Different Circles

Chapter 14: Wheels and Deals Revisited

Los Angeles, California

June 5, 1993

The Waterloo Club was a trendy venue on the west side of LA, known for featuring up and coming rock and roll bands on Saturday nights. Van Halen played the Waterloo multiple times back in the day, as had Motley Crue, Guns N’ Roses, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Rage Against the Machine, and a multitude of other southern California acts over the years—some of whom went on to fame, most of whom did not.

Tonight’s featured act was a group called Weezer. Jake, Pauline, Nerdly, and Celia arrived at the venue at 6:00 PM, two hours before Weezer was scheduled to play. They had not come to see Weezer. Of the four of them, Pauline was the only one who had even heard of the group. Her information was that they had been signed to Geffen Records—one of the smaller, newer labels—and had just finished recording a debut album, but it had not been released yet. Geffen, it seemed, was a little more liberal about allowing its artists to play gigs prior to an album release than National had been for Intemperance.

The band opening for Weezer was called Lighthouse. It was they the three musicians and their manager had come to see and they were also the reason Lighthouse had gotten such a good gig in the first place. The band featured Ben Ping on bass guitar (and sometimes on acoustic rhythm guitar), Ted Duncan on drums, Phil Genkins laying down the lead vocals, and a man named Lenny Harris on lead guitar. Lenny, like Ben himself, was a lifelong guitar player who, not having made the big time, had gone into teaching the instrument. He was the lead instructor and primary driving force of the guitar program at Thomas Jefferson High School in the valley. The band had been in existence for a little over nine months now and was just starting to pick up some local popularity in the clubs. Whether this was because they were actually good, or because it was known that three of the four members had been the musicians on both Celia Valdez’s and Jake Kingsley’s hit albums, was the subject of endless debate.

The club was moderately crowded as they entered and, within thirty seconds of walking through the door, everyone knew that Jake and Celia (oh ... and Nerdly too) were in the house. The manager of the club, a man named Lou Pinkerton, met them personally at the bar, told them they were not allowed to pay for a single drink during their stay, and then set up a little VIP section for them near the front of the stage.

“Thanks,” Jake told him as they took their seats.

“What can I get for you all?” asked a young waitress with a nose piercing and a tattoo of a snake on her left thigh. She introduced herself as Samantha. She seemed quite starstruck by their presence.

“Captain and Coke,” Jake said.

“I’ll have a glass of the house chardonnay,” said Celia.

“I’ll have an appletini,” said Nerdly.

“An appletini?” asked Samantha, thinking she had misheard him.

“That is kind of gay, Nerdly,” Jake told him.

“Is it?” Nerdly asked.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” Celia put in.

“All right,” Nerdly said. “I wouldn’t want to be accused of consuming a drink associated with male homosexuality. How about an Absolute vodka and cranberry juice on the rocks?”

“Uh ... Absolute and cranberry ... sure,” Samantha said.

“Yeah,” Jake said with a little shake of the head. “That’s a lot more manly there, Nerdly,”.

“Good,” Nerdly said. “I would not want to present a negative public perception regarding my sexuality.”

Samantha then turned to Pauline, the one person she did not recognize in the group. “And you, ma’am?” she asked.

“A Sprite,” Pauline said sourly.

“Sprite?” Samantha asked, raising her eyebrows a bit. “Just a Sprite?”

“Just a Sprite,” she said, her tone turning even more sour.

“All right then,” the waitress said. “I’ll get those right out for you.”

“Thanks,” Jake told her.

While she headed off to the bar to fill their order, Celia turned to Pauline. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to be in here, Paulie?” she asked. “All this cigarette smoke is probably not the best thing for your little bundle.”

“Well, I’m not going to make a habit of visiting places like this,” Pauline told her, “but I think we’ll get by with just a few hours.”

“Her developing fetus should remain unaffected,” Nerdly said. “There have been no studies that have conclusively shown passive secondhand smoke in short exposures to be a teratogen. Long term exposure, on the other hand, has been linked by correlation in some studies I’ve read, although, as I’m sure you’re aware, correlation does not equal causation.”

Pauline looked at him. “You read studies about the effects of secondhand smoke on developing fetuses?” she asked.

“Of course,” Nerdly said. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Before Samantha could bring their drinks over, a mob of patrons of the establishment came over and began striking up conversations, asking for autographs from Jake and/or Celia (but never Nerdly) and occasionally asking to have their pictures taken with the two celebrities. Jake and Celia accommodated them with good humor.

“Hey, Jake,” a long-haired, tattooed man in his thirties spoke up, “where’s Laura at? I heard she went out to tour with Bobby Z.” That piece of news had been reported in the entertainment rags several times in the past week.

“Uh ... yeah,” said Jake. “That is true, and that’s where she is. In Pittsburgh getting ready to tour with Bobby Z.”

“She’s a hot piece,” the man told him. “A lot hotter than that fat chick you used to go out with. You know, the pilot chick?”

“Uh ... yeah, I remember the pilot chick,” Jake said. “Although I wouldn’t say she was fat.”

“Yeah, she was fat,” the man said in a matter-of-fact manner, as if his opinion carried the same weight as a law of physics. “She did have some big old fuckin’ titties though.”

“I never really noticed,” Jake said dismissively. He then turned to talk to someone else—a skinny blonde woman wearing a denim miniskirt. She had just asked him if he needed someone to keep him company while Laura was away. “I think I’ll be able to get by,” he told her.

“I’ll be around all night if you change your mind,” she assured him.

“I don’t think I will, but I appreciate the offer,” Jake said.

Celia, meanwhile, was being told by a butch lesbian in leather how deep and meaningful her song Why? was (Why? was currently topping the charts across the United States, three weeks at Number 1 so far) and how it always elicited an emotional response when she heard it.

“I love everything on the album,” the woman told her, “but Why? just gets me right where I live. I play that song over and over again, sometimes thirty times in a row.”

“That’s quite a lot of playing,” Celia told her.

“Yeah,” she said dreamily. She then gave Celia a smoldering look. “So ... where’s your husband? That Greg guy?”

“Greg’s not a big fan of going out to clubs,” Celia told her.

“That’s too bad,” she said. “Tell me ... you ever gotten together with another woman?”

“Uh ... no, I never have,” Celia said.

“Ever thought about it?”

She smiled. “Of course I’ve thought about it,” she said saucily. “But, alas, I am married. I don’t think Greg would approve.”

“Who says he needs to know about it?” the woman asked.

Celia laughed a little and said lightly, “You’re funny.” She then turned and began talking to someone else.

When their drinks finally came, Lou Pinkerton showed up at the table with two large bouncers in tow. They chased everyone away from the table, telling them to leave the special guests alone and let them enjoy the show. There was some grumbling of displeasure but nobody wanted to challenge the bouncers. They all wandered a respectful distance away but stayed as close as they could get away with, in a loosely defined perimeter.

“Thanks for the drinks, Lou,” Jake said, dropping a ten dollar bill on Samantha’s tray.

“Tipping is not necessary, Jake,” Lou told him. “Your presence is gratuity enough, right Sam?”

“Uh...” Samantha started.

Jake shook his head. “I would not dream of not tipping someone who brings drinks to me,” he said. “Especially when the drinks are on the house.”

“Well ... okay, I suppose,” Pinkerton said.

“Thank you,” Jake said. “And thank you as well, Samantha.”

“You’re very welcome, Jake,” she said with a flirtatious smile.

She retreated to other duties and Lou headed backstage. One of the bouncers stayed nearby, to make sure that perimeter around the celebrities stayed intact. They settled in and sipped from their drinks, Pauline making a sour face every time she sipped from her Sprite.

“Tell me again why you needed to drag me here?” Pauline asked Jake as she looked around at everyone staring at them.

“You are the managerial face of KVA Records,” Jake told her. “If these guys agree to sign back up with us for the next two albums, they’re going to need to hear some management shit.”

“They will be just as well compensated for their work on the next two albums as they were on the first one,” Pauline said. “I cannot conceive of musicians of their present stature trying to squeeze out a better deal than what we gave them last time. In fact, we could have just done all of this over the phone and I wouldn’t have to be sitting here pregnant in a smoky bar and Celia wouldn’t have to fend off propositions from bull dykes.”

“Yes, that was quite blatant, wasn’t it?” Celia said with a little shake of her head. “And she really has no chance with me—the poor thing. If I was going to do it with a woman, it would have to be a feminine one. Otherwise, what would be the point?”

“I’m with you there, sister,” Pauline said. She turned back to Jake. “Anyway, those are my feelings on the matter.”

Jake shrugged (still pondering the thought of Celia getting it on with another woman—not exactly an unpleasant mental picture). “I kind of wanted to see how these guys play,” he said. “Ben told me this guy they got on guitar is pretty good with it, and he’s a songwriter. They’ve got like six original tunes in their set.”

Pauline sighed and took another sip of her Sprite. “Okay then,” she said. “We’ll check them out. But can we leave after we talk to them? I really have no interest in seeing Weezer get up there and hack away.”

“Deal,” Jake said with a nod. In truth, he didn’t really want to see the headliner play either. Though he would have declared with a straight face that he was not one to judge a band on its name alone, he privately thought that any group who called themselves Weezer could not possibly be any good.

“We should’ve invited Coop to come here with us,” Nerdly said. “He probably would’ve liked to get out ... you know ... since the whole debacle with Veteran.”

“I’m not sure Coop would have really wanted to see us negotiating with musicians for an upcoming album now that he’s in contract lock,” Pauline said. “Nor am I particularly fond of being reminded of that whole mess.”

Veteran, the supergroup Pauline had been managing and had profited quite nicely from, had had themselves a little meltdown just as they finished up their North American tour. The strife between the band members and the drunken, coked out, stoned performances had become too much for Coop. He resigned from the band and was now back in Los Angeles, riding out the rest of his contract and living off the royalties from Veteran and Intemperance. The band had recruited another drummer but were having endless difficulties putting together material for the follow-up album they were contractually obligated to make. At some point along the way the remaining members decided that their problems were all Pauline’s fault and told her she was fired. She could have fought the firing—after all, she had signed on as their manager for the entire duration of their contract with Aristocrat (four periods) and they really did not have the legal right to fire her—but, tired of dealing with them, she had gone quietly. She would still collect royalties in perpetuity for their debut album—which had recently passed triple platinum and was still selling upwards of twenty thousand copies a month—but anything they sold from here out would go into the pocket of Ronald Shaver, who had swooped in and snatched them up before the ink had even been dry on the severance paperwork between Pauline and Veteran.

“I suppose you have a point there,” Nerdly admitted.

“Veteran’s next album is going to bomb,” Jake predicted. “If they even manage to put one together.”

“Well ... far be it from me to wish ill upon them,” Pauline said, “but ill is what I wish them. Except for Coop, they were nothing but a pain in my ass from day one.”

“Everything in life is a lesson, right?” asked Celia.

“Right,” Pauline said. “And I’m putting the lesson of ‘don’t sign up to manage a band full of egotistical druggies’ right up there with ‘vasectomies are not a completely reliable method of birth control’.”

Jake nodded respectfully. “Well said, Paulie,” he told her.

“Fuck off,” she returned.

Jake managed to get two more Captain and cokes into his stomach before the house lights went down and Lighthouse took the stage. The crowd cheered enthusiastically for them, especially after Pinkerton told them that the key members of the band had been the musicians backing both Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez on their recent hit albums and that Jake and Celia (oh, and Nerdly too) were currently in the audience to watch their protégés in action.

The band put on a decent enough performance and Jake was impressed with them. It was obvious that they had put in a lot of rehearsal time. They opened up with a cover of Del Shannon’s Runaway, playing it with an almost heavy metal style, including a nicely done guitar solo after the second verse. The only real issue was that Phil, with his baritone voice, was unable to quite hit the high notes in the chorus as Del had back in the day. After Runaway, they stepped neatly into a cover of Paint It Black by the Rolling Stones, again adding a little heavy metal flair to the tune. Then, after a little between song banter by Phil, they launched into two of their original tunes.

The originals were a stark contrast to their covers. The first one—which was apparently entitled The Lost Times—was performed with both Lenny and Ben playing acoustic guitars and only a gentle backbeat from Ted on the drums. The lyrics were a concise and thought-provoking examination of a failing relationship that kept plodding along anyway. The second one, titled The Firing Line, did feature Lenny on the distorted electric and Ben back on the bass, but the tempo was slow and the distortion was not heavy. Essentially a song about taking a chance and trying to change a desperate situation, it played out rather nicely and included a good, mellow guitar solo and some nice vocal work by Phil.

In all, they did all six of their original tunes and four covers, closing out with a pleasant version of While My Guitar Gently Weeps that was played more or less as true to form, as if the Beatles themselves had been up there laying it down. The crowd cheered enthusiastically as Phil thanked them for coming and told them to enjoy Weezer, who would be taking the stage in forty-five minutes.

“Not bad, huh?” Jake asked as the lights came back up and the crowd began to move toward the bar or the restrooms.

“I enjoyed it,” Celia said. “Particularly the last number. I’ve always loved that song.”

“I thought their original material was decently arranged,” Nerdly said. “They really should have someone work on their sound mixing, however.”

“Not everyone can have a Nerdly working their sound, Bill,” Jake told him.

“True,” Nerdly agreed. “What did you think, Pauline?”

She shrugged. “They weren’t painful to listen to,” she offered. “And at least they’re keeping in practice for us.”

It took the members of Lighthouse about fifteen minutes to clear all their equipment from the stage. Once that was done, Jake and the others were led through a small door into the backstage area by Pinkerton himself. As had been the case when he’d gone back to meet the group Brainwash in Boston after Celia’s wedding and the little aircraft incident that had compelled him to stay an extra day (I wonder how Brainwash is doing these days? Jake took a moment to wonder. Are they still together? Still touring?) an overwhelming rush of nostalgia for his own club days washed over him. Everything reminded him of those chump-change sessions they had done for more than a year in Heritage: the smell of sour sweat and cigarette smoke, the tubs of beer on ice, the tiny, cramped accommodations, the instrument cases and amps stacked in a corner, even the filthy, undersized bathroom that smelled like stale urine and had a perpetually running tank.

“Jake! Celia! Nerdly!” greeted Ted as he saw them come in. “Oh ... and Pauline too. Welcome!”

At his voice, the other members of the band offered their greetings as well. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged. Everyone was introduced to Lenny, the guitar player and songwriter.

“Nice work up there, Lenny,” Jake complimented. “Both in playing and composition.”

“Thanks, Jake,” Lenny said, pleased with the praise. “I have to say that I’m having a lot of fun with this group.”

“I hear you’re a guitar teacher like Ben,” Celia said. “At one of the high schools?”

“That’s right,” Lenny replied. “That’s how Ben and I met. We were both at one of the music instructor seminars we were taking for continuing education credits on our teaching credentials. We were the only two guitar players there.”

“That was a stupid class,” Ben said with a shake of the head.

“It was,” Lenny agreed. “Absolutely nothing said there applied to teaching guitar in any way.” He shrugged. “It was eight CEUs though.”

“True,” Ben said. “And they did have that cool bar just down the street from the complex.”

“Hell to the yeah,” Lenny said. “I don’t think the instructors appreciated much that we hit that bar up during the lunch hour.”

They shared a laugh over this.

“Anyway,” Ben said, “Len and I kind of bonded during that class and we got together a few times after it, then we kind of lost touch a bit when I started working with you guys on the albums. When it came time to put Lighthouse together and we needed a guitarist, Len was the first one I thought of. I gave him a call and we got together. It’s kind of a bonus that he’s a songwriter as well.”

“I’m trying to be, anyway,” Lenny said shyly.

“I think you’ve succeeded,” Jake told him. “I enjoyed the original tunes you laid down out there. Good work.”

“Really?” Lenny said, his eyes looking at Jake carefully, as if to see if he were being jerked off.

“Really,” Jake assured him. “I don’t give false praise.”

“I thought you did a good job as well,” Celia added.

“You really should work on your sound mixing a bit though,” Nerdly put in.

A look passed between the members of Lighthouse, a look that Jake was not quite sure how to interpret.

“You really liked us?” Phil asked.

“We really did,” Jake assured them.

“That’s very good to hear,” Ben said. He hesitated for a moment and then said, “You see ... we were kind of hoping that maybe Pauline might be interested in ... you know ... managing us.”

“Managing you?” Pauline said. “You mean like ... as your manager?”

“That’s right,” Ben said. “The way you do Jake and Celia and Veteran.”

“I don’t manage Veteran anymore,” she said. “They fired me.”

“Man, that’s fucked up,” Ted said, shaking his head. “But that means you have an opening then?”

“Well...”

“We’d be really grateful, Pauline,” Phil put in quickly. “I honestly think we have what it takes to make it in the industry once we come up with a few more tunes.”

“Hell to the yeah,” Ted said. “And with your connections, we can get better gigs and get our name out there. Once our name is out there, I’m sure you can get us a recording contract, right?”

“Uh ... well...” Pauline said, uncharacteristically at a loss for words.

“Or maybe we could sign with KVA?” Phil suggested. “That would be my preference, actually.”

“Mine too,” said Ben. “I remember hearing your horror stories about signing with the majors, Jake.”

“Uh...” Jake said, and then could think of nothing to follow it up with. This conversation had turned awkward quickly.

“That’s ... well ... a very interesting proposal, guys,” Pauline said, “but ... honestly, I’m not sure it’s feasible at this particular moment in time.”

Their faces all fell a few notches as they heard her words.

“Not feasible?” Ted said. “What do you mean? Why not?”

“Well ... primarily is the reason we actually came to see you,” Pauline said.

“What reason is that?” asked Ben.

“We came to see if you’re ready to start working on Jake and Celia’s next album,” she told them. “They’ve got some tunes they want to start putting together.”

“The next albums,” Phil said slowly. “That’s why you’re here?”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “We would offer the same deal as before. Fifty dollars an hour for the sessions, including the recording time, and royalties on the completed projects.”

They all looked at each other for a moment and then back at Jake. “Uh ... well, we certainly appreciate you thinking of us again,” Ben finally said. “But ... well ... I don’t really think that I’ll be able to do it.”

“You won’t?” Pauline asked, raising her brows a bit.

“Me either, to tell the truth,” said Ted.

Jake had not been expecting this answer from them. After all, they had cleaned up quite nicely on the last albums, each of them pulling in handsome hourlies from KVA Records and, now that Struggle had gone well past double platinum and Down was fast approaching it, were raking in a respectable amount of royalty pay each quarter. “Why not?” he asked them.

“There is no way the college is going to grant me another leave of absence,” said Ben. “That’s the big reason.”

“Me either,” added Ted. “I used up all my favors and strings to pull taking that last LOA. I’d have to quit to commit to you for the next round, or at least drop to part-time and do some really complicated scheduling to meet my minimums.”

“Oh ... I see,” Jake said. That the work conflict might be a problem had honestly not occurred to him.

“I’m really sorry, guys,” Ben said. “I had a blast playing with you the last time—it was the time of my life, to tell you the truth—but now I’ve got a baby at home and a wife who needs to work as well and ... I just can’t commit to the same thing this time around. It won’t work.”

“I see,” Pauline said. It was obvious she had not been expecting this answer either. She turned to Phil. “What about you?” she asked him. “You’ve been doing some vocal sessions over at the studios, right?”

“That’s how I’m getting by these days,” Phil confirmed. “It’s thin pickings at times, I won’t lie about that. The royalty checks from KVA and the money I banked recording with you the first time are what is keeping my head above water most months.”

“Would you be able to commit to being our baritone backup singer once we get to the studio?” Jake asked him. “That won’t be for a few months at least, of course. We can work the tunes up without you but we would need you for the recording process.”

Phil swallowed. “Uh ... well...” He looked at his bandmates for a moment and then back at Jake. “The truth of the matter is ... uh...” He faded out.

“What is the truth of the matter, Phil?” Pauline asked him.

Ben answered for him. “I said that work scheduling was one of the reasons we can’t do it,” he said. “The other is that ... well ... we’re kind of committed to making Lighthouse into a success. We all think we’re making a lot of progress with that. That’s why we were excited to have you come see us.”

“Yeah,” said Ted. “We wanted to show you what we got.”

“You showed us what you have,” Celia said. “And we were impressed.”

“That was our goal,” Ben said. “To impress you and hopefully have you manage us, Pauline.”

“Even if I did manage you,” Pauline said, “and was able to secure a recording contract for you, wouldn’t the work issue still be there? Wouldn’t you still have a baby at home, Ben? Wouldn’t you still have to quit or drop to part-time, Ted?”

“Yes, of course,” said Ben, “but then we’d be getting paid by whatever record company you got us signed with. We would have permanent income to replace our job income and not just a temporary influx of money that is going to end at some point.”

“And actually, we were really hoping that KVA would be the label to sign us,” Ted said. “You guys are badass.”

“Thank you,” Pauline said, “but, unfortunately, there are several things wrong with that scenario. In the first place, KVA is not financially in a position to sign any other acts to the label. It costs about a million and a half or so to get an album into production. We would have to lay out that money in advance, long before any revenue came in from the album itself. With Jake and Celia, we know they’re going to sell enough to cover that and produce profit. With Lighthouse however ... well ... I don’t quite know how to say this, but ... you’re an unknown variable, especially at this point in your evolution. We have no idea if your music is marketable. And even if it is, you would have to tour to promote it, something KVA really can’t afford to finance. We simply cannot risk the unknown like that.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “We have a Japanese accountant and a certain character actor who would ream our asses out if we even considered such a thing.”

They all nodded solemnly at this, but they weren’t giving up quite yet. “What about another label?” asked Ben. “You could still manage us, Pauline, and maybe get us signed to one of the other record labels, couldn’t you?”

She was shaking her head. “I’m sorry guys, but it just won’t work. I’m not a highly connected music manager in the industry. I have some connections, of course, but I’m not well thought of. The best I could ever hope for would be to get someone to at least listen to a demo tape of you, but even if they agreed to sign you, they would push one of those first-time contracts on you. Jake has told you about those contracts, hasn’t he?”

“Yes,” Ben said slowly. “He did talk about the Intemperance contract a few times.”

“It’s a contract that virtually guarantees you will not make any actual money,” Jake said. “To put it kindly, you would be signing on to get raped in the ass with a sandpaper dildo.”

“Without sufficient lubrication on said artificial phallus,” put in Nerdly.

“And I absolutely will not have any part of signing anyone to a contract such as that,” Pauline said. “I would be the most awful hypocrite if I did, and I would not be able to look at myself in the mirror.”

“But couldn’t you negotiate us something better?” asked Ted. “You know, at least something like the second contract between Intemperance and National?”

“Hey now,” Jake said seriously. “No one ever said there was a second contract between Intemperance and National. That is nothing but speculation.”

“That’s right,” Pauline said. “But let’s talk theoretically for a moment here. If there was a second Intemperance contract—something that made sure the band at least made money for their efforts and removed the sandpaper from the dildo and allowed a little lube to be in place—there is no way in hell that any major label would agree to such a thing for an unknown band represented by me. It just wouldn’t fly. They wouldn’t even listen to me about it. I would quite literally be laughed out of any exec’s office for even suggesting such a thing.”

Lenny spoke up for the first time. “You don’t seem to be very confident in your abilities as a band manager,” he said.

She turned and locked eyes onto him. “I am an outstanding band manager,” she said, “and I have every confidence in my abilities. Part of what makes me effective in this role is my self-honesty. I am not blowing smoke up your ass, my friend. I do not do that. I am giving you a completely realistic assessment of that which you are proposing. The music industry is a brutal game with no clear set of rules. Unknown bands are chewed up and spit out by the industry on a daily basis—and those are the few that are even lucky enough to make it into the mouth to be chewed on. There is no way in hell that the four of you are going to be able to walk into any kind of profitable recording contract right now. Your odds of even getting screwed are pretty steep at this point. I’m sorry if that’s not what you want to hear, but that is the situation as I see it.”

“Damn,” Ted said, shaking his head. “What a bummer.”

“It is a bummer,” Jake had to agree. “It took us almost three years and two best selling albums just to get in a position where we could even think of negotiating with those fucks. And even after that, it was like pulling teeth for every step forward.”

“So ... you’re rejecting us then?” Lennie asked Pauline. “You won’t manage us?”

“I simply can’t be a part of even trying to set you up for exploitation,” she said. “I’m sorry. I wish it was otherwise.”

“How about if you just agreed to manage us for the club scene then?” asked Phil.

“How’s that?” Pauline asked.

“I still think you can help us,” Phil said. “Leave the recording contracts out of it. How about if you sign up to manage us and just use your influence to get us gigs in the clubs here in So-Cal?”

She wrinkled her brow in confusion. “I don’t have any connections in the clubs,” she said.

“You wouldn’t really have to,” Phil said. “We got this gig here today simply because we were part of Jake and Celia’s band on their album. If you just called up some of the more exclusive clubs in the region and told them you were Jake and Celia’s manager and were now representing us, they would probably at least give us auditions. I think we’re good enough that they would accept us if they heard us. We would pay your standard rate, of course.”

“Of course,” she said slowly. “And tell me, what did they pay you for this gig?”

“Uh ... well ... three hundred dollars,” Phil said.

“Three hundred dollars,” Pauline said. “My standard rate is twenty percent. So, let’s say I could get you gigs at other clubs for similar compensation. That means I would be making sixty dollars a gig, right?”

“Well ... I know it’s not much,” Phil admitted, “but our gig money would go up as we got more popular, right?”

“Especially if you’re in there negotiating for us,” added Ted.

“A good point,” Pauline said. “After a few months of doing this I might expect to start getting as much as a hundred dollars a gig for using my valuable time in this manner.”

“Uh ... well ... when you put it like that,” Ted said, “I guess it really doesn’t sound like much, does it?”

“It does not,” Pauline said.

“I have an idea,” Jake said.

“What’s that?” Pauline asked.

“Maybe there’s room for a deal here, a compromise of sorts.”

“Yeah?” Ted asked.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “We each have something the other wants. You need a manager to help you get better gigs and more exposure, right?”

“Right,” Ben said.

“And we need some professional level musicians to help us put two albums worth of songs together.”

“Right,” Ben said again. “We still have the problem of not being able to get leaves of absence to help you out with that though.”

“Summer is now here,” Jake said. “Ben, you’re off during the summer, correct?”

“I am,” he said.

“And Ted, you said there was a possibility of dropping to part-time and only working occasionally. Is that something you could do in the next two weeks?”

“Well ... they wouldn’t like it, but I could probably get them to agree to it.”

“And Phil, you’re pretty much wide open, right?”

“Pretty much,” he said. “They wouldn’t miss me too much down at the studios. But what about the band?”

“I’m getting there,” Jake said. “My proposal is that you come work with us through the summer in the KVA studios. Help us get our shit together until it’s time to go back to school. We’ll pay you the same rate as we did before and work the same hours. And then, when the summer is done, Pauline will sign on as your manager for the purpose of getting you club gigs around the region.”

“Now wait a minute,” Pauline protested. “Don’t you think you should’ve discussed this with me before proposing it?”

“What’s to discuss?” Jake asked. “I think I’m offering a fair deal here. You spend a few hours a week calling clubs and getting the boys booked places by throwing your name and ours around. You get your twenty percent, which will be able to keep you in beer money, right?”

“I’m not drinking much beer these days,” she reminded him.

“Oh ... right,” Jake said. “Diaper money then.”

“Diaper money?” asked Ted.

“Never mind that,” Pauline said, casting an evil glare at her brother.

“We might be open to something like that,” said Lenny, who seemed to be the unofficial leader of Lighthouse. “But what about me? What about Phil?”

“They’re included in the deal,” Jake said. “Phil can help us plug the backup singing in right from the workup phase. You can too, Paulie. And as for you, Lenny, well, I’m sure we can find some use for another talented guitar player.”

“Now hold up a second, Jake,” Pauline said, starting to get truly flustered now. “Are you suggesting that we pay Lennie and Phil—two musicians we do not truly need for the work-up process—fifty dollars an hour for sixty hours a week?”

“Yeah,” Jake said simply. “Trust me, we’ll find use for them.”

“But the expense...”

“Fuck the expense,” Jake said. “We’ve sold almost four and half million records so far. We can afford this, Paulie.”

“I don’t think Greg and Jill are going to like this idea very much,” Celia said.

“No,” Nerdly agreed. “It is highly probable they will vehemently protest the excessive outlay of operating expense funds in this phase of the project.”

Jake simply shrugged. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” he said.

“What about when the summer is over and it’s time to start recording?” Pauline asked. “What are we going to do for a bass player and a drummer at that point?”

“I guess we’ll have to find some studio musicians for the actual recording,” Jake said. “I’m sure Obie can point us in the right direction there. If not, National will probably be able to lend us some if they think it’ll give them an edge in future negotiations.”

“Then why don’t we just get the studio musicians now?” asked Pauline. “Are we making this whole thing more complicated than it has to be?”

“Not at all,” Jake said. “We’ll have to scrounge up a new sax player from somewhere, that’s true. And we still haven’t asked the mothers if they’re willing to do this whole thing again. As far as the bass player and the drummer go, however, I would rather work with Ben and Ted here for the workup stage. It is my opinion—and I’m sure that Celia will agree with me here—that initially working up the tunes from the composition stage into the basic layout is the most important part of the entire process.”

“Absolutely,” Celia agreed.

“We know Ben and Ted,” Jake said. “We know how they work and they know how we work. That familiarity is important to this step and will save us considerable time and, I think, will produce a superior product in the end.”

Pauline sighed. She looked at Celia. “Is he jerking me off, C?” she asked.

Celia shook her head. “He is not jerking you off,” she assured her.

Another sigh. “All right,” she said. “It’s against my better judgement, and I don’t know how we’re going to explain all this to Jill and Greg, but I’ll agree if they will. I’ll manage them for club gigs—and club gigs only—if they get us through the summer.”

Jake smiled. He turned to the members of Lighthouse. “Well, boys. The ball is in your court. What do you say?”

“It’s ... it’s ... a very interesting offer,” Ben said.

“Hell to the yeah,” Ted agreed.

“Would all of this be in writing?” Lenny asked.

Pauline nodded. “It’s the only way we do business,” she said. “Everything will be spelled out in clear, concise language down to the last detail.”

The band members all looked at each other again.

“What do we think?” asked Phil.

“I say we do it,” Ted said. “I love working with these guys and fifty bones an hour is nothing to scoff at.”

“True,” said Lenny. “But it would mean no more Lighthouse for almost three months. We might start to lose our cohesion.”

“If you guys lose your cohesion after only a three-month break, you never had it to begin with,” Jake said.

“The man has a point,” said Ben.

“I’ll tell you what though,” Jake said. “Let me sweeten the pot a bit. You agree to this thing, and we’ll grant you unlimited use of the KVA studio building for rehearsals once we start the actual recording process and don’t need to use it anymore.”

“Your studio?” asked Ben.

“Once we don’t need it anymore,” Jake clarified.

“Wow,” Ted said. “It’s a pretty nice fucking studio. A lot better than your garage, Len.”

“No shit?” Lenny asked.

“No shit,” Ted assured him.

They passed another look among each other and then came to a silent agreement among themselves.

“All right,” Lenny said. “We’re in.”

Penn Hills, Pennsylvania

June 6, 1993

The warehouse that National Records had rented for Bobby Z and his band to rehearse in was not in the greatest neighborhood in the Pittsburgh metropolitan area. It was in the township of Penn Hills, a high crime suburb on the outskirts of the city. Full of tenement buildings, public housing, streets lined with liquor stores with bars on the windows, and shabby post-war duplexes, it was not the kind of place you wanted to stroll the streets on at night—or even during the day really.

The building itself was in the industrial section of the township, near the railroad switching yard and a few blocks away from one of the shabbiest of the shabby neighborhoods. In the warehouse’s heyday, which had been from the end of the Korean war when it was built, up to the midpoint of the Vietnam war, it had been an important storage facility for manufactured aluminum products produced by one of the metals industry leaders. Until Bobby Z and company took up temporary residence in it, however, it had been abandoned and for sale for years. It had been necessary to evict a gaggle of homeless squatters from the interior before the power could be connected and the band equipment moved in. The walls inside were covered from floor to ceiling with gang graffiti, much of which dated back fifteen years or more. And, though the owners had hired someone to clean the place up, not a day went by without someone stumbling across an old hypodermic syringe or a used condom.

The stage had been set up near the rear of the 50,000 square foot building, in the corner furthest from where the line of truck docks was located. It was through these sliding doors that the unwanted transient visitors typically entered. Two members of the tour security force were present in the warehouse at all times, both to the protect the musicians, technicians and managers and to prevent the theft of the equipment itself. Sitting on the stage was a ten-piece single bass drum kit, a scattering of microphone stands, stacks of Marshall amplifiers, and the microphoned Baby Grand piano that Bobby Z himself played. All of these instruments were wired into an elevated sound and control board, staffed by a few longhaired technicians, that sat in the center of the warehouse—about where it would in one of the venues the group played in. Above the stage was a scaffolding holding various spotlights that would shine down on the musicians. Sitting in front of the soundboard were a few chairs were Stan Jacobs, the tour manager, and few of his assistances sat.

“All right, everyone,” Stan announced as their morning officially began. “No need to go crazy with the lighting or the theatrics. We’re still just trying to get Miss Laura plugged in for now.”

“I wouldn’t mind plugging into her,” one of the sound techs said to the other techs through the microphone and headset system they shared.

“You got that shit right,” said one of the others. “She’s a lot better looking than Dex ever was.”

“Probably doesn’t suck dick as well though,” remarked the lighting operator.

“I don’t know,” returned the first. “She’s Jake Kingsley’s old lady. If she wasn’t up to standards, I bet he would’ve paid for professional dick sucking lessons for her.”

Laura, who along with the rest of the band, heard none of this conversation, was at her assigned microphone stand just to the right of Bobby Z’s piano. Unlike several of the other stands, hers only had an instrument mic and not one for vocals. It had been determined rather quickly in the process that using the redhead for backup singing on some of the tunes that needed it was not helpful to their cause. A music stand stood next to her mic stand and contained the sheet music for the tunes they were doing (although the goal was to lose this accessory as soon as possible). She held her alto sax in hand and was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was the only female member of the band or the crew. She was also, thanks to Pauline’s negotiating skills and the fact that National desperately needed her to continue the tour, the highest paid member of the tour other than Z himself. For this gig she was being paid a weekly salary based on what Jake and Celia had been paying her—fifty dollars an hour—multiplied by the average of sixty hours per week of actual work. In addition, it was written that she would be given her own hotel room at each stop and her own private, enclosed bunk in the tour bus.

“How about we take it from the top to start the day?” asked Z, as everyone called him. He sat in a chair behind the piano. He was in his late thirties and had a head of dark hair that was meticulously styled even though this was only a rehearsal and not a performance. He was skinny and wiry, his thin arms on display thanks to the tank top he wore. He had on a pair of cut-off jeans that fell to just above his knobby knees.

“Sounds good to me,” said Stan. “We can skip the intro piano solo though. Laura is not in that part and this is all for her benefit. Just hit it from the first notes.”

“Right,” Z said, looking at Eric Bland, known as ‘Squiggle’, who played the trumpet, and Ross Salazar, known as ‘Sally’ who played trombone. Neither of them was featured in the opening song, Crying in the Dark. They nodded and set their instruments down on stands behind their microphone stations, and then walked over to the stage left area.

“All right,” Z said, playing a few random notes on his piano. “Are we ready to do this thing? Homer?”

John “Homer” Coyle was the drummer and one of the primary backup singers. “I’m ready,” he assured Z.

“How about you, Groove?” Rob asked the bass player, Russel Steele, who was called ‘Groove’. He did not play an electric bass on stage. Instead, he had his arms wrapped around a microphoned stand-up double bass that stood six and a half feet tall and was played pizzicato, or by plucking the strings instead of using a bow.

“Ready for Freddy,” Groove assured him. As if to show this, he plucked out a brief serious of notes.

“And you, Laura?” Z asked next. She had yet to be given a nickname. They had wanted to call her ‘Red’, naturally, but she had told them in no uncertain terms to come up with something else. They agreed to this but they were still getting to know her—and she them—and nothing that seemed to fit had been determined as of yet.

“I’m ready,” she said with confidence. This was the second week of rehearsals and she thought she was doing pretty well. It helped that she had always been a Bobby Z fan and was very familiar with all of the tunes on his first three albums and several of the tunes on his newest release.

“Okay then,” Z said. “Crying in the Dark. Give us a four count, Homer.”

Homer gave them a four count with his drum sticks and they launched into the tune. Since it was one of the songs from the new album, and thus not one she was as familiar with, Laura had to keep her eyes on the sheet music. Her playing was a bit listless through this one, but nobody faulted her for it, understanding that she was still trying to memorize her parts. Proper phrasing would come later.

They ran through Dark three times, including having to stop and restart twice, and then began working on the next song in the set, Eyes of Blue, which was from Z’s second album. Laura did not need the sheet music for this one—it was one of her favorite Bobby Z songs—and did not even bother turning the page to it. She shined, playing her parts with proper phrasing and not making a single error or missing a single note. Nevertheless, Z had them run through the tune two more times, just to make sure they had it down.

By this time everyone was hot and sweaty despite the fact that they had been swilling down Gatorade like it was going out of style. There was no air conditioning in the warehouse and they were in western Pennsylvania in the summer. It was hot and muggy.

“Let’s take ten, guys,” Z told everyone. “Maybe even fifteen.”

Everyone left the stage and the soundboard and scattered around the room in various groups. Z and Stan sat together on the instrument cases and lit cigarettes while sipping from their Gatorade. Homer, the drummer, picked up another bottle of Gatorade and drifted over to talk to one of the security guys. Laura sat down on the edge of the stage and picked up her own bottle of Gatorade. Her mouth was very dry. Sally and Squiggle both came and sat next to her. Sally lit up a smoke. Squiggle took out a piece of gum and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey, guys,” Laura greeted, offering a slight flash of her smile.

Sally only nodded. He was a man of few words, Laura had found, and he always seemed to be scowling. Squiggle, on the other hand, liked to talk and make jokes. He was in his early thirties, appeared to be in decent enough shape, and had a mop of long blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. His arms were covered in tattoos, most of which were music related.

“You’re doing pretty good, Laura,” he told her. “I think we might be able to get back out there in a couple of weeks at this rate.”

“Do you really think so?” she asked doubtfully. She felt worlds away from being ready to actually step out on a stage before an audience.

“I do,” he said. “You seem to be a quick study. You’re definitely a natural with your instrument. Been playing all your life?”

“Ever since grade school,” she confirmed.

“Yeah, me too,” he said. “I was in the music program in fourth grade and could have picked any instrument available—I didn’t really have a preference at that point—and what did I pick? The goddamn trumpet.” He shook his head a little. “You ever heard of a rich trumpeter?”

“Louis Armstrong,” she said immediately.

Squiggle chuckled. “He’s the exception that proves the rule. I got a joke for you. What’s the best way to make a million dollars playing jazz?”

“Uh ... I don’t know,” she said.

“Start off with two million,” he told her, laughing at his own humor.

She laughed along with him, the expression genuine. For those who played jazz, it was a true statement.

“Do you play anything else?” she asked.

“I’ve played around with the sax, the piano, a couple of the woodwinds, and the harmonica, of course. The trumpet has always been what I’m best at though, the only one I can really feel, if you can dig that.”

“I can,” she said truthfully. To feel one’s instrument meant that one would reach a level when playing it in which it felt as if the instrument was an extension of your body and your brain, that you could just envision the notes in your mind and your mouth, fingers, or any other body part involved would just automatically do what they needed to do to produce that note without conscious thought. “I feel the sax when I play it. I always have.”

“I can tell,” he said. “You know, we were a little antsy when Z told us you were going to replace Dex on the sax.”

“He’s a hard act to follow,” she admitted. “I was more than a little nervous about even trying to fill his shoes.”

“Don’t be,” Squiggle told her. “You’ve got the talent. I won’t say you’re as good as Dex is—that’s hard to do because he’s one of the best there is—but I’ll put you in the same league with him.”

“I think that’s a compliment,” she said.

“That’s how I intended it,” he said. “Hey, here’s another one: You’re locked in a room with Saddam Hussein, Muammar Gaddafi, and Kenny G. You have a gun but it only has two bullets in it. What do you do?”

A smile came to her face. “I don’t know,” she said. “What do I do?”

“Shoot Kenny G twice,” Squiggle told her.

They both laughed a considerable amount at this one. It was jazz humor at its finest. Though Kenny G was admired and loved by the non-musically sophisticated masses, he was despised as a hacking sellout by any true jazz musician.

“God, I’m so sweaty,” Laura said when the laughter died down. “I thought it was warm in LA.”

“Yeah, nothing like Pennsylvania in the summer,” Squiggle said. “Once we get you up to snuff and start hitting the road again, we’ll be heading south down the eastern seaboard. It’s only gonna get hotter and muggier.”

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

“Life on the road,” he said. “At least the bus has good air conditioning. Sometimes I sleep in it instead of the motel room. The cheap places they put us up in don’t always have working air conditioning or heat.”

“They don’t?”

He shook his head. “That’s what you get for choosing jazz,” he said. “They spare lots of expenses for our tours. Cheap motels to stay in and cheap venues to play in. Occasionally, we’ll get a little food poisoning from the cheap caterers.” He chuckled. “Nothing like trying to clench the old butt cheeks together to keep from having an accident when you’re only three songs into the set.”

“That sounds horrible,” she said.

“It builds character,” Squiggle told her.

“What happens if you can’t ... you know ... hold it?”

“You’ll find a way,” he assured her. “You can’t leave the stage and you can’t let it go while you’re up there. The show must go on, right?”

“The show must go on,” she agreed. “Thank you for giving me one more thing to worry about.”

“My pleasure,” he said.

They sat in silence for a few minutes—not exactly a companionable silence, but not exactly an uncomfortable one either. Finally, Laura broke it. “Why do they call you Squiggle?” she asked.

“Because I’m left-handed,” he said.

“Come again?” she asked. She had noticed that he was left-handed—it was quite obvious from the way he fingered the valves on his instrument—but she did not see the connection to the nickname.

“Left-handed people have terrible handwriting,” he explained. “When I first hooked up with Z, they put me in charge of ordering supplies. Several of my order sheets got sent back because no one could read my squiggles on the paper.” He smiled. “And that’s the genesis of a nickname.”

“Interesting,” she said.

“And advantageous too,” he said. “They stopped asking me to do the supply orders within a month.”

“Hmm ... Squiggle,” she said. “I kind of like it. Are you all still working on a nickname for me?”

He shrugged. “It’s not like a committee thing where we sit down and try out names to see what we think. Something will come up and it’ll stick. Trust me on this.”

“Can I make some suggestions?” she asked.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “You don’t get to pick your own nickname. That’s a law.”

“Is it now?” she asked.

“I think that’s in the constitution,” he said. “And if it’s not, it should be.”

A few minutes later they went back to work. They made their way slowly through each song of the set before breaking for lunch at 12:30. The food was greasy hamburgers and French fries from a nearby McDonalds. After lunch, they carried on until just before five o’clock, when Z called an end to the day’s session.

The two security guards were left to guard the warehouse while the rest of the crew climbed on the tour bus for the trip back to their lodgings. They were staying at a Motel 6 just south of downtown Pittsburgh, again, not in the best of neighborhoods. Laura went to her room—she was the only one, including Z himself, who had a private room—and stripped off her sweaty, smelly clothes and took a cold shower. She contemplated masturbating while she showered but, in the end, just didn’t have the energy for it.

The entire group met in the motel’s dining room for a tasteless, cheap dinner that went on National Records’ tab. It was not terribly satisfying. After dinner, Laura went to her room and dialed long distance to Los Angeles (Pauline had insisted in negotiations that Laura be granted unlimited use of long-distance phone calls at every lodging they stayed in).

“Hey, babe,” Jake greeted when he picked up the phone. “How was the day?”

“Hot and miserable,” she said, “but we’re making progress.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m starting to think I’ll really be able to pull this thing off.”

They talked for about twenty minutes, Laura describing her day and Jake telling her the news about Ben and Ted and Phil and Lenny agreeing to play with them for the summer. Laura was genuinely glad to hear this. A large part of her wished that she had refused this particular opportunity and would be in LA playing with them. But she had already done that. She had never toured with a jazz group before—and it was Bobby Z!

“I love you, hon,” Jake told her when the conversation finally wrapped up.

“I love you too, sweetie,” she assured him. “I’ll call you again tomorrow night, if I can.”

They hung up and Laura sat on the edge of her bed for a moment, pondering the thought of going over to the bar next door and getting a drink to help her sleep. In the end, however, she was just too tired. She stripped down to her panties and then turned off the lights. She had the air conditioner on high but it was still hot and sticky in the room. She lay directly atop the covers and curled up to go to sleep.

Tomorrow, she would do it all again.

Jake and Celia and the band that still had no name—but did have a few additional members now—got together for the first time the following Monday. The mothers had both agreed to play with them as well, but, as of yet, they were still in Cypress. The new projects had not yet even advanced to the point where they even knew which tunes were going to need a violin or a piano, or both.

Indeed, much of that first day was spent just setting things up. Ted’s drum set needed to be assembled atop the platform and then microphoned to the exacting perfection standards of the Nerdlys who, if anything, were actually getting more anal as they aged (if such a thing were possible). Once the drums were set, the amplifiers, the electric piano, the synthesizer, and then each individual instrument had to be adjusted, sound-checked, folded, mutilated and spindled, and then the entire ensemble had to be mixed together so that the sound coming out of the primary speakers sounded as optimum as they could make it.

“All right, guys,” Jake finally declared as they neared the three o’clock hour. “I think we’ve got audio output we can live with for rehearsal now.”

“I don’t know, Jake,” Sharon said, still frowning. “I’m still not quite happy with the high-end output coming out of the stringed instruments.”

“I agree,” Nerdly agreed. “It seems to me that if we just tweak the...”

“No more tweaking, please!” Celia pleaded.

“Right,” Jake said. “We’re not recording here, guys. We just need to be able to hear what we produce. I think we should get started.”

“Well ... I guess so,” Sharon said, clearly unhappy with this.

“If you insist, Jake,” Nerdly said. He was not happy either.

“I insist,” Jake said. “Let’s see what we got.”

They didn’t get very far in the next two hours. Jake had a total of twelve tunes he had put together as possibles for the next album and Celia had fourteen. They were able to do little more than just introduce a few of these prospects to the band by strumming them out on their acoustic guitars.

Over the next four days, however, they were able to develop a rhythm and start to fall into the groove a little bit. They reinstated the pattern in which they would work on each artist’s material on alternating days. Celia was assigned Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday for her tunes. Jake took Monday, Wednesday and Friday. On Jake’s days he started working primarily on his two favorite tunes—one a mellow piece called Standing Up High, the other a harder rocking piece called On the Water’s Edge—typically spending half of each day on each. On Celia’s days, she liked to concentrate primarily on one tune—it was called Should We Believe? and it was a profound examination of the religious beliefs she had been raised with—for most of the day and then begin playing around with the basics of some of her other tunes when burnout with Believe started to creep in (as it inevitably did after six hours or so).

Jill and Greg had indeed been upset to learn that Jake, Celia and Pauline had committed KVA Records to pay fifty dollars an hour to two musicians who were not really needed at all during this phase of the production. However, when the situation was explained to them, they’d reluctantly signed off on it. As it turned out, both Lenny and Phil were making themselves useful—perhaps not fifty dollars an hour useful, but useful nonetheless. Lenny, in addition to playing the guitar, could also play the piano. He was no Cindy Archer at it, but for simply playing out a melody as directed, he was more than adequate. He could also play a pretty mean harmonica and, though neither Jake nor Celia had envisioned any harmonica in their tunes, it was now an option as they started to work them up. And Phil, though he was not skillful with any musical instrument save his voice, did have an ear for music and was able to make suggestions and participate in discussions on how to put things together. He was also a good runner, going out for guitar strings, food supplies, beer, or anything else needed to keep the operation rolling. When none of these tasks were needed at a particular moment in time, he would hang out with Sharon at the sound board and help her by being a runner to whatever piece of equipment needed adjustment or manipulation.

One thing that did become clear before the first week was up, however, was that they needed to get a saxophone player as soon as feasible. Celia really liked how Laura’s playing had enhanced her last album and made it what it was and she had sax melodies and sax solos in mind for well over half of the tunes in her collection. Jake too had two of his tunes in which he thought a good sax would fit in. For the basic workups they could always use Nerdly on his synthesizer to simulate sax sounds, but they were poor imitations and did not usually convey what a skilled player with a real instrument would sound like.

“Fucking Bobby Z,” Jake complained during the lunch break on Friday. “Not only does he take my girlfriend away, thus cutting me off from my supply of sexual gratification, he takes our goddamn sax player as well.”

“At least you won’t have to worry about Bobby trying to fornicate with her,” Nerdly said. “It is my understanding he prefers external genitalia on his sexual partners.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” put in Phil, who preferred the same thing.

“I was not trying to imply that anything was amiss with that orientation,” Nerdly told him. “I was just pointing out a piece of information that, while not completely verified beyond a reasonable doubt, has been suggested and implied enough that it could be considered a likely hypothesis.”

“Uh ... yeah, of course,” Phil said, still trying to translate all that in his head.

“Wow,” Lenny said, awe in his voice. “You really do talk like that, Bill. It isn’t just media hype or image shaping.”

“Talk like what?” asked Nerdly. “Did my voice sound strange?”

“I have an idea,” Celia said.

“Let’s hear it,” Jake told her.

“Since Bobby Z stole our sax player from us, how about we steal his?”

Everyone looked at her. It seemed like a simple solution to their problem, but was it really?

“You’re suggesting we try to recruit Dexter Price to play sax for us? The Dexter Price.”

“Why not?” Celia asked. “He seems to be out of a job at the moment, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t think he will be for long,” Jake said. “He’s probably the hottest thing that blows a horn in the country today. Laura says he’s like Kenny G, except he can actually play. Someone will snatch him up in a heartbeat.”

“Why can’t that someone be us?” Celia asked.

Jake had to admit that she had a point there.

“Do you think he would play with us?” asked Sharon.

“If he did, I believe he would request a considerable amount of financial compensation for his efforts,” said Nerdly.

“True,” said Jake. “Laura mentioned to me once that he was pulling in a hundred an hour when he was with Bobby Z.”

“A hundred an hour?” Celia said. “That’s twice what we paid Laura!”

“It is,” Sharon said. “And I’m not inclined to think that he’s twice as good as Laura.”

“Laura gets royalties from the album though,” Jake said. “Maybe he’d be willing to go fifty for a piece of the royalties?”

“Perhaps,” Nerdly said. “This all sounds like something we should be talking to Pauline about.”

“That it does,” Jake agreed. “Phil, is Paulie still here?”

“Last time I went out to get ice she was in her office,” he said. “That was about forty minutes ago.”

“Go drag her in here, will you?” Jake asked. “Don’t tell her what it’s about. Just say we need to talk to her about something.”

“Right,” Phil said, standing up.

Dexter Price was a light skinned black man, short, stocky, his curly hair buzzed short. Though he was a self-proclaimed homosexual and quite proud of it, he did not display any of the mannerisms or speech typically associated with his sexuality. His voice was deep and without even the barest hint of a lisp. He dressed fashionably but without flamboyance of any kind. He sat firmly in the chair provided to him, with no crossing of the legs, no bending of the wrists. He did, however, exude a definite air of confidence in his abilities—almost an arrogance.

“What do you think of progressive rock music?” Jake asked him. He was sitting on the drum platform, sipping from a glass of iced tea that Phil had made. Celia and the Nerdlys were sitting next to him. Pauline sat in one of the chairs. The rest of the band members were at their stations, except for Phil, who was sitting at the soundboard in Sharon’s usual spot.

“I have nothing against it,” Dexter said with a shrug. “It’s a new evolution in the basic rock and roll formula, nothing particularly groundbreaking.”

“Do you like rock and roll music?” asked Celia.

Another shrug. “I like any genre that is done with honesty and good musicianship. Rap, pop music, rock music, even country. On the other hand, I dislike any music of any genre that is dishonest or made for the purpose of profit only.”

“Could you give me an example of a particular band or artist you do not like?”

“Jesus, where do I start?” he said with a chuckle. “The first one that comes to mind is the Beastie Boys. I despise them. They are nothing but a comedy act that appeals to the tone deaf.”

“They’ve sold over twenty million records,” Pauline pointed out.

He gave her a sharp look. “If you think that just because a band sells twenty million albums they are worthy of musical respect, then perhaps we are wasting each other’s time here.”

“No, not at all,” Jake said. “You are entirely correct about the Beastie Boys. They suck ass. They more than suck ass, really. There are certain groups or artists that, if someone even likes them, I automatically lose all respect for that person musically. The Beastie Boys are extremely high on that list.”

Dexter nodded as he heard this, a smile on his face. “You’re feeling me, Jake,” he said.

“I am,” Jake said. “Now, for the big question. What do you think about my work? About Celia’s? Honesty, please.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Dexter said. He looked at Jake. “I like the stuff you did with Intemperance a lot. It’s a heavy sound, not what I’m normally into, you understand, but it has feeling, it has soul. Your lyrics are some of the best I’ve ever heard and Matt Tisdale’s guitar playing ... a work of art, truly it is.”

“That’s good to hear,” Jake said.

Dexter then looked at Celia. “As for La Diferencia ... well ... I can’t say that I cared much for the work you did in those days. Sorry. It was formulistic pop music designed to appeal to the masses by using hook lines and catchy choruses. The only thing redeeming about it was your voice, which is simply beautiful, and the acoustic guitar playing on a few of the cuts.”

Celia nodded. “I can’t say I disagree with you on that,” she told him. “We started out in a mold that was cast for us by Aristocrat Records. They never changed the mold even though I begged and pleaded with them to give me more artistic freedom. I do appreciate that you appreciate my voice and my guitar work, however.”

“I call things as I see them,” Dexter said.

“Yes, you do,” Celia agreed. “Now, since you would be primarily working on my tunes if you accept this position, I have to know. What do you think of my solo work? What is your opinion of the songs you’ve heard from The Struggle?”

Dexter smiled at her. “I own a copy of the CD,” he told her.

“You do?” she asked, surprised and pleased.

“I do,” he said. “I bought it shortly after hearing your second release—Playing Those Games—on the radio. I really enjoyed the song The Struggle itself—a very good use of sax for melody in that piece, by the way—and when I heard Playing Those Games, I knew I had to hear what the rest of your stuff was about. I am quite pleased with my decision to purchase that disc. I listen to it frequently and I can truly say I got my twelve dollars and eighty-nine cents worth out of it.”

Celia was now beaming at him. “That’s good to hear coming from you,” she said.

He shrugged a little and then turned back to Jake. “I own a copy of Can’t Keep Me Down as well,” he told him. “I believe it shows a significant expansion of your musical boundaries since the Intemperance days. The acoustic guitar work is some of the best I’ve ever heard, and your lyrics ... classic Jake Kingsley musings about life and relationships.”

“So ... you like it then?” Jake asked.

“I like it,” he confirmed.

“Then you are considering our offer?” Jake asked him.

“Obviously I’m considering it or I wouldn’t have come here, sax in hand, would I?”

“Good point,” Jake allowed.

“Has it occurred to you,” Dexter enquired, “that maybe you won’t like my playing? What do you know about me? How much of my work have you heard?”

“I’ve heard enough,” Jake said. “Laura and I had a little contest with each other back while we were recording the first albums. She’s primarily into jazz, you see, and did not care for anything outside that genre. I had never really gotten into jazz before meeting her. And so, we would each present the other with an example of the genre we were trying to introduce from our respective music collections. One of the albums she gave to me was Bobby Z’s Come Again CD, which featured Dexter Price on the sax. She let me know that it was the sax playing that truly made the album one of her favorites. And she was right. I was impressed with your playing. I also have listened quite extensively to Downwind, the album Bobby Z just released—the one that Laura is finishing up the tour for. Again, the sax is what makes the music happen.”

Dexter nodded appreciatively. “Fair enough,” he said. “And what about you, Celia? You say that most of my work will be with you on your cuts. Do you enjoy my playing as well?”

“I do,” she said. “I’ll admit that I hadn’t listened to much of your work until your name came up as a possible player here in our little band, but once it did, I purchased all CDs that feature your work and I have been listening to them every night. I am enthralled.”

“What’s your favorite?” he asked her.

She thought for a moment and then said, “That’s not an easy question to answer, but I’ll give it a try. As far as melodies go, I think your work on the song Inside Out on Bobby’s most recent album is the most moving as far as eliciting an emotional response and fitting the theme of the lyrics. As for solos, I have to say the outro to Going My Way on the album you did with Val Ignatius is probably the best, although I have yet to really hear a solo or a melody from you that is not pleasant to the ear.”

This brought a smile to Dexter’s face. “I see you really have done your homework,” he told her. “All right. I’m willing to give this thing a shot, if we can all play together and if we can come to terms on a contract.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said. “Shall we play a little? See how we do?”

“Let’s do it,” Dexter said, standing up and walking over to his saxophone case, which was sitting near the guitars.

Of course, it was not a simple matter of just having Dexter stand up and start playing. There were the Nerdlys to contend with. For the better part of an hour they fiddled around with the microphone, the amplifier, the controls on the sound board, and the volume on the speakers until they had him almost to their idea of perfection in sound reproduction. Dexter, for his part, did not complain about their ministrations. In truth, he seemed to actually respect it.

“All right then,” Celia said when it was finally time to start playing something. “This is the first song we’ve been working on and it’s going to need some alto sax for the secondary melody. It’s called Should We Believe?.”

“A good title,” Dexter allowed.

“It’s a quad, in the key of G-major, at one hundred beats throughout. Jake is playing the primary melody with a mildly distorted electric, I’ve been doing rhythm acoustic guitar, and Lenny has been giving us a few piano fills on the in-betweens. What I would be looking for out of you, Dexter, is a nice, even secondary melody to help backfill and then a solo just after the bridge.”

“All right,” said Dexter. “Let’s hear what you got.”

“We will,” Celia just. “Just keep a few things in mind before you judge us too much. We’ve only been working on this for a week, so it’s still pretty rough around the edges.”

“And I’m not a professional pianist by any means,” added Lenny. “I’m just here to plug in and keep things moving.”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “Nerdly’s mom will eventually be playing the piano parts, just like she did on the first album.”

“I know what songs in the early stages sound like,” Dexter assured them. “I won’t judge anyone on that basis.”

“All right then,” Celia said. “Let’s do this.”

They did it, going through the first two verses and working their way to the bridge. No major mistakes were made, but the tune was very basic at this point. Still, Dexter was nodding his head to the melody, tapping his foot to the beat. Just at the point where Celia was envisioning the saxophone solo, they came to a halt, Celia ceasing her playing first followed by everyone else in a disorganized jangle of instruments.

“Well,” Jake asked. “What do you think?”

“It’s got some potential,” Dexter told them. “I like that melody a lot. Did you come up with that, Celia?”

“I came up with the basics of it,” she said. “Once we started working it, Jake helped shape it to some degree.”

“That’s a good way to work,” Dexter said. “That means y’all are open to suggestions?”

“We are,” Celia confirmed.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. “Start from the beginning again. Let me see if I can plug myself in, if I can get into your groove, if that makes sense.”

That made sense. They started the tune over, playing with a little more confidence now. Dexter let them get through the first verse and the first chorus and then, when they started the second verse, he began to play. It was gentle, flowing melody that complimented the primary melody being played out by Jake, standing beside and slightly behind it, but not overwhelming it in any way. It was a little rough, of that there could be no doubt, but for a first-time contribution to the tune—especially since Dexter had only heard the tune once—it was impressive to behold. It had vast potential for improvement and refinement. Everyone in the room—even Pauline—was impressed.

“Well?” Dexter asked when they’d stopped playing. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m ready to talk terms,” said Jake.

“Yes,” said Celia. “Me too.”

Dexter proved himself a shrewd negotiator. He knew he was in a position of strength and he took full advantage of it. Jake and Celia needed him. He did not necessarily need them. For him to sign onto the project, it would have to be made worth his while.

He outright laughed at their offer of fifty dollars an hour for sessions, stating he would not do it for a penny less than a hundred and fifty an hour.

“National was only paying you a hundred an hour for working with Bobby Z,” Pauline felt compelled to remind him.

“That was then, this is now,” Dexter returned. “I was doing Z a favor by working for that little. He and I had a thing, you know.”

“Yeah, we heard about that,” Jake said. “How about seventy-five?”

“One hundred and fifty,” Dexter insisted. “And I want the entire weekend off. I will not work on Saturdays and only have the Lord’s day as my day off.”

“Do you go to church?” Nerdly asked.

“What is this, a religious discussion now?” Dexter asked.

“No, not at all,” Jake said. “Nerdly was just making conversation.”

“Indeed,” Nerdly said. “I was just curious about your worship habits. You see, Sharon and I are both of the Hebrew faith and we are unable to attend services at the Temple while we’re working on these projects because, in our faith, those services take place on Saturdays. Of course, our Rabbi is very understanding about...”

“I think we’re moving into irrelevancies here,” Dexter interrupted. “I’m holding firm to one hundred fifty and Saturdays off. Once we agree to that, we can start working on the incidentals.”

“Incidentals?” Pauline asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Travel expenses, healthcare costs, hours per day of work before overtime compensation kicks in, contributions to my retirement fund.”

“Retirement fund?” asked Pauline incredulously.

“Of course,” he said. “I have an IRA plan that I contribute twelve percent of my income to. You have to plan for the future, you know. I would ask that KVA Records match my contributions to this plan up to ten percent of the total yearly salary I am paid.”

Jake and Pauline looked at each other, bewildered. “Are you saying,” Pauline finally summarized, “that you want us to pay you an extra ten percent above what we already pay you and put it in your retirement fund?”

“That is correct,” Dexter said. “That does come out pre-tax, you know, so it’s not actually as much as you think it is.”

“We’ve never done anything like that before,” Pauline said.

Dexter shrugged. “You’ve never asked Dexter Price to play sax for you before. In any case, that’s an incidental, only to be discussed after we’ve agreed on the basics. As of yet, you have not agreed to a base hourly rate of one hundred and fifty dollars per hour with Saturdays off. Let us agree to that first, shall we?”

“Seventy-five an hour,” Jake suddenly said.

Dexter shook his head sternly. “There is no negotiation on the hourly rate,” he insisted. “Offer me less than one-fifty again, and I’m walking.”

“What about royalties?” Jake asked.

This got Dexter’s attention. “Royalties?”

“Is Bobby Z paying royalties to you?” Jake asked. “Is Val Ignatius? Or did you just get session pay for being a major part of the success of those musicians?”

“I just got session pay,” Dexter said. “And I’m hot commodity. That is why I insist on a high hourly rate for my work and a contribution to my retirement. I’m hot now and I can command that. Who knows what the future will bring? The only money I’m going to get out of you people is what you pay me while I’m actually working for you.”

“That’s not how we work, Dexter,” Jake said.

“Are you saying you pay royalties to your session musicians?” he asked.

“Laura got one percent of Celia’s album and an eighth of a percent for mine,” Jake said. “Ted, Ben, and the mothers of Nerdly and I all got one percent of both albums. We’re prepared to offer you royalties, but you’re going to have to come down on the hourlies and work out your retirement and your healthcare on your own.”

“I’m listening,” Dexter said.

“Seventy-five an hour, you get Saturdays off, you get time and a half for anything over eight hours in a day, not including lunch, and you get one percent royalties on Celia’s album and a half percent on mine.”

Dexter thought that over for a moment. “One hundred an hour,” he countered. “Time and a half after eight, including lunch, two percent on Celia’s album and one percent on yours. Oh ... and I get the entirety of Pride Week off, with pay.”

They went back and forth a few more times, settling at last on eighty dollars an hour, time and a half after eight not including lunch, one and a half percent royalties on Celia’s album, three quarters of a percent on Jake’s, and he got all of Pride Week off without pay.

“Deal,” Dexter said, holding out his hand to Jake.

“Welcome aboard,” Jake said, shaking with him.

“I’ll get all this written up by the end of the session today,” Pauline said.

“You do that,” Dexter said. “And, once I have my lawyer look it over, we’ll be in business.”

Albany, New York

June 25, 1993

“Nervous?” Squiggle asked Laura, who was pacing in small circles around one of the equipment boxes.

“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. “Extremely.”

They were backstage in the historic Palace Theater in downtown Albany. More than three thousand fans of Bobby Z were out in the seats, waiting for the show to start. It was Laura’s first show. They had rehearsed up the set over and over again, including three straight run-throughs of full dress rehearsals over the past two days before leaving Pittsburgh, and she had performed well, without making any mistakes, but nonetheless, she was suffering from a considerable case of stage fright right now. This was Bobby Z she was playing with here! And she had never performed before so many people before. Back in her jazz band days in college, they had considered two hundred people to be a good crowd. There were more than three thousand out there now! Three thousand!

“You don’t need to worry at all,” Squiggle told her. “You’re gonna kick some ass out there, Teach.”

She smiled as she heard the nickname they had been calling her for the past week now. It had been Squiggle who had come up with it, of course. As Laura had played with and bonded with the group during their time in Pittsburgh, any and all attempts to come up with a suitable nickname that did not somehow involve a reference to her red hair had failed. It had been noticed, however, that whenever Laura introduced herself to someone, she did not say: “I’m a saxophone player”. Instead, she would say, “I’m a teacher who plays saxophone.” And so, one day, Squiggle just started calling her “Teach”. It caught on instantly and Laura was actually quite pleased with it.

“What if I mess up?” she asked Squiggle now.

“Then you mess up,” he told her. “You cover it the best you can and play on. We’ve all done that a time or two.”

“You have?”

“Of course,” Squiggle told her. “We’re human. We make mistakes. You just try to make as few as possible and learn to cover them up when you do make them.” He reached out and rubbed her shoulder companionably. “You’re gonna be fine, Teach. I’ve watched you play. You’ve got this.”

She smiled, actually feeling a little better from his words. “I got this,” she repeated.

“Damn straight,” he said. He looked up at the timer on the wall. “Three more minutes. Did you remember to pee?”

“I tried,” she said. “Nothing came out.”

He nodded. “It happens. I like your outfit, by the way.” She was wearing a thin green summer dress that fell to just above her knees. It clung to her curves alluringly and showed off her bare legs. Her feet were clad in a pair of Nike cross trainers with ankle socks.

“It was Z’s idea,” she said. “He thought having me look cute and feminine up on stage would make the audience bond with me a little more.”

He looked her up and down appreciably. “You’ve achieved that goal,” he told her. “You are incredibly cute.”

She blushed, feeling the warmth rise in her face. “Thanks,” she said. “It won’t stop the comparisons that are going to be made between me and Dexter Price, but maybe it will soften them.”

“It’s a good theory,” Squiggle allowed. “Come on, let’s start getting ourselves into position.”

“Right,” she said.

The entire group gathered near the stage left door as the timer continued to tick down. Z, who was dressed entirely in black, was at the center of the gathering. “We all ready to do this thing?” he asked them.

Everyone gave him a thumbs up.

“How about you, Teach?” he asked Laura. “Got the nerves under control?”

“As best I can,” she said.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he said.

“It’s time guys,” said Stan Jacobs, who was hovering just outside the circle of musicians.

“Let’s do it then,” said Z. “Have ‘em bring down the lights.”

Stan spoke into his portable radio and, a few seconds later, the house lights dimmed down. A cheer came up from the audience. It was nothing like the cheers that Jake had been accustomed to in the Intemperance days, not even in the smallest arenas they had played—smooth Jazz fans were both less numerous and more sedate in their enthusiasm than hard rock fans—but it was the loudest cheers Laura had ever heard on her behalf. She felt her heart rate kick up a few notches in her chest, felt the butterflies in her stomach start to flap around a little faster.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Albany, New York,” a disembodied voice announced over the speaker system. “Welcome to the main act of tonight’s show. I give you, Bobby Z and his band! Let’s hear it for them!”

The applause from the audience picked up in intensity. Some cheers and whistles accompanied it.

“Let’s go!” Z barked at them. With that, he walked through the door and out onto the stage. The moment he stepped out there, the stage lights came on. It was showtime.

Homer and Groove followed Z out the door. Laura took one more deep breath and then, after a glance at Squiggle, who was giving her a thumbs up, she went out after them. Squiggle and Sally stayed behind, since they were not needed in the first song of the set. Z was standing at the front of the stage, waving to the audience. Homer sat down behind the drum set and picked up a pair of sticks. Groove grabbed hold of his stand-up bass and pulled it into position. Laura walked to her microphone stand. Her alto sax, which one of the roadies had spent nearly an hour polishing after the sound check, sat in a holder at the foot of the stand. She picked it up, drawing strength and courage from the familiarity of it in her hands.

I can do this! she told herself. And not only can I do it, I can do it well!

Z left the front of the stage and sat down at his piano. He adjusted the positioning of his microphone the slightest bit and then said, “Well hello, Albany!” into it.

The crowd cheered louder.

“Thank you for coming out to see us tonight on our first show after the little dramatic hiatus we just went through. We’re going to start the show with a little something from the new album. It’s called Crying in the Dark. Let’s get it on, guys.”

Homer gave them a four count with his sticks and, just like that, they were playing. Laura put her mouth to her mouthpiece and began to blow, her fingers moving over her pads as she belted out the now-familiar primary melody into her microphone while Z accompanied her on the piano and sang, and Homer and Groove laid down the rhythm.

I’m doing it! she thought happily as she made it through the first verse without anything untoward happen. I’m actually doing it!

After the second verse was the first of many saxophone solos she would be doing on this night. It was one of the least technical ones, thankfully, and she launched right into it without even a thought. She could not see much of the audience because of the brightness of the stage lights contrasted with the dimness of the house lights—all she could make out were a few shadowy forms in the first two rows—but she could hear them! As she soloed, moving her shoulders back and forth to the melody, tapping her foot to the rhythm, they cheered loudly and enthusiastically for her. For her! They’re cheering for me!

In that moment she knew she was doing what she had been put on Earth to do. She was finally able to think of herself as a musician, and not a teacher who played the saxophone.

The set lasted one hour and sixteen minutes, including the two encores. It went well. Squiggle missed a transition during one number and Homer misplayed an intro during another, but both of those errors were minor and had been covered so skillfully that no one in the audience even noticed. Laura herself played flawlessly and the audience cheered for her with enthusiasm during every solo she played.

“That was a good performance, Teach,” Z told her backstage, as they sat down in chairs and opened bottles of beer from the cooler. “You kicked some ass out there.”

“Thanks, Z,” she said happily. She was hot and sweaty from being out under the lights for more than an hour. Her face was flushed and she had damp areas on her back and down the front of her dress. She was thirsty and hungry both, and the only thing to drink back here was beer. Nevertheless, she was very happy and very proud of herself. I really did kick some ass! she kept thinking. I really can do this!

“I would say that the audience had a positive reaction to her,” said Stan, who was smoking a cigarette and sipping from one of the beers.

“I told you they would,” Z said. “She’s just so fucking cute, especially in that dress. Most of them like her at first sight, before she even puts that horn in her mouth. And then, when she starts to play and they realize she’s got some talent ... fucking putty in her hands.”

“They did seem to like me,” she said. “Even if I’m not as good as Dexter.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, Teach,” Squiggle told her. “You blow a goddamn good horn. Dexter had more experience than you, especially in front of an audience, but you got just as much raw talent. By the end of this tour people are going to be comparing Dexter to you.”

Laura smiled at his words, enjoying the thought even if she knew they it was not true. She could never play as well as Dexter Price, but to even be mentioned in the same conversation as him ... that was special.

“Now then,” Z said, pulling a fat joint from his cigarette pack. “Who wants to burn?”

It turned out that everyone wanted to burn, even Laura. Soon the entire band was flying high. It was quite the fun experience.

“There’s one thing we need to work in to the future shows,” Z said shortly after opening his third beer of the night.

“What’s that?” asked Homer.

“An extended solo,” Z said.

“What kind of solo?” Laura asked, wondering when someone was going to serve some food.

“A saxophone solo, of course,” Z told her.

This immediately pushed the thought of food to the back of her mind. “An extended sax solo?” she asked. “You mean you want me to stand out there by myself and play?”

“Damn right,” Z said. “We have to work one in. When he rehearsed up the set in the beginning, we had Dex doing a five-minute solo right after Walking and then leading us into On the Beach. Naturally, we just concentrated on the actual set when we pulled you aboard, Teach, but now that we have that down, I need you to start working something up.”

“But ... I’ve never done anything like that before,” she protested.

“Didn’t you come up with the solos you did for Celia?” Z asked.

“Well ... yes,” she said. “That’s different though. Those were brief solos that I did on a recording.”

“It’s not that different,” Z said. “Now you just need to compose a long solo that you’ll perform live. And, of course, you’ll need to work out a way to transition the end of the solo into the intro for Beach.”

All of her stage fright was now back, the feeling enhanced by the THC coursing through her brain. Compose a five-minute saxophone solo? And then play it live night after night, all by herself out on the stage? I can’t do that!

“You can do it,” Z assured her, as if reading her mind. “I have complete confidence in you, Teach.”

“But ... but ... when would I even work on this?” she asked.

“We have a six-hour bus ride tomorrow morning,” Z said. “That’s a good time to get started on it. After that, you can work it after the sound checks. It doesn’t have to be the exact same thing every time. You only have to get the transitions to be smooth and repetitive. Everything in the middle can just be improv.”

“I don’t know about this, Z,” she said.

“You’ll do fine,” he assured her again. “Squig can help you out with it if you want, can’t you Squig?”

“I’d love to,” Squiggle said. “We’ll start playing around with it tomorrow, as soon as we sleep off a little partying.”

“Well ... all right,” she said. “I guess I can come up with something.”

“That’s the spirit!” Z told her. “Now then, how about we go hit the showers and get some chow? Anyone up for that?”

Everyone was up for that. They went back to the dressing area where a catering company had set them up with ribs, potato salad, baked beans, and more tubs of beer. Since Laura was the only girl among them, they insisted that she shower first. She agreed and retreated into the shower room.

She washed and rinsed herself beneath the weak spray—all the time worrying about the sax solo she was expected to come up with—and then toweled off. She put on fresh underwear and a fresh bra and then threw a pair of jeans and a t-shirt over them. Her dress she dropped into a hamper that had been placed in the locker room specifically for stage clothes. She then combed out her hair a little and left it down. By this time her stomach was making insistent noises at her. She needed to eat.

She walked back out into the dressing room to find that there were a few more people out there now. Someone had brought some fans back to hang out with the group. Squiggle, Sally, and Groove all had young women sitting next to them. Z himself had two young men sitting on the couch beside him, both of whom were smooth shaven, well-muscled, and quite attractive. Only Homer had no companionship. He sat at a table, munching on some of the ribs and drinking beer.

“Hey, everyone!” Z announced when she emerged. “This is Teach, the sax player. Say hi to her!”

All of the companions dutifully greeted her before going back to what they were doing. Laura gave a dutiful hi in return and then walked over to the table and sat down next to Homer. He gave her a brief nod and then went back to gnawing on his rib.

“Who are all these people, Homer?” she asked him.

He raised his eyebrows a bit. “Are you serious?” he asked.

“Uh ... yeah,” she said.

“You’re dating Jake Kingsley and you don’t recognize groupies when you see them?” he asked.

“Groupies?” she asked, her eyes wide. “You mean these people are going to ... that they’re here for ... that they’re coming back to the hotel with us?”

“It’s a motel, not a hotel,” he said, “but yes, that is their purpose in being here. Ron—he’s the security guy, remember?—is pretty good about finding a little something for everyone. He didn’t get anything for you because you didn’t tell him your preference.”

“My preference?”

“Yeah, you know, do you like young guys, old guys, girls? Whatever you’re into, he’ll find it. You just need to let him know.”

“I’m involved in a relationship,” she said, appalled.

Homer simply shrugged. “What happens on the road, stays on the road,” he said. “Nobody’s gonna tell Jake what you do out here.”

“I don’t want to do anything!” she said.

That earned her another shrug. “That too is your right,” he said. “Just don’t put your request in and Ron won’t bring you anything.”

“Wow,” she whispered. “Is that what you did?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking another swig of beer. “I’m married.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said. “So, you just sit it out every night?”

“Well ... not every night,” he said. “I’ll usually have him bring me something cute and nasty once a week or so.”

“You cheat on your wife out here?” she asked.

“Cheat is a strong word,” he said. “I prefer to think it as relieving the tensions of the road by using the resources available to me. You should give it a try some time.”

“I most certainly will not!” she assured him.

Another shrug. “Think it over before you decide,” he said. “Remember, what happens on the road, stays on the road.”