pussy?” Matt asked. “Yeah, I do that shit all the time, but never with groupies.”

“Uh ... no, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Anna said. “I’m talking about hash edibles.”

“Oh, you mean like pot brownies?” Matt said. “Yeah, I’ve tried that shit before. Didn’t do much for me.”

“You probably had improperly prepared product,” Anna suggested. “You can’t just dump some marijuana into a brownie mix and expect results. THC is fat soluble. If you are going to ingest it instead of smoking it, you have to bind the psychoactive ingredient into an oil.”

“No shit?” Matt said, finding this very interesting. The one time he had tried pot brownies, way back in high school, they had been homemade, and they had home made them by simply grinding up some pot and mixing it into the batter. This had made the end product gritty, with an odd taste, and completely ineffective at getting he and his friends high.

“No shit,” she confirmed. “Our edibles are made by extracting the THC from the leaves and stems of the plant by boiling them in butter. That binds the ingredient with the fat and allows it to be utilized for the psychoactive effect when ingested. We use the THC butter to make brownies and cakes.”

“And they get you high?” Steve asked.

“They do,” she confirmed. “And the high lasts a lot longer when you ingest the THC instead of smoking it. Takes a little longer to kick in, of course, but it’ll last you all night.”

“All right,” Matt said, pulling out his wad of guilders again. “I’ve got to check this shit out. Bust out some of those brownies.”

She sold him ten pot brownies for the American equivalent of five dollars apiece, packaging them neatly up in a little cardboard box with a lid. “Now, you’ve got to be careful with these,” she warned. “They can pack quite a punch. Eat half of one and then wait for at least two hours to see what kind of effect you get. If you’re not quite high enough, eat the other half, and so on and so forth.”

This seemed like an overly lengthy process to Matt. “How much do you eat when you munch on these things?” he asked.

“Well, the potency varies from batch to batch,” she said, “but I’ve found that one brownie will generally provide a therapeutic dose for me.”

“All right then,” Matt said. “Thanks for the suggestion.” He gave her a lascivious look. “What time you off work?”

“I’m off at five o’clock,” she said.

“Maybe you’d like to come down to the Hilton and indulge a little with me?” he asked. “I can leave your name at the front desk.”

She gave him a smile. “I’m flattered, Matt, I really am,” she said, “but I don’t think my boyfriend would be very happy if I were to do that.”

Matt simply shrugged. “I’m not gonna tell him.”

“Sorry,” she said, apologetically but firmly. “I’m going to have to take a pass.”

Matt shrugged again. “Your loss,” he said, unoffended. He would just have to find his Dutch gash somewhere else.

They left the shop. Austin, Steve, and Corban hailed one of the cruising taxies and climbed in. “Red light district!” Austin told the driver. “The classy part of it!” The driver simply nodded and drove away.

Matt watched them go, shaking his head. Imagine, paying for your pussy, he thought, when there’s so much of it available for free. He just didn’t understand some people. He turned and started walking back toward the hotel. On the way, he opened up the cardboard box and pulled out one of the brownies. He ate the entire thing, going on the theory that the little Dutch girl was considerably smaller than him and undoubtedly did not use the ganja as much as him, and that starting with a half a brownie was unnecessary caution. The treat was actually pretty tasty. It was a rich, dark chocolate with a pleasing texture and just a hint of underlying marijuana taste. And there was no grit at all.

He carried his purchases up to his suite and set them on one of the tables. He then headed downstairs to the bar to check out the local gash. He parked himself at the bar and drank two Jack and cokes, just enough to start a buzz going. Though there were a moderate number of females in the bar, he didn’t see any that met his minimum standards of what he wanted to rail. A bummer. Maybe the pickings would be a little better after dinner. They did not have a show tonight—their first of two Rotterdam dates was tomorrow night—and he really wanted to score some Dutch gash so he could compare it to the Belgian gash he’d had the night before.

He went back up to his room and turned on the television set. He flipped through the channels a bit, finding that many of the broadcasts were in Dutch or French, but a few were in English. He finally settled on a rerun of Cheers that was dubbed in French and subtitled in Dutch. He figured that it might be kind of trippy when the brownie he ate finally kicked in.

And speaking of that. He looked at the clock on the wall and figured that it had been well over an hour now since he had eaten that brownie and he still did not feel anything but the fading remnants of the high he had acquired by smoking in the hash bar. Did that bitch rip me off? he wondered. Sold me some regular brownie that didn’t have any good shit in it?

He got up and opened the cardboard box again. He pulled out another of the brownies and quickly ate it. There. Let’s see what that does. And if it doesn’t do anything, I’m going back to that hash bar tomorrow and having a word with that bitch.

He went to the bar and mixed himself another Jack and coke. He then sat down and started watching the foreign broadcast of Cheers again. It was the one where Carla bought a house that was reputed to be haunted and Cliff stayed the night with her.

When the brownie finally kicked in ninety-three minutes after he had eaten the first one, it did not do so gradually. It hit like a freight train: hard, fast, overwhelming. One moment he was feeling nothing but a mild alcohol buzz, and the next he was completely and thoroughly obliterated, about as stoned as he had ever been in his life (which was remarkable considering the fact that he had literally smoked well over twenty pounds of the stuff since he had taken his first toke at the age of thirteen). It was an intense head high, bordering on uncomfortable. His limbs felt like they were numb and buzzing. Time seemed to slow down to the point where he could mark and measure each passing nanosecond.

“Whooaaa,” he said slowly, thickly. “This is some heavy-duty shit!”

He settled in and tried to get his mind to enjoy the experience. For the most part, he succeeded. It had been many years since he had tried something new on the drug use horizon and that, in and of itself, was pleasurable to him. And his suspicion that the French spoken, Dutch captioned episode of Cheers would be enjoyable turned out to be correct. It seemed like the episode took forever and he thoroughly got into it. Even the commercials were fascinating.

This shit is all right, he thought with a big smile on his face. Very heavy. Don’t think I would want to be any higher than this, but as long as it maintains at this level ... And then something occurred to him. He had eaten two of the brownies, not just one. The second one had not kicked in yet.

Oh man, he thought, feeling nervousness and anxiety pushing its way through the wall of deep euphoria. I think I’m in for a ride here.

And he was right. The second one kicked in just like the first: all at once. His high doubled instantly, blasting away the last remaining shreds of sobriety. That numbness and buzzing sensation in his limbs grew exponentially, until it felt like his arms and legs were filled with lead. Even minor movements were an effort. His jaw dropped open. His heart rate kicked up to more than one hundred and thirty beats a minute. His thoughts were now slow, deep, very detailed in a disturbing way. Several times he thought he heard voices or other strange noises coming from elsewhere in the suite. The sensation reminded him of the experimentation he had done with LSD back in his late high school years.

How long does this shit last? he wondered as some other French language sit-com came on the television. He watched it blankly, not understanding a word that was said, completely unfamiliar with the show. But it was too much effort to pick up the remote control and change the channel, so he watched anyway.

He sat like that for the next six hours, in the same position, just staring at the television set. He did not finish his drink. He did not get up to go take a piss. He simply stared at the TV screen while his mind jumped from subject to subject at random and his body felt numb and buzzing. The high remained just as strong through this entire period. For the first time in his life, Matt found himself wishing he were not stoned.

Finally, around two o’clock in the morning, the sensation began to ease just the tiniest bit. He was finally able to rise from the couch and walk to the bathroom to relieve himself. After finishing his business, he stared at himself in the mirror for an indeterminate amount of time, marveling over the fact that he had never actually seen his own face before, just photographs and mirror images. In fact, no human being had ever seen his own face before! Not a single one in the entire history of the human race!

“Heavy shit,” he muttered when he finally gathered the mental wherewithal to leave the bathroom.

He went to bed. And he did not sleep. He laid there in the darkness for hours, thinking deep thoughts, thinking bizarre thoughts, wishing he could just go back to the normal marijuana high which typically only lasted an hour or so.

Finally, around seven o’clock in the morning, he dozed off. His sleep was haunted by bizarre dreams and when the wakeup call came at eleven o’clock to let him know it was time to start making the meet and greets and the autograph session, he was still quite stoned, though in a much more manageable fashion now.

He showered and shaved and got dressed, moving slowly, carefully, his mind still full of weird thoughts. He then broke out his cocaine kit and crunched up a few lines. This did not get rid of the heavy-head sensation, but it at least gave him some energy. He picked up the cardboard box full of brownies and carried them downstairs with him to the café in the lobby.

The rest of the band were already there, drinking coffee and perusing the menus.

“Hey, boss,” Austin greeted as he sat down. “Did you have a good night?”

“No, not really,” Matt said, setting the box down on the table and grabbing a seat.

“How come?” asked Steve. “Didn’t you score some Dutch gash like you said?”

“No,” he said, picking up the menu. “Didn’t leave my room at all.”

“Really?” asked Corban. “Why not?”

He pointed to the box. “These fuckin’ things,” he said. “Stay away from them.”

“What happened?” asked Austin.

Matt told the tale of the overwhelming high. His bandmates were very impressed.

“Wow,” said Steve. “I almost want to try one now.”

Matt shook his head. “No fuckin’ way,” he said. “I am still stoned right now, more than twelve hours after eating them. You eat one now and you won’t be able to go up onstage tonight.”

“Aww, man,” Austin said. “That’s a rip!”

“Trust me, you’re better off getting high the normal way,” Matt said.

“Why did you bring them down here then?” asked Corban.

At that moment, Greg Gahn entered the room. He spotted his bandmembers and headed directly for them.

“Hey, guys,” he greeted, his signature grin on his face. “Are we all ready to do our thing today?”

“We’re ready,” Matt told him. “And we’ve already scored some bud for our time in Holland. You’ll just need to find a coke dealer to top off the stash.”

“Well, all right then,” Gahn said, grabbing a seat. He looked at the box sitting on the table. “What’s that?”

“I found a Dutch bakery down the street,” Matt told him. “They have the most incredible brownies there.”

“Oh yeah?” Gahn said, interested. In addition to his fondness for the Devil’s powder, he had a well-known fondness for sweets, particularly baked goods.

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said. “Some of the best brownies I’ve ever had. They use real Dutch chocolate and everything.”

“No kidding?” Gahn said, nearly drooling by this point.

“No shit,” Matt agreed. “Help yourself if you want one. They’ll go good with your coffee.”

“I think I will,” Gahn said, opening the box and looking inside. He took a few sniffs and then pulled one out. He set it down before him. He then looked at the other bandmembers. “Anyone else?”

“I’ve already had mine,” Matt said.

“We’re waiting until after breakfast,” said Austin, who was fighting to suppress a grin of his own.

“Oh, okay,” Greg said.

The waitress came by a minute later and offered Greg some coffee. Though he was a practicing Mormon, he did not adhere to their prohibition against caffeine, probably figuring that after being addicted to cocaine for a good part of his life, Heavenly Father would cut him a little slack on the coffee. He munched down his brownie as he sipped, declaring it to be one of the best brownies he had ever enjoyed.

“There’s an interesting aftertaste to it,” he said after finishing the entire treat. “I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but it seems kind of familiar.”

“I thought that too,” Matt said. “It must be some special Dutch spice or something that they put into the batter.”

“Perhaps,” Greg said. “Anyway, thanks for sharing.” He seemed genuinely touched by the gesture, which was well outside of Matt’s typical character.

“Have another one if you want,” Matt offered.

“I couldn’t,” Greg said.

“Why not?” Matt asked. “There’s plenty.”

“Well ... in that case...” He opened the box and hooked out another brownie. It was the largest one in the box. He quickly made it disappear as well.

And so that was how Matt and the boys were finally able to prove a theory they had hypothesized for most of the tour: that they really did not need Greg Gahn to run and micromanage each individual show. Greg spent a good part of the day in a Rotterdam hospital emergency room having tests run and being sedated with Haldol and Ativan after suffering from an extreme panic attack that bordered on clinical psychosis. The cause of his ailment was discovered only after all of his tests came back benign except for one: the urine drug screen. It was positive for cannabinoids. The doctor asked him about his drug use and Greg denied using anything other than caffeine. The doctor then revealed the positive test and Greg was finally able to put two and two together.

“They gave me pot brownies!” he told the doctor, incensed.

The doctor listened to his tale and was forced to agree that pot brownies were the most likely suspect. “How many did you eat?” he asked his patient.

“Uh ... well ... two of them down in the cafe,” Greg said. “And then they gave me the box, telling me they were full after breakfast and didn’t want them. I took them back up to my room and ... well ... I ate two more up there.”

“You ate a total of four of them?” the doctor said incredulously. “That is a ridiculous amount of THC to ingest, my friend. The normal starting dose for beginners is half of a brownie.”

“I didn’t know they had pot in them, remember?” he barked.

“Oh yes,” the doctor said, nodding. He still wasn’t sure he believed that part. “If, as you say, your band members gave you these brownies without your knowledge and consent, this might just rise to the level of a criminal offense.”

“Really?” Greg asked.

“Indeed,” the doctor said. “Would you like me to summon the police so they may open an investigation?”

Greg actually thought about this for a bit—how long he was not actually sure because he was still quite cataclysmically stoned—and even considered it seriously. They had really gone too far this time, deliberately poisoning him with hallucinogenic drugs. The thought of the four of them being placed in handcuffs and taken to some Dutch prison was actually quite appealing. But, in the end, he knew he could not do it. They would have to postpone tonight’s show, a scenario that went against everything that Greg held sacred. National would hire the best lawyer in Holland to defend the musicians and they would likely be released before tomorrow night’s show. And he would be sacrificed to keep the tour going. They would fire him, make him pay to get himself home, and Rich Tankle, his second-in-command, would get a field promotion. In his current state of mind, he could picture the entire scenario as clearly as if someone were screening a 3D movie about it.

“That’s okay,” Greg said with a sigh. “I’m sure the boys just thought they were playing a harmless practical joke.”

“I will abide by your wishes,” the doctor told him, hiding his own smile of satisfaction. After all, he had two tickets for tonight’s Matt Tisdale concert, third row center. They had cost him four hundred and fifty guilders apiece. He and the mistress he kept in a little apartment on the south side had been looking forward to this night for a month. And he had two pot brownies—one each for he and his mistress—that he had purchased just for the occasion.

Greg was discharged from the emergency room at nine o’clock that evening, just as the band was stepping back onto the stage following their intermission period. The driver that had been sent to retrieve him asked if he wanted to go to the arena.

“No,” Ghan said. “I just want to go back to my room and get some sleep.”

And so that was where he went. And the show went on just fine without him being there.

Matt was feeling pretty much back to normal by the time he and the band returned to the hotel after the show. He was very tired and had a stronger than average alcohol buzz going on, and a decent cocaine high as well, but all of the out-of-my-head lingering from the pot brownies seemed to be gone at last.

“Never again,” he vowed to himself. “I will never try edibles again. I swear it on my fuckin’ Strat.”

And, though he had broken many vows in his lifetime, most of them made to himself, a few of them even sworn on his Strat, this was one that he kept. For the rest of his life, he never again tried ingestible marijuana products, not even when they became fashionable with the rise of California’s legal medical marijuana industry, which would be approved by referendum in only another six months.

The party tonight was in Austin’s room. A total of nine Dutch groupies accompanied them back to the hotel to entertain them. Matt decided he would make an early night of it. He would grab a few hits, maybe a few lines, maybe a blowjob, and then grab one of the groupies and take her back to his room for a gash-fest and then kick her out immediately after. He really needed to get some sleep before repeating the whole cycle tomorrow. He took a moment to wonder if Greg had been sprung from the hospital and would be resuming duties tomorrow or if he were locked up in some Rotterdam psychiatric hospital, being held under the Dutch equivalent of a 5150 hold. He decided he did not really care, one way or the other.

The thirteen of them piled out of the limousine and entered the hotel lobby. The doorman immediately rushed over to Matt.

“Begging your pardon, Mr. Tisdale,” he said politely, “but I am informed that the front desk has an important message for you.”

“The front desk?” Matt asked. “What is it?”

“I was not made aware of the contents of the message, sir,” he replied. “I was just told to inform you of its presence.”

“No, no, no,” Matt said, shaking his head. “You were supposed to say, ‘it’s that big counter at the front of the lobby where the clerks work, but that’s not important now.’”

“I beg your pardon,” the doorman said, looking quite confused.

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude,” Matt said. “Haven’t you ever seen the movie Airplane?”

“I am sure I have not,” he said.

Matt shook his head again. “And you call this an enlightened country. All right. Thanks for the message. I guess I’ll go see what this shit is about.”

“Very good, sir,” the doorman said, still looking quite confused. He turned and returned to his station.

“Head on up without me,” Matt told the band and the groupies. “Something I gotta check out real quick. I’ll be up in a few.”

The expressed their understanding and continued their trip to the elevators. Matt turned ninety degrees and headed for the lobby desk. Since it was well past eleven o’clock now, there was only one desk clerk on duty. She was a woman in her early twenties, not too bad looking. Nice titties, a pretty face, a little chunky perhaps. Matt categorized her as “would do in a pinch” on his scale of fuckability.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted when he reached the desk. “I hear I got a message waiting for me.”

“And you are?” she asked, her English with a particularly heavy Dutch accent, which caused Matt to instantly upgrade her to “would let her blow me if there was no chick with a tongue ring in the vicinity” status.

“Matt Tisdale,” he said. “You know? The musician?”

“Of course,” she said with a small nod. “Mr. Tisdale. And what name are you checked in under, sir?”

“Norm Worthington,” he told her.

“Short for Norman?” she asked.

“Yeah ... I suppose,” he said with a sigh. He really was not fond of his middle name, even in the diminutive form.

“Norman is a very noble name,” she said.

“No shit?”

“No shit,” she replied. “You should use it in its entirety. Anyway, let me go get your message.” She walked to a series of cubbyholes in the little room behind her and pulled out an envelope from the one with his room number on it. She carried it back to the desk. “Here you go, sir.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking the paper from her, still digging on her accent. “Hey, listen. What time do you get off?”

“I’ll be off shift at midnight,” she told him.

“Why don’t you pop on up to Room 1208 when you get done,” he suggested. “Me and the boys are having a little after show party up there. And I didn’t see any tongue rings on any of the other girls.”

“Tongue rings?” she asked, confused.

“Just a little categorization algorithm that I use,” he said. “What do you say?”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline,” she said, not a hint of regret in her tone. “Fraternization between hotel guests and staff is strictly forbidden by policy.”

“Really?” he asked, shaking his head at the injustice. “That’s a rip.”

“Some may call it that,” she said. “Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”

“I guess not,” Matt said with a sigh. His voice did have a little regret to it.

He walked away from her desk and back into the main lobby. As he walked, he opened the envelope and pulled out the piece of paper within. It was written in English, in spiky, feminine script.

Please call Kim Kowalski at your home number as soon as possible.

“What the fuck is this about?” he muttered to himself, shaking his head, an uncomfortable feeling starting to wash over him. It had to be something to do with the audit of his taxes by the California Franchise Tax Board. The audit had taken place five days ago in Los Angeles. Andrew Hopple II, his primary accountant, had represented him there. Matt had heard no news about what had transpired as of yet and he had not enquired about any, figuring that no news was good news when it came to an audit of one’s taxes. But now, apparently, there was news.

He tossed the envelope and the message in the little trash can next to the elevators and then pushed the button. One of the doors opened immediately and he stepped inside, riding the conveyance to the top floor where the suites were located. As he stepped out of the elevator, he could hear the sound of loud music coming from down the hall. That would be 1208. Austin’s room. Matt did not go there. Instead, he used his key card to open the door to room 1202, his suite.

Before picking up the phone, he made himself a potent Jack and coke at the bar and then lit a cigarette and took a few drags. Only then did he go through the ritual of contacting the international operator for an overseas call to his home number. The phone rang two times before being picked up by Kim.

“Hey, Mattie,” she greeted after accepting the charges for the call. “How’s things?”

“It was a good show tonight,” he said. “That asshole Ghan was in the fuckin’ hospital so things actually went a lot smoother.”

“The hospital?” she asked. “Is he all right?”

“Probably,” Jake said. “I fed him a bunch of pot brownies I got at a hash bar and he kind of flipped out a little. They should be pretty well worn off by now though.”

“I see,” Kim said slowly.

“What time is it there?” he asked.

“Three fifteen in the afternoon,” she said. “I take it you got my message?”

“Sure did,” he said. “Is it about the audit?”

“Most likely. Hopple called me up about three hours ago and asked me to have you call him as soon as you could. He says he’ll be in the office until six tonight, which will be about two o’clock in the morning where you are.”

“How did he sound?”

“Like he normally does,” she said. “You know, like a guy who owns a van with no windows and cruises around near junior high schools as they’re letting out.”

“He didn’t sound worried or anything?”

“No, but he didn’t sound un-worried either.”

Matt sighed and took another drag off his smoke. “Okay,” he said. “I guess I’d better see what this shit is about.”

“I guess you’d better,” she agreed. “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Catch you later.”

“Bye, Mattie.”

He hung up the phone and then walked over to his travel bag, where he had the little piece of hotel paper with Hopple’s phone number written on it stored. He had to dig around a little, but he finally found it. He walked back over to the phone, took a few more drags of his smoke, a few more drinks of his drink and then picked up the handset and pushed zero for the hotel operator.

Less than a minute later, Hopple’s secretary was accepting the charges—this time without question. She transferred him immediately to his extension. It rang twice on that end and then was picked up.

“Matt, my man!” Hopple greeted. “How they hangin’?”

“High and tight right now,” Matt told him. “Let’s skip the preliminary bullshit. What’s the word on the audit?”

“Well ... I do have some good news,” he said. “They accepted the medical deduction for your ablation surgery once I showed them the documentation and the invoice showing you paid in full out of your own pocket. That is no longer an issue.”

“Oh ... good,” Matt said, feeling some relief. “I guess you were right about that shit after all.”

“I was,” Hopple agreed. “I told you there would be no problem with that and there isn’t. That issue has been officially put to rest.”

“This really is good news,” Matt said happily.

But that happiness did not last long. “Yeah ... it is, but ... well ... I’m afraid that a few other issues came up during the course of the audit.”

“What other issues?” Matt asked slowly.

“Well ... I’m sure the situation will ultimately be resolved in your favor, but ... uh ... the fact of the matter is ... uh...” He trailed off.

“Spit it out, motherfucker!” Matt barked at him. “What is the fact of the matter?”

“Uh ... well ... it’s just that they have some questions about the actual amount of your taxable income.”

“What about the amount?”

“Well ... do you remember how I explained to you that your income from your solo contracts and your recent tours is not subject to California or United States taxation?”

“Yes, I remember that shit,” Matt told him. “You told me that because I have a house in Mexico I can claim to be a resident there even though I’m really not.”

“Exactly!” Hopple said. “And that is a perfectly legal loophole, of course.”

“That is what you told me,” Matt said, his voice edging into the danger zone.

“And I am correct in that,” Hopple assured him. “Have no fear about that. But ... well ... since that income is not subject to California or United States taxation, I did not bother reporting it to them. I mean, what’s the point? Letting them know about it would just lead to them trying to find a way to get their hands on some of it. It behooves neither of us to open that particular can of worms, right?”

“Was it something that you were supposed to report?” Matt asked him.

“Well ... in a strictly by-the-book way ... uh ... yes, technically I was supposed to. But there was really no reason to do it. They’re not entitled to any of that money, and I was under the impression that there was no way for them to even know that it existed in the first place. I mean, your Intemperance income is subject to taxation and everything about that was fully disclosed and taxed at the proper rate.”

“So, what the fuck happened then?”

“This is really kind of amusing, really,” Hopple told him.

“Nothing about this fucking conversation is amusing me right now, Hopple. Tell me what the fuck is going on.”

“As it turns out, the agent who was the lead on your audit is a music fan, particularly of Intemperance and your solo albums. He knows that you have just put out two back-to-back solo albums that sold multi-platinum and had two back-to-back tours that were profitable. He even went to the show in Los Angeles when you passed through the last time.”

“I’ll sign a fuckin’ shirt for him,” Matt barked. “What happens now? Do you just have to amend the fuckin’ tax forms or what?”

“Uh ... no. I don’t have to amend anything. You see, he’s going to ... uh ... get his own documentation on those figures.”

“His own documentation? What does that mean?”

“Well ... it sounds worse than it is, so don’t freak out on me or anything here.”

“What sounds worse than it is?” Matt asked through gritted teeth. “Tell me what you’re talking about!”

“He’s going to have a judge issue a subpoena for your income records from National Records’ revenue distribution department.”

“A subpoena?!” he nearly screamed. “Will a judge do that?”

“Yes, in all likelihood he or she will,” Hopple said. “These government agencies are all in cahoots with each other to some degree.”

“And then what happens? Will National give that information to them?”

“They would have to,” Hopple said. “But you don’t have to worry about it, Matt. Truly you don’t. The underlying principle still applies. That money is not subject to California taxation because you do not reside in California. All that will happen is that a small, technical oversight on my part will be rectified by updating your recent income. Life will go on and everything else will be fine. And I’ll be sure to include that information on next year’s return.”

“You’re sure about this shit?” Matt asked.

“Absolutely sure,” Hopple assured him. “Nothing else will happen. We’re just correcting some paperwork here.”

Matt felt a little better with this reassurance. A little. “Okay,” he said. “I guess you know what you’re talking about.”

“I do,” he said. “Remember, my name is on those returns as well.”

“All right,” Matt said. “I want you to keep me updated on this shit. Call Kim whenever you have news to share.”

“I will,” Hopple told him. “Oh ... there is one other thing, just a precaution.”

“What’s that?”

“I think it might be a good idea if you retained a good taxation attorney to help me represent you.”

“A taxation attorney?! What the fuck for? You just said I don’t have anything to worry about!”

“As I said, just a precaution,” Hopple said. “I’m a CPA and I know the California and federal tax codes up and down. But I am not an expert in the law or the legal proceedings as they relate to taxation. I believe it would behoove both of us to have such a person on retainer from here on out to represent your interests from a legal standpoint.”

“I don’t know any fuckin’ tax lawyers!”

“I know a few,” Hopple said. “If you like, I could...”

“No, fuck that shit,” Matt interrupted. “You’ve already done enough. I’ll find my own goddamned tax lawyer.”

“How are you going to do that from Europe?”

“I’ll find a way,” Matt said, a plan already formulating in his brain. It was not a plan he was enthusiastic about since it would necessitate the swallowing of a considerable amount of pride, but in a situation like this, you had to do what you had to do.

KVA Records’ main studio in Santa Clarita was a busy place today and would continue to be busy for the next several weeks. During the day from 9:00 AM until roughly 4:30 PM, Jake was using the studio to start putting together his set for the upcoming TSF. As it was the very first day of rehearsal, most of it had been spent with Jake and the members of Lighthouse—Phil, Ben, Ted, and Lenny Harris—just getting their equipment set up and sound checked under the supervision of the Nerdlys and then Jake showing the boys—particularly Lenny—the basic melodies of some of his songs. At 4:30, the members of Lighthouse went home for the evening and, now that it was just past 5:00 PM, the members of Brainwash were here for their first full evening of workups and demonstrations of the tunes they wanted considered for the next album. They would work until at least 9:00 PM, maybe later if the groove was particularly groovy. Jake and the Nerdlys had both stayed behind for this. Pauline, on the other hand, was just about to walk out the door. She had spent much of the day making travel arrangements for when Brainwash headed up to Oregon on June 15^th to start their sessions at Blake Studios and issuing ‘no comment’ statements to the media reps who were still calling endlessly about the Celia Valdez/Laura Kingsley lesbian sex scandal.

Just before Pauline made it to the door between the reception area and the parking lot, the phone began to ring on the receptionist’s desk. Melissa, the latest KVA receptionist (the previous one had quit two months ago after getting knocked up by her boyfriend) had already gone home for the day. Pauline pondered just letting the voicemail system field the call—after all, it was undoubtedly just another reporter fishing for lesbian sex details—but in the end, her work ethic and sense of professionalism just wouldn’t let her. She diverted her path and walked over to the desk.

“KVA Records,” she said into the phone. “How can I help you?”

A voice with a heavy, odd-sounding accent began to speak in her ear. “This is the international operator from Rotterdam, Nederland calling for a person to person call from Matt Tisdale to Pauline Kingsley. Is Ms. Kingsley available to accept the call?”

Pauline immediately wondered if this was some kind of joke or mistake. Matt Tisdale calling me? He would never do that! Especially not from freaking Rotterdam. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head a little. “Did you say that Matt Tisdale is calling?”

“That’s what she said,” Matt’s voice interjected. “Is that you, Pauline? It sounds like you.”

“Yes, it’s me,” she said. “Is it really you, Matt?”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice sounding meek and very un-Matt-like. “It’s me. And I’m not calling collect either. National will pay for the charges. Could you do me a favor and accept the call? I really need to talk some shit with you.”

Interesting, she thought. “Uh ... sure, I’ll accept the call.”

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

“What’s up, Matt?” Pauline asked. “I was under the impression that I was part of the ‘never’ you laid down when you left Intemperance.”

“You were,” he said with a sigh. “But even though I hold you partially responsible for Darren’s death and I vowed to never speak with you or do business with you again, I never lost respect for you and your ability as a manager and a lawyer, you dig?”

“I dig,” she said. “And I think I might be flattered by your words, but I haven’t had time to fully analyze them yet. So ... what’s the deal? What kind of help do you need?”

“I need a good tax lawyer,” he said. “Do you know any?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said. “What’s the issue? Are you in tax trouble?”

“My fuckin’ accountant says I’m not,” he said, “but he’s about as trustworthy as Slick Willie in a fuckin’ Catholic girls school.”

“A good analogy,” she said. “Why don’t you give me a brief on what’s going on?”

He gave her a summary of the situation, using the word ‘fuck’ or one of its derivatives eleven times, the word ‘shit’ six, and the word ‘schlong’ twice. Pauline listened with growing alarm and disbelief as she heard the tale.

“You’re saying that you have paid no taxes whatsoever on any of your solo artist revenue for the past four years?” she asked incredulously.

“That’s right,” he confirmed. “Hopple told me that since I own a house in Mexico, I can claim I don’t live in the United States.”

“That wouldn’t matter even if it were true,” Pauline told him. “At least not on the federal level. You might be able to get away with that for California, but in order to pull that off with the IRS you would have to renounce your American citizenship and prove to them that you actually do live in Mexico the majority of the time.”

“Hmmm,” Matt grunted. “Are you sure about that shit?”

“Absolutely sure,” she assured him. “And I find it really hard to believe your accountant doesn’t know that.”

“You’re saying that he’s running some kind of scam?” he asked.

“I don’t know where he’s coming from with this,” she said. “Is he doing something malicious or is he just an idiot? I don’t know. You know him, I don’t.”

“It could be either one,” Matt said, sighing again. “Maybe a little of both.”

“I think you are definitely going to need a good tax attorney, Matt,” she said. “At least he was right about that. I see big trouble coming your way. Expensive trouble.”

“But the feds aren’t auditing me,” he said. “Just California. Didn’t you just say I could get away with the whole Mexico thing in California?”

“I said it was possible,” she corrected. “You at least have an argument to make. In order for them to buy it, however, you’re going to have to prove to them that you live the majority of the time outside of California. Do you have the ability to do that?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess that’s something to talk to the tax lawyer about, right?”

“Yes, most definitely,” she said. “Even so, I would be prepared to pay all of your back taxes for the past four years to the franchise tax board. That will be a significant amount of money.”

“Well, at least it’s only California,” he said with a sigh.

“It is not just California,” Pauline warned. “The feds are going to come after you too. Don’t think for a moment they won’t.”

“What do you mean?” he asked carefully.

“State tax boards are required by federal law to report income discrepancies to the IRS if they uncover them. As soon as they finish your audit, as soon as they have documentation of four years of unreported income, they are going to forward it to the IRS. And, since you have not renounced your American citizenship, you have no argument to make that you don’t owe taxes on that income. They are going to hit you with all the back taxes and then charge you an assload of penalties on top of it. If you’re pulling in what I suspect you’re pulling in, we’re talking tens of millions of dollars here, Matt. Literally tens of millions. And they will do anything to make sure they get that money. They’ll seize your disposable assets and sell them. They’ll put liens on your property. They’ll garnish your royalty checks. You are in a whole lot of trouble here.”

There was silence on the phone for a few moments and then Matt summed up the situation in three words. “What a rip.”

Pauline hooked Matt up with Wesley Brimm of Brackford, Redman, and Jackson, the same firm that Celia used for her divorce lawyer and the same attorney that Pauline used for KVA taxation issues. He was a stuffed suit if ever there was one, an obnoxious, condescending, cocky piece of shit that Pauline sometimes suspected just might have a few severed heads in his freezer, but a top-notch expert on California and federal tax laws and tax procedures. He accepted Matt’s notarized contract and immediately went to work trying to gather information. He, like Pauline, was absolutely astounded that a licensed CPA would actually promote the idea that someone could claim that owning a house in Mexico relieved that person of the burden of paying federal and state income taxes.

Brimm ran into problems immediately in his quest for documentation. He could not get hold of Hopple in order to interview him and look over the files. He called six times a day, both at the office and on Hopple’s cell phone (the number for which he had obtained by nefarious means he elected not to discuss). At the former, he only got the receptionist who repeatedly claimed that Mr. Hopple was not in and that she did not know how to reach him. At the latter, he got nothing but a recorded voice telling him the cellular customer he was trying to reach was not available.

Meanwhile, a Los Angeles county superior court judge granted the California State Franchise Tax Board their requested subpoena for examination of payments made to one Matthew Norman Tisdale by their revenue distribution department for the past five years. Those documents were copied and released on June 3 and showed that National Records had paid Matthew Tisdale a grand total of $51,342,917 in royalties and touring income over the past five years, of which only $9,658,314 had been declared and properly taxed. That meant that Matt, if found not to primarily reside outside of the state of California, would owe 13.3 percent of that undeclared $41,684,603, which amounted to $5,418,998. And that was just the base amount he would owe. Penalties and interest would be tacked on as well, probably at least another half a million worth. And that was only the state of California. The federal tax rate on that $41.7 million would be close to forty percent, not including penalties and interest.

“This is a really bad situation, Matt,” Brimm advised the guitarist the night after the third and final show in Amsterdam. “I think you should start preparing yourself for the worst.”

“What’s the worst?” Matt asked.

“That you’re going to owe the state and the feds around thirty-two million dollars by the end of this year.”

“But I don’t fuckin’ have thirty-two million dollars!” Matt complained. “Most of that I already spent on my fuckin’ yacht and my house and the helicopter that goes with the yacht and the crew who fuckin’ drives the thing and keeps it up for me.”

“The state of California and the IRS do not care about that, Matt. They will get their money one way or the other.”

“Will they let me make payments?” he asked.

“They won’t just let you make payments, they will force you to,” Brimm told him. “It’s called garnishment of wages. They’ll get a judge to sign off on taking up to half of each royalty check that you receive.”

“That shit ain’t right!” he complained.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Brimm said. “The feds and the state don’t care about what’s right and what’s wrong. They just want their money, and they’ll do anything to get it.”

A hearing for the matter was scheduled for June 11 but had to be postponed because Hopple was still among the missing. The staff at the Hopple and Hopple offices were just as perplexed as everyone else about his disappearance. They claimed they had heard nothing from him, not a phone call, not a fax, not an email. He had failed to meet with multiple important clients and the junior accountants and partners in the firm were left leaderless. Police were sent to his house to make sure he hadn’t died but they found nothing there but his furniture. Both of his cars were still in the garage.

Finally, one of the franchise tax board auditors dug up Andrew Hopple I’s Florida phone number and gave him a call. The elder Hopple, now living the good life at a beachfront house just north of Miami, was quite surprised and alarmed to hear that his son was missing but was able to provide a small piece of information: His son had called him on the morning of June 1 to let him know that he would be taking a little vacation to South America.

“Did he say where in South America?” Hopple I was asked.

“Brazil,” was the answer. “Rio de Janeiro to be exact.”

“Did he say where he would be staying?”

“He did not. And I didn’t ask.”

“Very good, sir,” the auditor told him. “If you hear from him, please have him give me a call.”

“I will,” Hopple I said. “And if you hear from him, please let me know.”

The auditor promised to do so.

Three days later, on June 15, the California Franchise Tax Board obtained a legal order from a superior court judge to freeze all bank accounts belonging to Matthew Norman Tisdale in order to keep him from suddenly wiring all of his money overseas where they could not get to it. It was when the banks moved to enforce this order that they made yet another discovery.

Sixteen million dollars from Matt’s account had already been wired to a numbered bank account in Panama. That wire transfer had taken place the morning of June 1. It had been authorized by Matt’s primary accountant, one Andrew Hopple II. Further digging revealed that Hopple II had wired an additional twenty-one million dollars combined out of the accounts of sixteen other wealthy Hopple and Hopple clients on the same day. This brought the FBI into the case.

“Can I get my fuckin’ money back?” Matt asked the special agent in charge of the case when he was interviewed by phone from his hotel suite in Bremen, Germany.

“I’m afraid that is extremely unlikely, even if we do manage to get our hands on Mr. Hopple,” the agent told him. “We’ve traced the wire transactions to Panama, but the funds were immediately transferred from there to a series of accounts in the Grand Caymans and then to other accounts back in Panama again, though we cannot determine just where. God only knows where that money eventually ended up.”

“That’s a fuckin’ rip, dude,” Matt said.

“Indeed, it is,” the agent agreed.

“Does him ripping me off get me off the hook for all those taxes I owe?” he asked next.

“No,” the agent said simply. “You will still be required to pay your back taxes. My understanding is that the IRS is already opening up their own audit on this situation.”

“That sucks rocks,” Matt said sourly.

“Indeed, it does,” the agent agreed once again.

And so, on June 16^th, after returning from the second show in Bremen, Matt made a phone call to a number in southern California. It was time to swallow a little more pride.

“Matt?” asked a used-car salesman voice when Matt finally managed to get him on the line.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Matt told Jerry Stillson of Music Alive Incorporated. “I’m calling about the fuckin’ Tsunami Sound Festival.”

“Have you changed your mind?” Stillson asked plainly. “Because we are still committed to having Jake Kingsley be the second-to-last act on both dates.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I’ve changed my fuckin’ mind. I’ll be there.”

“I’m really glad to hear that, Matt!” Stillson gushed. “I mean that most sincere.”

“Just keep fuckin’ Kingsley away from me, both at the venue and the hotel. You understand?”

“I understand,” Stillson said. “We’ll do everything in our power.”