Different Circles

Chapter 15: Blasts from the Past

Over the Gulf of Santa Catalina, off the coast of southern California

June 25, 1993

The morning sun was still ascending into the sky to his left when Jake flew his plane out of the Class B airspace that extended twelve miles offshore of Los Angeles and its suburbs. He was flying almost due south at an altitude of 5500 feet. The calm, blue Pacific Ocean stretched out all around him. Rising from those gentle swells, directly ahead, was the rocky island of Santa Catalina, its northern shores some twenty miles distant. Sitting next to Jake, in the copilot’s seat, was a man named Emery Wilkens, who liked to be called “Em”. He was a professional camera operator for NVC Studios and he had a portable Sony video camera in his lap—a camera with a 150-millimeter zoom lens that was capable of reading newsprint from a hundred yards away and probably cost more than the average movie consumer made in a six-month period. Thanks to union regulations that covered things like hazard pay, work before 9:00 AM, special assignments, and weekly overtime, Em was getting paid more for each hour of this mission than KVA Records paid Dexter Price for each hour of blowing his horn. But it was NVC Studios that was footing this particular bill. They were also paying Jake ninety dollars an hour, plus fuel expenses and a stipend for wear and tear on his aircraft. And even with all that, the union rep for the production crews had thrown a major bitch because Jake was not a member of any labor organization.

“You see anything yet?” Jake asked, his voice transmitted through the microphone and going into Em’s ears.

“Just a whole lot of ocean down there,” Em replied with a yawn. He was a bit tired. The lack of restroom facilities aboard the plane had kept him from enjoying his normal two cups of strong and black prior to going to work. True, there were urinals aboard in case of emergency, but there was no way in hell he was going to whip out his Johnson with Celia Valdez sitting just behind him.

“This is the meeting spot, right?” asked Celia, who really had no business related reason to be on this flight, and was therefore not getting paid for it, but who had come along because it sounded like fun, fun enough for her to put aside her fear of flying—that and she really wanted to see an old friend again.

“This is the place we agreed on,” Jake said. “They’re out there somewhere. Look just below us. She said they’d be at five thousand feet and that they would be circling ten miles off the north coast of the island.”

“Ah...,” said Celia as something occurred to her. “Then the reason we’re at five thousand, five hundred feet is so ... you know...”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “So we don’t find them the hard way. It seemed a prudent precaution.”

“Makes sense,” Em said, wishing he could at least smoke in here.

Jake spotted what they were looking for two minutes later. He saw a glint of sunlight and, after staring at the spot, was able to make out the tiny form of a single engine aircraft just below them and about three miles away. Once he was able to focus on it, he saw it had an overhead wing and fixed tricycle landing gear. A Cessna 172. Exactly the type of aircraft they were looking for.

“I got them,” Jake said. “Two o’clock low, moving parallel to us.”

Em and Celia both peered in that direction. Celia was unable to spot it, but Em found it after a few seconds. “I see it,” he said. He made no move, as of yet, to bring his camera to bear.

“Let me get them on the radio,” Jake said. “I gave her a frequency to monitor when we talked on the phone. Hopefully she wrote it down.”

“I’m sure she did,” Celia said.

Jake dialed up the frequency—one that was not used for anything else within four hundred miles—and keyed up. He had the tail number of the Cessna 172 that belonged to Brody Flight School—an aircraft he had loaned the down payment money for so the school could purchase it—written on his kneeboard. “November-Tango six-three-seven,” he said into his microphone, “this is November-Tango four-one-five. We’re at five-five-zero-zero feet and I believe I have a visual on you from about two miles back. Confirm you’re heading roughly one-eight-zero?”

There was a click in his ears and then, suddenly, an intimately familiar voice was speaking to him. “This is six-three-seven here,” Helen Brody told him, her tone calm, cool, professional. It was her flight voice, the one she’d used when she’d been teaching Jake how to fly, the voice she always used when in command of an aircraft. “We are currently on a heading of one-eight-zero at five-zero-zero-zero feet with a speed of one-one-zero knots. I’m thinking that the aircraft you have in sight is probably us as long as you’re in the vicinity of the agreed upon location. How about I give you a wing waggle to verify?”

“Sounds like a plan, six-three-seven,” Jake said. “Go ahead with the maneuver.”

Jake watched the plane before him. It banked first to the left, then the right, then back to the left again, using no rudder. It then leveled off. “I’m going to call that a positive identification six-three-seven,” he said. “We’re currently heading one-eight-four degrees and moving at one-six-zero knots. Maintain your current heading and I’ll come down and form up on your left wing.”

“Sounds good, four-one-five,” Helen said. “Are you using flight following?”

Jake smiled. “I am,” he said. “Someone taught me once that it’s always a good idea to have The Man keep an eye on you while you’re up here.”

“You must have had a good teacher,” she replied, the slightest hint of a smile in her tone. “In this situation, however, you’re going to want to discontinue it or we’ll set off a TCAS alert when we close with each other.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “I’ll let Center know.”

“Be sure and explain why to them,” she said. “They won’t have a problem with what we’re doing, but it’s the sort of thing they like to know about.”

“Will do,” Jake said. “I’m going to pop back over to the Center frequency and then I’ll start my approach.”

“Sound good,” she said. “Be careful, Jake. Formation flying is not as easy as it seems. It doesn’t take much to screw up and have a midair. Maintain at least five-zero feet of horizontal separation from us at all times.”

“Will do, Sensei,” he said, calling her by a name he hadn’t used since he had been her actual student.

This time the smile in her tone was more apparent. “Talk to you in a minute, Jake,” she said.

He flipped over to the frequency for LA Center and told them they could discontinue flight following for now and that he and aircraft NT637 would be doing some formation flying just north of Santa Catalina for the purpose of photography for a film project. The controller calmly repeated back what he said and then told him to have a nice day. He wished her the same and then switched back to Helen’s frequency. “Four-one-five is back on this frequency,” he said. “I’m coming up on you now. We’ll approach and maintain on the left side.”

“Sounds good, four-one-five,” Helen said. “That’ll be our good side for the purposes of this mission.”

The mission they were embarked upon, a mission that had put Jake back into contact with Helen, his ex-girlfriend (although, so far, that contact had only been over the telephone and over the aviation airwaves), was nothing more than a publicity stunt. Greg Oldfellow was currently sitting in the left-hand pilot’s seat of the Cessna 172 they were closing on. Helen Brody was “instructing” him on the flight. Greg did not have any actual interest in learning to fly an aircraft—he considered piloting to be a working-class skill that he had no need to acquire in order to live his life to its fullest—but he was about to take on the role of a rescue helicopter pilot and he wanted some publicity shots of him “training for his role” by learning the basics of flight operations from a certified flight instructor. The film they were going to shoot today—there was another one-hundred and twenty dollar an hour cameraman in Helen’s plane—would be used for pre-release shorts to generate interest in the film. They wanted exterior shots of the aircraft Greg was flying and interior shots of him practicing turns and banks.

“Why?” Jake had asked when Greg first asked him to contact Helen about the project. “Is any of this really practical? I mean, you’re playing a helicopter pilot and Helen—assuming she agrees to this—would just be giving you a little turn behind the controls of a single-engine fixed wing. It’s hardly the same thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be the same thing,” Greg assured him. “Practicality doesn’t enter into the equation. It’s only for publicity.”

“Are you even going to be in a helicopter when you film this flick?”

“Lots of times,” Greg said. “The Coast Guard is cooperating with the making of the film. They’re going to take me up and put me in the pilot’s seat to film a lot of the flight scenes.”

“They’re not going to let you fly it though, are they?” Jake asked, appalled. “Flying a chopper is not like flying an airplane. It’s considerably more complex and difficult. You can sit down behind the controls of a fixed wing and have someone talk you through the mechanics of controlling it. You can’t do that shit with a helicopter. You have to know what you’re doing there.”

“No, I’m not going to be flying it,” Greg said. “The real pilot will be sitting in the copilot’s seat and will be in control of the aircraft. The real copilot will be one of the extras in the cabin. I’ll just put my hands on the controls when they’re filming me and I have been instructed not to move anything or so much as touch any switches, knobs, or dials. Any actual control manipulations I do for dramatics will be filmed on the ground.”

That made Jake feel a little better, and, in truth, the project actually sounded kind of fun. Burn a day of band rehearsal to go do some formation flying near Catalina? Hell to the yeah. He was up for that shit. Calling Helen had been a bit on the awkward side, the part of the project that gave Jake the most trepidation. The two of them had parted in an amicable manner—they had, in fact, enjoyed one last glorious weekend together (the occasion of the Nerdlys’ Star Trek themed traditional Jewish wedding) just prior to her telling him they needed to talk—but they had not seen each other or spoken since. Jake had moved his airplane out of the small Ventura county airport where Brody Flight School was based and she had dropped back into anonymity, which was the way her relationship with him had taught her she liked to live life. Will she tell me to take a flying fuck? he had to wonder. Will she even speak to me long enough to say that?

To his surprise, however, she seemed quite delighted to hear from him. She warmly enquired about how he had been doing of late, expressed her opinion that Laura was a very attractive girl who seemed quite nice—at least based on the information she’d picked up from the popular media—and, when Jake told her the reason for the call, she agreed to it immediately, with only a few questions about just how seriously Greg would be taking the lesson.

“Not very seriously at all,” Jake assured her. “He’ll do what you tell him to do and he will be a polite, non-pain-in-the-ass student, but he has no actual interest in learning to fly beyond these publicity shots he wants.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “It’ll just be one of the introductory lessons we sell for two hundred bucks to try to rope people in. I’ll talk him through the mechanics of flying the plane as he’s doing it, have him operate the throttle and the yoke for takeoff while my hands rest on the controls in case he fucks it up, have him do some basic turns and banks when we get on station, and that’ll be that.”

And now, here they were, putting the plan into action. Jake throttled down a bit and then pushed the nose down some, dropping his altitude down to 4900 feet as he came up on the 172’s left side. It was more than a little disconcerting to be so close to another aircraft in flight—all of a pilot’s training and instinct were geared around keeping one’s aircraft away from anything else that flew through the sky—but it was also kind of thrilling. Em was filming now as Jake throttled down even further, dropped his flaps to five degrees, and then pulled up his altitude to bleed off his own airspeed so he could match the Cessna’s velocity. It was not a maneuver he had ever practiced—flying with flaps deployed at any time but during landing or takeoff was generally a big no-no—but he managed to take up position fifty feet off Helen’s left wingtip with only minor adjustments required.

“All right,” Jake told her over the radio link. “I’m more or less in position now.”

“More or less,” Helen agreed. “Now, my understanding is that we want Catalina in the background of your shots and that the sun should be behind the camera to avoid interfering with the light conditions.”

“That is correct,” Jake replied.

“This is the plan then,” she said. “I’m going to mate myself to you. That is not a Nerdly way of saying we’re going to get it on, okay? It means you do the maneuvering that needs to be done and I will match what you do to maintain our separation. Call out your banks just before you make them, giving me the direction you’re banking, what roll angle you’re going to use, and what compass heading you’re going to roll out at. Let me know when you’re starting your bank back to level as well. We will not do any right banks at all because my ability to visualize you during a right bank will be compromised and you will not be able to see me very well either because you’re sitting on the left side. That’s too dangerous.”

“No right banks?” Jake asked. “In order to pass by the eastern portion of the island I’m going to have to maneuver left and then return to one-eight-zero. How am I going to do that without making a right bank?”

“By making three left banks instead,” she said. “Just go out further and treat it like you’re doing a left approach to an airport with a runway one-eight.”

“Oh ... yeah,” Jake said, resisting the urge to slap his forehead. “I suppose that makes sense. If we’re not doing any right banks, do I still need to call out which direction I’m banking? That seems extraneous.”

“Perhaps,” Helen said, “but please do it anyway. Formation flying is dangerous and we do not want to leave any room for misunderstanding each other.”

“Madres de Dios,” Celia said nervously. “Is it too late to back out of this little project?”

“Far too late,” Jake told her with a chuckle. He then keyed back up. “I copy that, Sensei. I will call out my banks giving you direction, angle of bank, compass heading, and I will let you know when I’m returning to level. I will make no right banks at all. Are we ready to do this thing?”

“I was born ready,” Helen told him.

Jake smiled and looked at his two passengers. “You two ready?”

“Let’s get it on,” Em replied, still filming the Cessna.

“I’m never ready,” Celia said, “but let’s do it anyway.”

“Right,” Jake said with a smile. He keyed up again. “Banking three-zero degrees left to nine-zero. Starting now.”

He rolled the aircraft left while simultaneously pushing down on the left rudder pedal with his foot. The horizon tilted before them, the ocean rolling up on the left side, the bright blue sky on the right. Jake’s eyes tracked over his instruments, watching the compass heading spin to the left, watching his angle of attack indicator shudder as the nose tried to drop down, watching his bank indicator to make sure he did not overshoot. He pulled back a little on the stick, compensating for the decrease in lift caused by the banking wings. The compass spun through 140 then 130 then 120. At 100 he keyed the mic again.

“Coming out of the bank now,” he said. “Will settle on nine-zero.”

“I copy you’re coming out of bank,” Helen’s voice spoke. “Will settle on nine-zero.”

He brought the plane back to straight and level flight, pushing back down on the stick a bit now that the lift had returned to normal, making minor adjustments to his trim wheels to lock them onto a due east heading and a steady altitude of five thousand feet. He looked to his right and saw the Cessna was still on station, flying placidly along fifty feet away.

“Nice one, Jake,” Helen said. “It’s almost like you know what you’re doing over there.”

He chuckled again. “Almost,” he told her.

They flew on this heading until they were several miles east of Catalina’s coastline. Jake then banked them to a heading of zero degrees—due north. After a brief position check, they banked left again, this time to two hundred seventy degrees—due west. They flew in this direction until they were approaching the angle of Catalina’s coast once again and then he banked left yet again, bringing them back to their original heading of one eight zero, or due south. Through it all, Helen banked simultaneously with him, maintaining that fifty feet of separation and holding the altitude.

“All right,” Jake said. “Looks like we’re on course for this thing.”

“I concur,” Helen agreed.

“We’ll be crossing over the approach path for AVX, but at five thousand feet we’ll be well above the glideslope.”

“I concur with that as well,” Helen said.

“What’s AVX?” asked Celia.

“The airport at Catalina,” Jake said. “We’ll be intersecting their approach path, but we’re well above the altitude at which anyone landing or taking off will be flying.”

“Oh ... I see,” she said, clearly not liking the idea of crossing an airport’s approach path.

“Do you think that one pass will be sufficient?” Helen asked.

“What do you think, Em?” Jake asked. “One pass good?”

“It should be good, as long as I catch some of the island in the shots as we go by,” he said, still peering through his viewfinder, the lens pushed up against the side window.

“One pass oughta do it,” Jake told Helen. “We’ll continue on one-eight-zero until we’re about a mile south of the island and then we can separate.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she said.

“We won’t be doing any more formation turns?” Em asked.

“We shouldn’t be,” Jake said.

“Can we adjust our positioning a bit then?” he enquired. “Pull a little bit more in front? That’ll let me catch some good shots of Greg without the wing strut getting in the shot.”

“I think we can do that,” Jake said.

He got back on the radio and told Helen his intention. She had no problem with it so he throttled up some, letting their position creep forward another fifty feet or so.

“Perfect, right there,” Em said.

“Right,” Jake said, throttling back down to a hundred and ten knots. His plane really did not like to fly this slow, but it was for a good cause.

“Can you really see Greg though that thing?” Celia asked.

“As clear as if he was sitting in front of me,” Em replied. “I can see the expression on his face. He seems like he’s having a good time.”

“Amazing,” Celia said.

“Maybe you could have him give me a few thumbs-up gestures?” Em asked.

“Why the hell not?” Jake said, keying up again.

It took them about twenty minutes to fly past the island’s east coast and back out over the open ocean. Ahead of them and slightly to the right, they could now see the island of San Clemente rising up. Several cargo ships and an oil tanker could be seen on the surface, either heading toward the Port of Long Beach or away from it.

“Okay now,” Jake said to Helen. “Em tells us he has sufficient footage for the project. Are we ready to separate?”

“We are ready to separate,” Helen confirmed. “The best way to do that is by altitude first. You pull up at least five hundred feet before making any turns. I’ll stay at present altitude and maintain one-eight-zero until I see you turn away. Once I know you’re back up to speed, I’ll simply maneuver away like normal.”

“Sounds good, Sensei,” Jake said. “Before we do this, is anyone over there up for a little breakfast?”

There was a pause of maybe twenty seconds and then Helen responded. “We do have some hungry people over here. What are you suggesting?”

“The DC-3 Grill?” Jake said, referring to the restaurant at Santa Catalina’s airport. Back when they had been dating, he and Helen had made that a fairly regular destination for breakfast or lunch dates. Jake had not been there a single time since the breakup.

“That’s kind of expensive, isn’t it?” Helen asked. “We’ll each have to pay a thirty-dollar landing fee, and the food isn’t cheap either.”

“It’s my treat,” Jake said. “Landing fees and all. NVC is paying me a couple of hundred bucks for this gig. It’s found money, as my mom would say. I might as well spend it on something fun.”

“All right then,” Helen said. “I guess we’re in. Have you landed at AVX lately?”

“I haven’t been there since the last time you and I were there,” he said.

“Me either,” she said, perhaps a hint of melancholy in her voice. “I hear that the runway surface is still pretty crappy though.”

“It always was,” Jake said. “Like landing on a dirt road.”

“Still, visibility is good and the winds are light. The last time we were there was in your Cessna. You’ve never landed your twin engine there?”

“I never have,” Jake confirmed.

“Should be fun then,” she said. “Why don’t you go in first since you have the speed?”

“Will do,” he said. “I’m pulling up now. See you on the ground.”

“Looking forward to it,” she said. “And be careful. AVX is bit tricky, remember?”

“I remember,” he said, pulling back on his yoke and watching his altimeter start to spin up. Once he had a good solid rate of climb, he throttled up and then retracted his flaps, putting on some speed. When he reached 5500 feet he banked left again, turning them back to the east so he could get into Catalina’s landing pattern.

“Uh ... what does she mean that it’s a bit tricky?” asked Celia nervously.

“It’s no big deal,” Jake assured her. “It’s just that it’s a single runway that sits sixteen hundred feet up on a plateau.”

“Sixteen hundred feet?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s fun to land there. It’s even more fun to take off. The land just drops around you and disappears and you’re out over the ocean nearly two thousand feet up. It’s a rush.”

“As long as something doesn’t go wrong,” put in Em, who had stowed his camera once again and was sitting calmly, enjoying the ride.

“Yeah,” Jake agreed. “As long as something doesn’t go wrong.”

“Why in the hell did they build the airport up on a hill?” Celia asked.

“I don’t know,” Jake said. “They didn’t consult me before they started construction. It really is impractical when you come down to it. Maybe they just thought it would be kind of cool.”

“Kind of cool?”

Jake shrugged. “It is kind of cool,” he said. “The runway does suck though. It’s asphalt and very bumpy. It’s also not completely level.”

“Madres de Dios,” Celia said, making the sign of the cross. “How do I get myself into these things?”

Jake brought them in without incident, touching down neatly on the center line of the runway and then rolling out to the second taxiway. He followed the yellow line to the general aviation area and pulled into a parking slot. After shutting down the engines and turning off all the avionics and the lights, he opened the doors and the three of them stepped out into the pleasantly cool late morning ocean air.

“I need to go drain the dragon,” Em said. “Where can I do that?”

“The airport office is right over there,” Jake told him, pointing to a two-story building.

Em headed off, still carrying his camera with him. It was expensive enough that he did not trust it out of his sight.

Jake and Celia tied down the aircraft and then headed over to the office as well. Celia made her own march to the restroom while Jake paid the landing fees for two aircraft. By the time he was done with this, Em and Celia had both come out of the facilities and were standing behind him. He led them back outside just in time to see Helen’s plane on final approach. It touched down neatly and then taxied over as well, coming to a stop in the parking slot next to Jake’s.

The engine sputtered to a stop and then the lights went out. The doors opened and Greg Oldfellow, wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses, tan slacks, and a dress shirt covered by a leather bomber jacket, stepped out first. He was smiling the smile of someone who had just had a pretty good time.

Helen stepped out from the right-hand seat. She looked no different, really, than the last time Jake had seen her. She was not a large woman, but she was not petite either. She was solidly built like a farm girl. Her dark hair spilled over her shoulders and was carelessly styled with nothing more than a brush. Her face was rounded and cute to behold, with brown eyes and a bulbous nose. She wore a pair of jeans that outlined her legs and her backside quite nicely and a beige Brody Flight School polo shirt that bulged alluringly from her large breasts. Jake’s heart skipped a few beats as he saw her—this woman he had once loved, this woman who had broken his heart.

She is still beautiful, he thought as he took in her hair, her eyes, her smile.

While Rick, the cameraman assigned to Helen’s plane, squirmed his way out of the back seat of the aircraft, Helen rushed over to Jake, her smile widening as she got closer. She held out her arms to him and a moment later, they embraced warmly. Jake felt the press of those big breasts into his chest, felt the softness of her body, the strength of her arms around him, smelled the familiar musk of her exertional sweat, and a powerful bolt of lust and wanting surged through him like electricity. He remembered feeling that body naked against his, his manhood plowing into her wet and dripping womanhood. Helen had always been very juicy when aroused, sometimes leaving wet spots a foot or more in diameter when they coupled, usually squirting out a big blast of her vaginal secretions when she came. She was a genuine squirter, something that Jake had not believed really existed until the first time she had demonstrated the ability for him in an Omaha hotel room one night.

The embrace broke just as Jake’s penis began to get fully interested in the goings on. He had not been laid since the night before Laura had left, after all, and had not even had time to pleasure himself much during her absence.

“It’s so good to see you again, Jake,” Helen told him as they looked at each other. Her face seemed a little more flushed than it had been just a few moments ago.

“It’s good to see you too, Helen,” he said, giving her hand a little squeeze before they broke physical contact completely. “I appreciate you helping us out with this thing.”

“No problem at all,” she said. “This was a lot of fun, truth be told. And the money they’re paying me for all this ... it’s me who should be thanking you for getting me involved.”

“Greg wouldn’t fly with anyone else,” Jake said. “He said, ‘if I’m going to climb into some tiny little plane, I want someone I know and trust at the controls’.”

“I’m flattered by his confidence in me,” she said. “He did all right for an amateur. We got lots of good shots of him at the controls.”

Helen was about to say something else but was interrupted by Celia, who was now rushing over to her with a squeal of delight, her arms held out wide. Helen matched the squeal and held out her own arms. The two women came together and embraced warmly, with genuine affection. Jake felt another little surge of lust blasting into him as he watched their breasts smash together, as he watched Celia give her a big kiss on the cheek.

While the two women talked and hugged each other repeatedly, Greg came wandering up and stood next to Jake. He looked at the two of them appreciatively, nodding his head, probably thinking similar things to what Jake was thinking, though he kept them unsaid.

“How was it?” Jake asked him.

“I rather enjoyed the experience,” he said. “I hardly think I’m ready to land an airliner after the captain is stricken with a heart attack or something, but I do have a much better understanding of the mechanics of flying an aircraft. I think it will help my methodology on my upcoming film.”

“Then it was worthwhile, right?”

“It was,” he agreed. “It’s hotter than hell in this bomber jacket though. I think I’ll leave it in the plane.”

“Why are you wearing that thing anyway?” Jake asked. “I told you that it gets stuffy inside a 172. You must be sweating like a pig.”

“It’s an image necessity,” he said. “If I’m going to be filmed flying a plane, I have to look the part.”

“I see,” Jake said, resisting the urge to shake his head.

Greg stowed the jacket in Helen’s plane and then they all headed across the tarmac to the DC-3 Bar and Grille, which sat just behind the airport operations building, very near the cliff’s edge that overlooked the ocean. The two camera operators tagged along with them, still carrying their respective cameras in hand but not filming anything with them. The restaurant was only about half full and they were given a table for six right away. Jake and Helen ordered coffee to drink. Everyone else ordered a bloody Mary since the DC-3 was famous for them.

“Just remember to pee before we head back,” Jake reminded everyone.

“Yeah,” said Helen. “Especially you, Celia. It’s hard for a girl to use the urinal in-flight.”

“I would let my bladder burst before I tried to use the urinal in-flight,” Celia assured her.

Helen sat down next to Jake, on the end of the table. Across from them were Celia and Greg. On the other end were the two camera operators who sat facing each other. The conversation stayed mostly between Celia, Jake, Greg, and Helen. The two camera guys talked mostly to each other in low voices, likely discussing the footage each had managed to get during the mission. Greg dominated the conversation among the four of them. All it had taken was for Helen to ask him what the movie he was going to make was about. After chastising her for using the word “movie” (those in the business never called a movie a “movie”, it was always “the film” or “the project”) he launched into a detailed synopsis of the project, paying particular attention to his role in it.

As he talked, describing the rescues that were going to be portrayed (particularly one unsuccessful rescue that would haunt Lieutenant Michael Andrews throughout the film [actors always spoke of the characters they were playing in third person]), Jake became aware that Helen was going out of her way to flash her smile at him whenever she could, to touch his shoulder or his arm, and to give him warm looks. She was most certainly sending out a vibe in his direction, a vibe he could read quite clearly.

It took until they were almost done with their breakfasts before Greg wound down enough that Helen was able to change the subject. “How goes the new albums?” she asked quickly when he paused to take a bite. “Greg told me you’re both working on them every day.”

“They’re coming along pretty well,” Jake replied. “We got the mothers on board and doing some really cool stuff for us. Dexter Price is blowing the sax for us like ... well...”

“Like someone who’s getting paid eighty-five an hour plus royalties,” Celia said.

“Right,” Jake said with a chuckle. “But I think we’re getting our money’s worth out of him. The only real downer is that we’re going to lose Ted and Ben, our drummer and bass player, at the end of next month. That’ll force us to find a new rhythm section for the actual recording.”

“We’re going to lose Phil too,” Celia said. “He’s our baritone backup singer.”

Helen was not musically inclined by any means. She could not dance, could not sing, played no instrument, and had absolutely no idea what baritone even meant. Still, she was polite as she listened to the explanation about Ted, Bill, and Phil and their band.

“Where do you find a bass player and a drummer?” she asked when the explanation was complete. “Do you just put an ad in the newspaper, or what?”

“No, you don’t put an ad in the paper,” Celia said. “It can be somewhat of a process. Hopefully it’ll be easier now that we’ve established ourselves.”

“It should be,” Jake said. “I actually have an idea of where we can dig up some good people.”

“Oh yeah?” Celia asked, interested. “Where?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Jake said dismissively. “A discussion for another time.”

“What about your girlfriend, Jake?” Helen asked suddenly. “The saxophone player. What’s her name again?”

“Laura,” Jake said. “What about her?”

“She’s out on tour, right?”

“She is,” Jake confirmed. “I believe they’re in Savanah, Georgia tonight. They’re working their way west across the south.”

“How long will she be gone?” Helen asked.

“At least until December,” he said. “Possibly even longer. The last time I talked to her she told me there had been some discussion of a South American tour. Bobby Z is apparently very popular down there.”

“That’s a long time,” Helen said. “Don’t you miss her?”

“Terribly,” he confirmed. “But she’s doing what she wants to do and I would never ask someone not to do that. Besides, I’ll probably be able to fly out to see her once we get our new rhythm section up to speed. We’ll be hitting the studio in Oregon on October 10^th. Bobby and the group will be working their way through Texas the first week in October. I thought maybe I’d meet them in El Paso or Amarillo and ride the bus with them for a week or so.”

“Slumming, huh?” Celia asked with a laugh. “Didn’t you get enough of that back in the Intemperance days?”

“Well ... there’s something else I’m not getting enough of these days, if you know what I mean.”

This generated a laugh among everyone, even the camera guys. It also generated another very interesting look from Helen.

It was decided that Helen would fly the two camera guys back to Ventura with her and that Jake would fly Greg and Celia back to Santa Monica with him. Someone would have to go get Greg’s car the next day, but that was not an issue for him. He had people on his staff who sat around just waiting to run an errand like that.

“I call shotgun,” Greg said as they walked out of the restaurant and headed back toward the general aviation parking.

“No way in hell,” Celia told him. “The copilot’s seat is mine. Jake always lets me sit there, don’t you, Jake?”

“I do,” he agreed. “It keeps her from gripping the back of my seat in fear.”

“I understand that,” Greg said, “but I do have flight training now. Shouldn’t the more qualified person sit in the seat next to the pilot?”

“You have a freaking hour of flight time,” Celia told him. “I hardly think you’re ready to take the controls of a twin engine plane on a flight over the ocean.”

“It’s an hour more flight time than you have,” Greg countered.

“Not really,” she said. “Jake has let me take the stick a few times when we’re up in the air.”

“You have?” Greg asked, his eyes wide.

“I just had her do a few turns and banks,” Jake said. “Oh, and I let her take off a few times.”

“You see,” Celia said. “I’m actually more qualified to fly that thing than you are.”

“But I learned from an actual flight instructor,” Greg said. “No offense to Jake, but he’s not certified.”

“True,” Jake said, “though there are some who would say I’m certifiable.”

Helen was laughing and shaking her head at the conversation. “While you guys figure out the seating arrangement, maybe Jake and I can go file our flight plans?”

“Yeah,” said Jake. “Good idea.”

The two of them left the rest of the group standing by the aircraft while they walked back into the aircraft office. Business was slow currently and the clerk on duty was sitting behind her counter, watching an episode of Oprah on a small television set. She nodded at them and then returned her attention to the subject at hand. Jake and Helen went to a rack of flight plan forms and each pulled one from the stack. They carried them over to a table in the corner of the room where a cup of pens and a couple of air charts of the southern California region were sitting.

“I’m glad I got to see you today,” Helen told him warmly as she began scratching out her intended course on the form.

“Me too,” Jake said. “I’ve forgotten how much fun we used to have flying with each other.”

“We did spend a lot of time in the cockpit together, didn’t we?” she asked.

“It’s where I fell in love with you,” he told her.

“And me you,” she returned.

Jake looked away from her face—he was starting to get lost in it—and looked down at the air chart. He picked out the first VOR station he would be heading for and then wrote it down on the form. He then looked up to see Helen still looking at him. He gave her a brief smile. “Tell me,” he said. “Have you met anyone else? Any new boyfriends?”

“I’ve had a few dates,” she said. “I’ve hooked up with a few guys here and there. Nothing like what we had though.”

“That’s too bad,” he told her. “You’re a catch, Helen Brody. You need to get yourself out there and reel someone in.”

“Maybe,” she said. “You’re a tough act to follow though, Jake.”

“I’m flattered,” he said. “Remember though, it was you who broke up with me.”

“I remember it very well,” she said, scribbling something on her form. “I was as cool and calculated about that break up as I am about everything in life. I had a good reason to do it and I don’t regret the decision.”

“No?”

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t live that life any longer. After that woman tried to kill me ... I knew at that point that I couldn’t go on with you. But ... well ... just because I had to leave, that doesn’t mean I stopped loving you, or that I don’t miss you, or that you weren’t one of the best things that ever happened to me.”

“We were just incompatible,” Jake said. “I’ve made my peace with that and moved on.”

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I hear your song on the radio. Hit the Highway. That’s about our breakup, isn’t it?”

He nodded. “It is,” he confirmed. “I write from the heart.”

“It gave me some insight into your soul,” she said. “I like it. Whenever it comes on the radio, I stop what I’m doing and listen to it ... appreciate it. It’s deep. It’s powerful to know you’re singing about me.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Like I said, it’s from the heart.”

“But now your girlfriend is gone for God knows how long.”

He looked up at her. “She is,” he agreed. “But she’ll be back at some point.”

“It must be hard,” she said.

He shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he assured her, starting to feel decidedly uncomfortable now.

“I’m sure it’s not,” she said. “But ... well ... I just wanted to remind you that there was one part of our relationship in which we were very compatible.” She gave a come-hither look. “I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

“Yes,” he said tonelessly. “I know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe ... you know ... we can get together and explore that part of the relationship again,” she suggested. “Maybe tonight? Over at my place?”

Jesus Christ, Jake thought, feeling a mix of powerful emotions go churning through him, I forgot how forward she can be. She was raised by a man, after all. “Uh ... as flattered as I am by the offer...”

“I’m not trying to steal you away from Laura, Jake,” she cut in. “I don’t want to resume our relationship on the level we had before. I just want to feel your cock inside of me again, to feel your mouth between my legs again, to feel your hands squeezing my naked tits while you put your tongue in my mouth. Nobody will know about it.”

Goddamn, she’s good, he thought as he felt a surge of blood go rushing into his penis, making it swell against the crotch of his pants. Temptation reared up inside of him, a powerful urge he was all too familiar with. I could be sinking into her hot body in two hours. She could be squirting her juices all over my face in even less time.

He took a deep breath and surreptitiously adjusted himself in his pants the tiniest bit. He then looked at her and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I would know about it and I don’t think I would have much respect for myself if I allowed myself to do it.”

“It wouldn’t mean anything, Jake,” she assured him. “Just physical release for both of us. Remember, I’m not like most women.”

“You’re certainly not,” he agreed. “And you wouldn’t believe how tempted I am right now, but ... I’ve grown up a little bit these past few years. I’m sorry. I’m going to have to say no.”

She nodded sadly. “Well, all right then,” she said. “No hard feelings?”

“None from me,” he said. “How about you?”

She smiled. “I would think you would know me better than that,” she said. “Come on. Let’s get these things filed and get ourselves home.”

“Right,” he said, bending back to his work.

She tried one more time just before they climbed into the planes. After embracing Celia and Greg warmly and telling them goodbye, she walked over to Jake, who had just finished visually checking his fuel level as part of his preflight.

“Don’t be too much of a stranger,” she told him, holding out her arms for a hug.

He hugged her, feeling her push her body alluringly against his, feeling her breasts on his chest again, feeling her fingers scratching at his back in a way she knew he liked. She then kissed him softly on the mouth—a kiss that appeared chaste and sisterly to anyone looking on, but that was actually full of passion and lust. The tip of her tongue shot out for the briefest instant and licked at his upper lip. Once again, blood went flowing into his manhood.

“The offer’s still good,” she told him. “Not just for tonight, but for any night.”

“I understand,” Jake told her, his voice not quite steady.

“You have my number,” she said, releasing him. “Don’t hesitate to call.”

“I think I’m going to have to hesitate,” he said.

She gave him another smile, unoffended by his words. A moment later, she was helping the two camera guys into her plane. She did not look back at him again.

He was unusually silent as he flew Greg and Celia back to Santa Monica. Celia, who had won the battle over the shotgun seat, even commented on it.

“A lot on my mind today,” he told her.

“Was it weird seeing Helen after all this time?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “Nothing I can’t handle,” he told her.

He landed on schedule and parked in his hangar. Celia and Greg got into Celia’s car and drove off toward their Los Angeles home. Jake got in his own car and drove to his home. Once there he went immediately upstairs and locked himself in his room. He glanced at the phone for the longest time and then opened the drawer in the bedside stand. Inside this drawer was a bottle of lube and a couple of pornographic magazines.

He took out the lube. He would need that. He left the magazines where they were. He would not be needing them for this session. Not with Helen’s feel and smell still fresh in his mind.

One week later, Pauline, Jake, the Nerdlys and Celia were sitting in the conference room at KVA Studios for the weekly meeting. The subject of the meeting was the rhythm section. They only had Ben and Ted for another three and a half weeks and they needed to secure new musicians to replace them and get those new musicians up to speed if they were going to hit the studio in time.

“Greg got off okay?” Jake asked Celia.

“He left for the airport at seven o’clock,” she confirmed. “By now, he’s probably somewhere over Canada.”

“I can’t imagine being separated for so long,” Sharon said. Since their marriage, she and Bill had not been apart for more than twenty-four hours at any point.

“I’ve gone through this before,” Celia said with a sour smile. “Principal photography in Alaska is going to take about three months, assuming no delays. They’re going to go back up there in February to shoot some winter rescue scenes as well. I’ll get by.”

“Maybe you can go up and visit him before we hit the studio,” suggested Jake.

“Perhaps,” she said with a shrug. “Cold weather has never really been my friend though.”

“Anyway,” Pauline said, eager to dispense with the preliminaries. “Jake says he might have a solution to the problem of our rhythm section.”

“You do?” asked Sharon.

“I do,” he said. “Something so simple, I’m surprised it took me so long to think of it.”

“What is it?” asked Celia.

“Why don’t we see if we can get Coop and Charlie to be our rhythm section for the studio?” he asked.

“Coop and Charlie?” Celia asked, astonished. “Can we do that?”

“What do you mean?” Jake asked. “Of course we can.”

“But that’ll be four of the five members of Intemperance playing together once you count Nerdly on the synthesizers,” she said. “The only thing missing would be Matt Tisdale on guitar. How would the public feel about something like that?”

“I think it would be a good selling and marketing point,” Jake said. “And we can emphasize that they are just our supporting band and we’re using them because we need them. We are not trying to reproduce Intemperance here and we should make that very clear.”

“That might just be crazy enough to work,” said Sharon.

“Now hold on a second,” Pauline suddenly cut in. “Far be it from me to piss in anyone’s bongwater, but there might be a few snags with this idea.”

“Coop’s contract?” Jake asked.

“That’s right,” she said. “He is still tied down to the Veteran contract with Aristocrat Records. Unless they release him from it, he cannot perform live or in a recording for another three years.”

“Then get them to release him,” Jake said.

“Oh ... of course,” she said with a roll of the eyes. “Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just call up the suits over at Aristocrat and ask them to release a touring caliber drummer from contract so that we can use him to make money for ourselves. I’m sure they’ll be all over that shit.”

“I think maybe they will be if you sweeten the pot for them a bit,” Jake said.

“What do you mean?”

“Imply that maybe we’ll use them for MD&P on the next albums if they play ball with Coop’s contract.”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid that a mere implication would not fly. They would want an agreement in writing before they even considered such a thing. And if we give them an agreement in writing, they’ll have a royalty rate locked down before we even have a chance to negotiate with Obie and the other labels.”

“It certainly would not behoove us to lock down a fixed rate without exploring the offers from the other labels,” Nerdly said.

“No, it really wouldn’t,” Jake had to admit.

“However...” Pauline said.

“However what?” Jake asked.

“Maybe if I gave them an agreement that we’ll go with them for MD&P if they match the lowest offer given by the other labels ... that might convince them.”

Jake thought this through for a moment. “So ... you’re saying that we still have all the labels bid for MD&P, but we sign a contract with Aristocrat guaranteeing that we go with them as long as they match the lowest bid?”

“Right,” she said. “That way, we get to have our cake and eat it too.”

“That will pretty much depth charge Obie, won’t it?” Jake asked.

“Pretty much,” she said, her hand rubbing her belly, where the barest beginning of a baby bulge was now present. “He understands this shit though. He’s a businessman.”

“You’re sure on this?” asked Celia. “I’d hate to have this issue screw up our studio time.”

“Can’t happen,” Pauline said. “We’ve already negotiated a deal and signed a contract for that studio time. It’s written in stone now.”

“Okay,” Celia said. “I guess it’s worth a shot. What about Charlie now? Any issues with him?”

“Other than the fact that he’s about the strangest motherfucker you’ll ever meet in your life,” Jake said, “there should be no issues. I would think he’d be happy to get back in the game.”

“I’ve only met him once,” Celia said, “but I’ve heard the tales of him. Germ phobias, OCD, pathological fear of parasitic worms.”

“Yes,” Nerdly said. “He certainly has a host of psychological issues and bizarre idiosyncratic behaviors that border on clinical psychosis.”

“All true,” Jake said, “but he’s the best goddamn bass player I’ve ever heard outside of Geddy Lee, and the best I’ve ever played with.”

“Is he still living in San Francisco?” asked Sharon.

“The last I heard, yes,” Jake said. “He has two of his vegetarian restaurants up and running in the bay area—one in the city and one in Menlo Park. I believe that he’s living with the manager of one of them.”

“A male manager, I’m assuming?” asked Celia.

“Yes,” Jake said. “He came out as gay shortly after moving up north. Is that a problem for anyone?”

“I’d keep him and Obie apart,” suggested Pauline, “but being gay is actually the least bizarre of his personality traits.”

“True that,” Jake said. “Anyone else?”

Celia was shaking her head. “We all work with Phil and Dexter and we’ve never had a problem with them.”

“Correct,” said Nerdly. “Where a man chooses to insert his phallus is his own business as long as he is doing no harm to anyone else.”

“And we’ve all seen Charlie’s phallus out on tour,” Jake said. “I don’t think he’s going to be hurting anyone with that thing.”

“Okay,” Pauline said. “That was a little factoid I most certainly did not need to hear.”

“I concur,” said Sharon.

“Third the motion,” said Celia. “No more discussion about Charlie’s phallus.”

Jake chuckled a little. “Fair enough,” he said. “But are we in agreement that we give him a call and see if he’s interested?”

“You give him a call, Jake,” Pauline said. “And after that, give Coop a call as well. This is your idea, after all.”

Jake made the phone call to Charlie that night, after he returned home from rehearsal. He mixed himself a tall rum and coke and drank half of it while he searched through his old address book for Charlie’s last known phone number. He finally found it, not under the C’s for Charlie, or the M’s for Meyer, but in the F’s, for Freakboy, the name that Matt had dubbed him with shortly after making his acquaintance.

Feeling a little ashamed for classifying him in such a manner, Jake took another large drink of his rum, considered for a moment, and then slammed down the last of it. He got up and mixed up another one, this one a little heavier on the rum. If one had to talk to Charlie, it was best if one had a little alcohol buzz in one’s corner.

He sat back down at the desk and picked up the phone. He dialed the San Francisco area code and then the number. The phone started to ring. It was picked up after three rings and he was listening to an answering machine message.

“Hi!” chirped a lisping, effeminate voice. “This is Malcolm Stone!”

“And this,” said a second, more familiar voice, “is Charlie Meyer.”

“We can’t come to the phone right now,” they said in unison. “But if you leave your name and number, we’ll get back to you just as soon as we possibly can!”

“TTFN!” chirped Malcom’s voice.

Well, at least I know this is the right number, Jake thought, feeling a little nauseated at the content of the message.

The beep came and Jake began to speak. “Hey, Charlie, Jake Kingsley here. Hope things are going well for you up there in the bay area. The reason I called is I wanted to touch bases with you about a little project...”

There was a click, a whine of feedback, and then Charlie’s live voice was suddenly in his ear. “Jake!” he said excitedly. “Is that really you?”

“It’s really me,” Jake said.

“It’s good to hear from you, Jake!” Charlie said, sincerity in his tone. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer right away. We screen our calls, you know.”

“I understand,” Jake said. “How are you doing? Things going well?”

“They’re going fabulous,” Charlie told him. “The restaurants are popular and we’re looking into the possibility of opening a third one somewhere in the north bay.”

“That’s good news indeed. It would seem, based on your answering machine message, that you and Malcolm are still together.”

“We are,” Charlie said. “He is my life partner. We’re hoping someday to adopt a child or maybe have a surrogate carry one for us.”

“Uh ... yeah, cool,” Jake said slowly, shuddering a little at the thought of Charlie raising a child. It wasn’t that he was gay, it was that he was ... well ... weird. “Anyway, the reason I called is that Celia Valdez and I are putting together our next albums over the next few months. We hit the recording studio in October.”

“That’s awesome,” Charlie said. “I own the CDs of your last albums. Good shit, man! Both of them.”

“Thanks,” Jake said. “The reason I called is...”

“That was you playing the lead guitar on both albums, wasn’t it?” Charlie interrupted.

“Uh ... yeah, it was,” Jake confirmed. “Although I’d appreciate it if you kept that information kind of tight.”

“No problem,” Charlie said. “I understand completely ... or ... actually, I don’t understand, but I’ll keep it close. I knew it was you though the first time I heard them play Celia’s hard rocker on the radio. You have a distinctive sound.”

“And you have a good ear, apparently,” Jake said. “Tell me, Charlie, are you still playing the bass?”

“Well, I’m not in a band or anything, but I still play around with it quite a bit. Don’t want to lose the calluses on my fingers, right?”

“Right,” Jake said, smiling as he heard this.

“I usually pull it out and plug in when Malcolm and I get stoned. He likes to hear me play when he’s high. Of course, one thing usually leads to another, and then we’ll start...”

“Uh ... I get the idea,” Jake cut in before too much of a mental picture could form. “Anyway, Celia and I have been using the bassist and the drummer from our last album to put our tunes together...”

“They’re not bad,” Charlie said. “Not as good as Coop and I, of course, but they put down some good tracks for you.”

“Yes ... they did,” Jake said. “The problem is that they both have other jobs they’re committed to and they also have a band they put together. Neither one of them will be able to play for us when we hit the studio.”

“No shit?” Charlie asked. “That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, so ... that’s kind of why I called you. I wanted to see if maybe you’d consider helping us out.”

“Helping you out?” he asked.

“Uh ... yeah,” Jake said. “You know? We need someone to play bass for us.”

“And you want some recommendations from me?” Charlie asked. “I don’t know that I’ll be all that useful for that. I don’t know any musicians up here at all.”

“Uh ... no, I don’t want recommendations,” Jake said. “I was kind of hoping that maybe you might play with us.”

“Me?” he asked, genuinely surprised. “You’re asking me to play bass for you?”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “We’re trying to recruit Coop to play the drums as well.”

“Coop too? No shit?”

“No shit,” Jake said. “Coop’s situation is a little more complex than yours. We haven’t quite nailed him down just yet. Whether he can do it or not though, we’d still really like to have you putting down the rhythm for us.”

“Wow,” Charlie said. “This is all kind of overwhelming. I didn’t think I’d ever play professionally again. Would I have to come down to LA?”

“You would,” Jake said. “We have a studio in Santa Clarita that we rehearse in. After we get you and the drummer up to speed with two albums worth of tunes, we’ll head up to Coos Bay, Oregon to record.”

“Hmmm,” Charlie said. “Where would I stay?”

“In Oregon we all stay in a big house on the ocean. I’ve already reserved it for the time we’ll be there. In LA ... well ... I don’t know. My parents are staying in my house and Nerdly’s parents are staying in his. We’ll find something for you though. Maybe you could stay with Pauline. If she’s not cool with that, we’ll rent you an apartment.”

“This all sounds like fun,” he said. “Would you pay me?”

“Of course we would pay you,” Jake said. “We’ll give you royalties on the albums as well.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“We paid Ben and Ted fifty an hour plus one percent royalties on each of the albums. For you, I’d say we could go seventy-five an hour plus those one percent royalties and your room and board will be covered.”

“Not bad,” Charlie said. “That beats the hell out of what National was paying me for doing sessions. Are you sure my reputation won’t drag you down?”

“Are you talking about the fact that you’re gay or the whole transvestite thing?” Jake asked.

“Both, really,” Charlie said. “I still kind of embarrassed about the tranny thing. I really didn’t know that was a dude.”

“Shit happens, I guess,” Jake said carefully. “In any case, we still went out on tour with you after that happened, remember? People still bought tickets to see us and they still bought the album.”

“They threw men’s underwear at me up on the stage,” Charlie reminded him.

“Uh ... yeah, that was a bit uncalled for, I’ll agree, but we’re not going to be touring, just rehearsing and recording. No one will throw underwear at you. I promise.”

“You promise?” Charlie asked. “Because if there is any one article of clothing that is infested with E. coli germs, it is underwear. Do you know what E. coli does when it gets a foothold in someone’s body?”

“I imagine it’s pretty unpleasant,” Jake said. “And yes, I promise that no one will throw underwear or any other articles of clothing at you while you are in the employ of KVA Records.”

“You’ll put that in writing?”

“We will put it in writing,” Jake assured him.

“All right,” Charlie said. “I guess I’m in. When should I head down there?”

Coop was agreeable to joining the project as well, though he did express some concerns about playing with Charlie again.

“The dude is a freak,” Coop told Jake on the phone. “I don’t care that he likes to suck dicks, as long as he doesn’t try to suck mine, it’s all the other shit about him. The fucking tapeworm shit, the wiping down of everything with disinfectant wipes, the fucking handwashing all the time. Does he still do all that shit?”

“I have no reason to think that he does not,” Jake said.

Coop sighed. “Man,” he said, “that ain’t the way the world is supposed to work.”

“It is not,” Jake agreed.

“It does sound kind of bitchin’ to get everyone back together again—except for Matt, that is.”

“Yeah, except for Matt,” Jake said. “Do you think you’re interested, Coop? We could really use your help.”

“All right,” he said. “I’m in, as long as Pauline can get those tight-asses over at Aristocrat to release me. They were pretty pissed off when I resigned though. They might just say no for the fuck of it.”

“I’ll have Pauline get in touch with them today,” Jake said.

Pauline did get in touch with them and they rejected her offer out of hand initially. It was kind of a knee-jerk reaction, she told Jake. She said she would call them back after they’d had time to think it over a bit.

She was correct. The next day the Aristocrats suits allowed that they just might be able to release Mr. Cooper from his contract if KVA Records would commit to signing up for MD&P with Aristocrat for both upcoming albums and lock in a forty-five percent royalty rate, the right of promotional management, and the standard rates for manufacturing and distribution.

“You guys must be smoking the good shit,” Pauline countered. “We will commence bargaining in good faith immediately or the offer is off the table.”

“Then you wouldn’t get to have Mr. Cooper play drums for you,” was the response.

“That would be a shame,” Pauline said, “but not an insurmountable obstacle. We would simply find another drummer somewhere. I’m sure either National or Blake Studios has someone they can recommend to us. And if you do not release Coop from his contract, we will not accept a bid from Aristocrat for MD&P of the albums no matter what rate you offered.”

“That’s not how competitive bidding works, Pauline,” she was told.

“No, but it’s how we work,” she said. “I think I’m offering fair terms here. You release Coop and we will sign with you provided you match the lowest bid from the other competitors. We will pay standard rate for manufacturing and distribution. All promotional decisions will originate with KVA Records and will be followed. That’s the gist of the deal. Take it or leave it.”

They took it. Aristocrat was, after all, a greedy corporation that had to answer to its stockholders and whose primary motivation for anything was profit. They knew that both Jake and Celia’s second albums were going to sell well as long as they weren’t atrocious. Anything they could do to get an edge over the competition, they would do. The deal was put into writing and Coop was released from his contract.

“You told him he could stay with me?” Pauline yelled at Jake. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

They were in Pauline’s office in the studio, sitting at her desk below an impressive collection of gold and platinum records on the wall. The unnamed band was having its lunchbreak after working on some of Jake’s tunes. They now had only two more weeks to go before Phil, Lenny, and the rhythm section parted ways. Pauline had been working on the travel arrangements involved in getting Charlie to LA when it occurred to her that she did not know where he was going to stay.

“I told him it was a possibility,” Jake said. “It would certainly be a lot cheaper than renting him a hotel room, wouldn’t it?”

“Why can’t he stay with you?” she asked. “Your house is bigger than mine.”

“And I have Mom and Dad staying with me, remember?”

“So?” she asked. “You still have an extra bedroom, don’t you?”

“I do,” he agreed, “but I thought that having Charlie cohabitate with Mom and Dad might not be the best idea.”

“They’re going to have to cohabitate up in Oregon, aren’t they?” she countered. “Why not start now?”

“Because they need a little time to get to know him first,” Jake said. “You can’t just fully immerse yourself in Charlie, you have to get used to him, little by little. He’s kind of like swimming in a mountain lake full of snowmelt.”

She sighed. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right about that.”

“At least you know he’s not going to hit on you, right?” Jake said.

“Not funny,” she told him. “And Obie’s going to be hitting the road for his tour next month. He won’t be around to kill Charlie if he gets too weird.”

“You’ll just have to do it yourself,” Jake said.

“All right,” she said. “We’ll give it a shot, but I’m going to have some serious rules. His boyfriend can visit him, but he is to invite no one else into my home. And he can wash his hands all he wants, but he will not disinfect any of my belongings or furniture. If he tries that shit, Gloria will cut his balls off herself.”

“I’ll give him a call,” Jake said. “And I’ll explain the rules to him.”

“Right,” she said.

“And don’t forget,” he reminded her. “You have to put that no one will throw articles of clothing at him while he’s in our employ into his contract. I promised.”

“Understood,” she said sourly, not even bothering to ask how that negotiation point had come up.

National Records Building

Hollywood, California

September 1, 1993

“Here it is,” master studio technician Bob Weller said as he held up a black CD case in his right hand. He was sitting at the recording station across from the sound board of Studio C in the basement of the building. “The first copy of the master of your new album.”

Matt Tisdale, who sat in a chair next to him, nodded and reached out to take the case in hand. It weighed just as much as any other CD in the world, yet it seemed heavier. Eight months of hard work, including selling out, had gone into this little circular piece of plastic. This was a special moment. It always had been in the past, but it seemed heavier with this one.

“All right,” Matt said. “Good fucking work, Bob. You and everyone in the crew.”

“You as well, Matt,” Bob told him. “We appreciate you working with us on this one. I think we got something to be proud of here.”

Matt nodded. As much as he hated to admit it, letting the sound guys and the engineers dictate overdubs and double tracks and the mixing had actually improved the sound of his music considerably over his last effort. The shit on this CD wasn’t raw like Next Phase had been, it was refined and filtered, shaped and polished, full of multiple guitars mixed into a crunching, hard rock masterpiece of sound. In addition, the tunes were shorter, with all coming in well under seven minutes and most in the five minute range. They were going to be radio friendly, both in length and composition.

“I’m keeping this copy for my display,” Matt said. “Can you burn me another one I can actually listen to?”

“Damn right,” Bob said. “It’ll take about five minutes. I have to burn one for the suits as well. I told them we would likely be done today and they’re waiting.”

“Burn me that one right now,” Matt said. “I’ll take it up to them personally. I want to see their fucking faces when they listen to it.”

“Fair enough,” Bob said, rewinding the master tape so he could do another high-speed dub.

Ten minutes later, Matt was stepping out of the elevator on the top floor of the building, CD case in hand. He walked into conference room without knocking and found Doolittle, Crow, and Bailey sitting in the chairs next to the boombox, their suit jackets off, their ties loosened, and a mirror with a razor blade and white powder residue smeared across it in front of them.

“Welcome, Matt!” Doolittle greeted with cocaine fueled good cheer. “I understand that congratulations are in order.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said, walking over and sitting down. “I bring to you the second master copy of Hard Time, the second Matt Tisdale solo album.”

The three of them broke into applause that came off as more than a little cheesy. He chose to ignore it. “Shall we give the shit a listen?” he asked.

“By all means,” Bailey said. “We’ve been getting very favorable reports from the techies on this project.”

“That’s right,” said Crow. “I think we’re going to have a winner here.”

“I can’t wait to hear it,” Doolittle said. “Can we get you anything, Matt? We were just enjoying a little pick-me-up, as you can see.”

Matt shrugged. “Why the fuck not?” he asked. “Line me up.”

“Really?” Crow asked. “This is kind of a meeting, remember?”

“It ain’t an official meeting,” Matt said. “Besides, I just finished up the album. I need to celebrate. Can you get one of your bitches to bring me a Crown and Coke too?”

“Absolutely,” Crow said with a grin.

Doolittle pulled out a little silver case and opened it. He dumped some white powder onto the mirror and chopped it up with the razor for a few minutes before sweeping it into two healthy rails. He then picked up the mirror and handed it to Matt along with a rolled up one hundred dollar bill.

Matt took the mirror but not the bill. “No offense, Doolittle, but I have no idea what kind of orifices the three of you have been sticking your noses in. I’ll just use my own straw.”

“Suit yourself,” Doolittle said, unoffended.

Matt reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a sterling silver straw. He put it in his nose and made the two lines disappear. It was good shit, pure, uncut product from the finest illicit production facilities of Bolivia. His heart began to hammer in his chest and those familiar feelings of invulnerability and clarity washed over him.

“Thanks for the shit,” he told Doolittle.

“I’m happy to provide,” Doolittle said. “Your drink should be here momentarily.”

“Sounds good,” Matt said, pulling out a cigarette and sparking it up without asking for permission. He dropped the match into an empty glass on the table and took a healthy drag. He then dipped the ash into the same glass.

“Uh ... remember last month when you were telling me about that little project you and Kim had going with the porn distributor?” asked Crow.

“Yeah,” he said. “That whole deal where we’d release an alleged home video of us tearing one off. That shit kind of fell through.”

“It did?” Crow asked, disappointed. “What happened? I was hoping that that video would hit the public at about the same time as the album is released and the tour starts. The publicity would have been priceless.”

Matt shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be,” he said. “That asshole wanted to choreograph our fuck, that was one thing. We could’ve lived with that, I suppose, but he insisted that Kim do a couple of those fake orgasms she’s so famous for.”

“Those orgasms are fake?” Doolittle said, clearly disillusioned by this revelation.

“Of course they’re fucking fake,” Matt said. “You didn’t really think she was getting off by having Ron fucking Jeremy cram nine inches of meat up her ass, did you? She fuckin’ bled for a week after that shit.”

“But they look so real!” Bailey said, shaking his head.

“That’s because she’s an actress and can act,” Matt said. “When she really comes, she’s quiet as a fucking mouse, although her pussy does some interesting shit when it spasms.” He took a drag from his smoke. “Anyway, that was the deal breaker. I’m not gonna have a bitch I’m fucking on camera fake no fucking orgasm and this Rodney Carver motherfucker insisted that she pull off some of her fake ones for the audience. We came to an unbreakable impasse on the matter so he decided to drop us and try this scheme with someone else. He said he wanted to find someone who’s not a professional porn star anyway. He was also hoping to find someone with a bigger dick than mine.” He shrugged. “I mean, my shit ain’t small and it’s certainly had its share of snatch, but I ain’t exactly porn material I guess.”

“That’s too bad,” Crow said.

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, “at least we got those demo tapes we made for him. We threw down some decent fucking on those. If I live long enough to end up in a nursing home or some shit like that, I’m going to play those tapes non-stop to remind myself of the good old days.”

“A good plan,” said Doolittle, who believed that Matt would live long enough to end up in a nursing home about as much as he believed in Santa Claus.

“Live and fucking learn,” Matt said. “That’s what I always say.”

The door opened and a busty young woman in a tight skirt entered carrying Matt’s drink in her hand. She set it down next to him with a smile. He thanked her for it and then ran his hand up the back of her nyloned leg.

“You got a mondo set of wheels on you, honey,” he told her.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile and giggle, even as she twisted and maneuvered herself out of his grasp. “Will there be anything else?”

“A blowjob?” Matt suggested.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve got far too much work to do right now. Maybe later?”

“Count on it, baby,” he said.

She smiled again and made her retreat, disappearing through the door.

“All right then,” Doolittle said. “Shall we give this thing a listen?”

“Let’s do it,” Matt said, gulping down the top third of his drink.

They gave it a listen, playing the tracks on the CD one by one. Matt had, of course, heard all the tunes a hundred times before during the mixing process, but he still felt that familiar sense of awe at hearing the finished product for the first time. That is fucking me! he thought. I made this music! I wrote it and put it together and played all the guitars on it. It’s fucking me!

The suits of National had not heard the tunes yet—nothing but the occasional snippets on the rare occasions they’d visited the studio—and they were quite impressed with the effort. They were not enjoying the tunes on an aesthetic level or an artistic level, but rather on a business level. This is what they’d envisioned when they’d signed Matt Tisdale for his solo work. It was hard-driving, complex heavy metal music laid down by one of the best in the business and then honed and polished by the best engineers in National’s employ.

“This is going to sell a ton,” Crow said when the last track finished.

“Goddamn right,” Baily said excitedly. “It’ll go triple platinum at least!”

“The hard rocks are going to love this shit!” said Doolittle. “I want the release date for this to be the first week of October. We need to have the first cut playing on the radio by mid-September!”

“What about the tour?” asked Matt. “When are we going to launch the tour?”

“We’ll need you to start rehearsing it up as soon as possible,” Crow said. “We’ll want you on the road by mid-October. You can start up in New England and then work your way south before the snow starts to fly up north.”

“Sounds like an ass-fuck,” Matt said. “I do need another guitar player though, remember? The problem with engineering my shit the way we did is that it now will take two guitarists to reproduce it live. I will play lead, of course, but I’ll need someone who knows his fucking A-string from his dick playing rhythm for me. I’ll want the best studio hacker you got.”

“You’ll have him,” Crow promised.

“And I’m not going to play those second-rate venues either,” Matt said. “You book me in first-rate arenas across the board or I’m not playing.”

A look passed among the three suits. “Matt,” Doolittle said. “You can’t dictate something like that to us. You are still under contract. Tour scheduling is our responsibility and privilege.”

Matt was shaking his head. “I ain’t playing second-rate fucking venues,” he said. “I’ll breach my fucking contract before I do that shit again. First-rate across the board. Once we start getting airplay of my tunes, once the album starts selling, I’ll fucking fill those venues.”

Another look passed among them. It was a longer look this time but it ended with a collective shrug. “All right,” Doolittle said. “First-rate across the board. But don’t push us too hard.”

“I’ll push as hard as I need to,” Matt said. “That’s how the game is played, right?”

“I suppose,” Doolittle said with a sigh.

“Now, there’s one other thing,” Matt said. “I’ve been hearing some rumors floating around that that fucking sellout motherfucker Coop and that tranny-fucking motherfucker Freakboy are hooking up with Kingsley and the Valdez bitch for their next albums. Is there any truth to that shit?”

“We’ve heard those rumors as well,” Crow said. “So far, Pauline Kingsley has not confirmed or denied this.”

“What’s our position on that shit?” Matt asked. “Can they fucking do that? They’re putting Intemperance back together without me! I’m the founding fucking father of that band! Can they just get together like that and start playing?”

“If they are just using Coop and Charlie as studio musicians for solo efforts, there is no legal basis for trying to stop them,” Doolittle said. “Neither Coop nor Charlie are under contract to National any longer. Coop was under contract for Aristocrat because he was a member of Veteran, but I’m told they officially released him from that contract.”

“Why the fuck would they do that?” Matt asked. “Is there some backroom dealing going on here?”

“In all likelihood, yes,” Doolittle confirmed. “Again, Pauline is keeping this pretty close, but I’m guessing they made some sort of deal to favor Aristocrat for MD&P in exchange for releasing Coop.” He shrugged. “We’re not happy about it, but that is their right.”

“But they can’t do any Intemperance shit, can they?” Matt asked. “They can’t call themselves Intemperance or perform any of our previous material, right?”

“They can’t perform any previous Intemp material without our permission,” Doolittle said. “And if they do not sign with us for MD&P, we’re certainly not going to give them that permission. As for calling themselves Intemperance ... well ... that’s a bit of a gray area. Remember when David Gilmour put Pink Floyd back together and Roger Waters sued? Waters lost that lawsuit when the court ruled the band name belonged to them all. If Jake and the boys wanted to get together and put out some new tunes under the Intemp name, chances are they would get away with it as long as they didn’t perform anything from the previous albums.”

“That’s fucked up!” Matt said angrily.

“Indeed,” said Crow, “but I think maybe we’re worrying about this unnecessarily. I don’t think that Jake is trying to put Intemp back together. By all indications it looks like he and Valdez just needed some musicians to put their solo albums together. The rhythm section they used for the last album went and formed their own band. My guess is they chose not to go into the studio because of that obligation. Coop and Charlie are known factors that Jake knows can produce good music.”

“It still ain’t right,” Matt said, downing the last bit of his drink.

“True,” Crow said. “But lots of things in life that ain’t right happen anyway, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Matt said sourly. “I guess so.”