Different Circles

Chapter 22: Indianapolis, Indiana

April 20, 1994

The second of two shows in Indiana’s capital city went very well, with more than sixteen thousand Matt Tisdale fans giving the band a standing ovation as they took their bows just before the house lights came back up. Only one DJ and two record store patrons had accused Matt of being a sellout prior to the show—that was a good day indeed—and, now that they were all back at the hotel for the after-gig festivities, it was April 20, or four-twenty, the unofficial National Get Stoned Day, and they had some particularly fine bud to smoke in honor of it.

The party was in Austin’s room tonight and there was a nice selection of groupies present for the band’s use and enjoyment. Matt had already staked his claim on a twenty-year-old bleach blonde slut with a fantastic body and a nineteen-year-old goth bitch with a tongue piercing. He had just smoked his tenth bong hit (in honor of the holiday) and was currently crunching up a few lines of cocaine on a mirror to wash away the road fatigue. Sitting on the end table next to him was his seventh beer of the evening.

“I like ... totally didn’t know they still made cocaine like that,” said Bleach Blonde as she watched the operation.

“Me either,” said Goth, who seemed just as fascinated. “Are you sure it’s not meth? I’m not into meth.”

“I’m sure it’s not meth,” Matt said. “Trust me, meth and I do not get along. It’s pure, uncut, Bolivian cocaine, the likes of which is pretty fuckin’ hard to come by for white trash bitches like yourselves, but easily available to someone who has money falling out of his asshole like I do.”

“If you say so,” Bleach Blonde said.

“I say so, baby,” Matt said. “Now as soon as we get these lines done, let’s get to work.” He pointed at Goth. “You, I want down on your knees sucking my schlong. And be sure to make full use of that tongue stud, you know what I’m saying?”

“I know what you’re saying, Matt,” she said with a smile.

“And you,” Matt said, pointing to Bleach Blonde, “I want you sucking on her fucking tits while she blows me. You down with that?”

“Hell yeah,” Bleach Blond said enthusiastically. “She’s got some nice ones.”

“Right fuckin on,” Matt said happily, stowing the razor blade away in his kit and removing the straw. “It’s good for us all to be on the same page here.” He picked up the mirror.

“Have you ever snorted that out of a girl’s ass crack like Jake Kingsley did?” asked Goth.

Matt gave her an irritated look. “Baby, I’m the one who came up with that whole coke from the ass crack thing in the first place. I’m the one who did it first. For some reason they always give fucking Kingsley credit for that shit. Just another reason for me to hate that motherfucker.”

“He really did it then?” Bleach Blonde asked.

“Yes, he fucking did it!” Matt said. “But he only did it after I did! Now no more talk of that traitorous motherfucker or you ain’t getting no Matt Tisdale schlong tonight. Do we have an understanding?”

They both assured him that they had an understanding.

“All right,” Matt said. “Now let’s hit this shit.”

He brought the mirror to his face, put the sterling silver straw to his nose, and quickly made two of the assembled lines disappear. It really was good shit and it started to work on him even before he could pass the mirror over to Goth. The two girls snorted their two lines up—both with a bit of hesitation at first—and then the primary festivities began with Goth pulling off her shirt to reveal an extra-large pair of nineteen-year-old tits.

“Fuck yeah,” Matt said with a grin as she sank down to her knees before him. He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them and his underwear down. It was time for some serious schlong slurping.

Or at least he thought it was. Goth was looking at what he had to offer and the expression on her face was not one of amazed awe, as he expected. It was an expression of doubt, mixed with perhaps some pity? “Uh ... oh ... wow,” she said quietly.

Matt had never heard someone use that particular tone of voice while looking at his shit before. He looked down at himself and was startled to see that he was not ready for action—not even close, in fact. His crank was soft and withdrawn, just dangling there uselessly instead of standing tall and proud. What the fuck? he thought. He felt like he was ready to get some head from a barely legal with a tongue stud, but someone had forgot to send the memo down south.

“Uh ... I’m not sure what’s happening here,” Matt said.

“It’s okay,” Goth told him. “I can wake him up.”

She gave it her best shot. She took him into her mouth and began to slurp and suck on him, alternating her mouth action with jacking motions with her hands. Bleach Blonde handled her assignment as instructed and began to suck on Goth’s tits with a real enthusiasm. The sensation on his cock was very pleasant, as was the visual stimulation of the hot blonde slurping on those big nipples, but his manhood remained stubbornly unimpressed.

This cannot be happening to me! Matt thought helplessly, angrily as his dick remained soft and squishy and useless to his cause. This absolutely cannot be fucking happening to me!

“Boss, you okay?” asked Austin, whose own rather impressively sized manhood was being passed back and forth between two sluts who were kneeling before him.

“Fine, perfectly fine!” Matt barked back at him, nearing panic at the thought of not being able to get it up, of the thought that word of this incident might reach beyond this room. This shit does not happen to me!

“You sure, Boss?” Austin asked, his face showing alarm. “You’re all pale and shit. And you’re sweating.”

“What?” Matt asked, forgetting for the moment about his first-time onset of impotence. Pale and sweating? For the first time he noticed that he did feel a bit off. It seemed like he was having trouble catching his breath. And Austin was right, he was sweating. It was a cold sweat that was making his arms, his chest, his face damp, making him shiver in the processed hotel room air. The last time something like this had happened...

“Boss? You still with us?” Austin said.

“Fuck me,” Matt said.

“I’m not sure we’re going to be able to do that just yet,” Goth said apologetically. “Not until ... you know...”

“It’s just an expression!” Matt barked at her. He pushed her off his cock, perhaps a bit more roughly than was necessary. He pushed Bleach Blonde away as well. He then reached down and pulled up his pants.

“I was trying!” Goth told him. “It’s not my fault that you can’t get your...”

“Shut up,” Matt barked, zipping up. Then, afraid of what he was going to find but needing to know anyway, he reached down with his right hand and felt for the pulse point on his left wrist. He didn’t need to even count it. It was running like a freight train, at least two hundred beats per minute. “Shit! Not this again!”

This got the attention of Steve, who was over on the couch sliding his salami in and out of a brown-haired chubby groupie from behind while a skinny groupie was getting eaten out by her. “Not what again?” he called over, alarmed. “You ain’t doing that heart shit again, are you?”

“Yeah ... I am,” Matt said softly, now starting to feel a little ache in the middle of his chest. Maybe that had been meth after all? But no, he knew what meth smelled like, tasted like, what its effects were. And he certainly knew what cocaine smelled like, tasted like, and what its effects were. That had been coke, there was no doubt about it. And premo shit too. What the fuck then?

“Fuck!” Steve said, quickly disengaging himself from the action and hurrying over, his condom-capped schlong pointing the way like a divining rod. At least he could get his fucking dick hard.

“The heart shit?” asked Austin. “No fucking way!”

“Dude!” said Corban, who was lubing up the anus of a brunette groupie and preparing to slide in her back door. “You mean that shit where your heart goes fast?”

“Don’t call me dude,” Matt told him. “How many times I gotta fuckin tell you that shit!”

“Sorry, dude, but ... but ... are they gonna have to light you up again?”

“How fast is it going?” Steve wanted to know.

“At least two hundred,” said Matt, who was still feeling his pulse racing under his fingers.

“Goddamn, Matt,” Steve said. “What do you want me to do? You want me to get Greg?”

“Yeah,” Matt said, “but first, I think you’d better call 911.”

Steve did this, in that order. Greg arrived well before the medics did. He did nothing but confirm what Matt already knew, that his heart was going way too fast again. He was at least able to quantify the situation though. He counted the pulse rate as steady at 212 beats per minute.

“Shit,” said Matt when he heard the number. “Looks like I’m gonna be riding the fuckin’ lightning again.”

It turned out, however, that he did not have to ride the lightning. An engine crew from Indianapolis Fire Department’s station 13 and a paramedic unit arrived together about ten minutes after the 911 call was made. After a few moments of bewilderment and confusion as the first responders took in the hotel room full of booze, pot, cocaine and groupies—two of the latter were still engaging in lesbian sex on the room’s couch while another, the goth, was still shirtless, her impressive mammaries out for all to see—and then realized that their patient was the Matt Tisdale, they went to work on him. The paramedic of the crew hooked Matt up to his heart monitor and confirmed that he was, indeed, in a supraventricular tachycardia rhythm at a rate of two hundred and twelve beats per minute.

“Fuck me,” Matt barked. “All right. Let’s get this shit over with. Go ahead and bust out the paddles.”

“This has happened to you before?” asked the paramedic—his name, coincidentally, was Matt, which at least made it easy for Matt the musician to remember.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Back in Houston. New Year’s Day of 1992, right after a show. The medic said I was almost dead. He fuckin’ lit me up right there in the backstage. Hurt like a motherfucker, but it worked.”

“He didn’t even sedate you first?” Matt the paramedic asked.

“He said I was too critical to wait for that. Is that sedation shit an option here?”

“Let’s see what your blood pressure is, my friend,” Matt the paramedic told him. “It could be we won’t even have to cardiovert you at all.”

“No shit?” Matt the musician asked.

“No shit,” said Matt the paramedic.

One of the firefighters took his blood pressure and then called out the reading. “One oh-two over forty-eight.”

“That’s good, right?” Matt asked.

“A little on the low side,” said Matt the paramedic, “particularly for someone who just used cocaine, but it’s in the range we consider stable when we’re talking about SVT. You said you’re having a little chest pain?”

“Just a little,” Matt said.

“And you’re a bit diaphoretic as well.”

“Dia-pho-what?”

“A fancy way of saying you’re sweating for no good reason,” Matt the paramedic said. “We paramedics don’t really like it when people do that shit. You’re bordering on unstable, but still technically stable, so ... as long as you don’t deteriorate, I’m not going to shock you.”

“How do we fix this shit then?” Matt wanted to know.

“There’s a medicine they can give you at the hospital,” Matt the paramedic explained. “It’s called Adenosine and it’s the chemical equivalent of cardioversion. It almost always works to convert SVT back to a stable rhythm.”

“If it’s so fuckin’ cool, why don’t you have it?” asked Matt.

“They haven’t approved it for field use yet,” Matt the paramedic said with a shrug.

“You’re saying that they’ll let you fry me with electricity but they won’t give you a medicine that does the same fucking thing without making you feel like you’re Ted Bundy taking his last ride?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Matt the paramedic said. “Life is like a Dilbert comic, isn’t it? Now, let’s get an IV started on you and then bust our asses out of here.”

Matt the paramedic started his IV in Matt the musician’s left arm and then they loaded him up on the gurney. He was driven with lights and sirens to the Methodist Hospital of Indianapolis, which was not terribly far from the hotel, and wheeled immediately into a bed in a crowded, chaotic emergency room. Matt the paramedic gave a brief report to a doctor and two nurses, who quickly hooked Matt the musician up to a cardiac monitor, did a twelve-lead EKG on him, and then got him ready for the chemical cardioversion.

“So ... this shit is going to like ... stop my heart?” Matt asked the doctor, an Asian looking woman with the last name of Lee.

“Just for a few seconds,” Dr. Lee said. “And then it should restart in a normal rhythm.”

“And this is not going to hurt?”

“There might be a momentary sense of discomfort,” Dr. Lee said. “It will pass.”

A momentary sense of discomfort turned out to be an understatement. While not painful like the cardioversion had been, about five seconds after one of the nurses injected the Adenosine into his IV line, it felt like a fat chick had just sat down on his chest. He suddenly couldn’t breathe. It felt as if his chest would simply not respond to his brain’s command to inhale. He felt like he was suffocating. An odd sense of impending doom filled his head. He opened his mouth to say something to the assembled medical crew—all of whom were looking intently at the monitor screen above his head and not at him—but his mouth couldn’t form the words. Just as it felt like he was going to actually pass out—and probably never wake up, his mind gleefully informed him—everything suddenly went away. The weight came off his chest. He was able to a take a deep breath of wonderful oxygen. The sense of doom evaporated away like shot of Everclear on a hot sidewalk. The sweat on his skin started to dry.

“And there we go,” Dr. Lee said with a smile of what could only be interpreted as relief. “Back to a normal rhythm.”

“Damn,” Matt said, continuing to take deep breaths. “That was not as much fun as getting some Icelandic gash.”

Dr. Lee looked at him, raising her eyebrows just a bit. “Icelandic gash, huh? You’ve been to Iceland?”

“No, I scored it in France,” Matt told her. “That’s what’s so fuckin’ cool about it. It ain’t much of an accomplishment to score Icelandic gash in Iceland. I mean, what other kind of gash are you going to get there?”

Her eyebrows went up a bit more. “I suppose that’s a valid point,” she said at last. “Now then, the paramedic told me you ingested cocaine right before this onset of SVT?”

“Yeah, a couple lines of some premo Bolivian shit.” He shrugged. “Normal after-show stuff.”

“Uh huh,” Dr. Lee said. “And you also smoked some marijuana?”

“A couple bong hits after the show,” Matt said. “It is four-twenty, after all.”

“Yes, it certainly is,” Dr. Lee said. “And I can smell alcohol on you. How much did you have to drink tonight?”

Another shrug. “Seven or eight beers. The usual amount.”

“Well, it seems obvious that your heart did not appreciate all of that tonight,” Dr. Lee said. “I’m guessing that the cocaine was likely the trigger of the episode. You use cocaine regularly, it sounds like?”

“Pretty much every day,” Matt confirmed. “Especially out on the road. The last time this happened it was the meth that got it started.”

“The meth?”

“Right,” Matt said. “I was dragging ass that day and some of the roadies fixed me up with some of their tweak. Raunchy shit that meth, and then I ended up with that paramedic frying me like a fuckin’ chicken. Man, that shit sucked. I’m here to tell you, I learned my lesson that night.”

“What lesson was that?” Dr. Lee wanted to know.

“Not to do meth, obviously,” Matt told her simply. “And I haven’t done so much as a sniff of that shit since. That’s what’s so fuckin’ weird about this. If I didn’t do any meth, why did this shit happen again?”

“Uh ... as I said, the cocaine was likely the trigger.”

Matt shook his head emphatically. “No way, doc,” he told her. “I snort coke all the fuckin’ time and it don’t ever make me go into that SVT shit. And I always get good coke, you know, the pure shit with no cut in it. It has to be something else that triggered it tonight.”

“Mr. Tisdale...” Dr. Lee said patiently.

“Matt,” Matt said. “You can call me Matt, doc.”

“Matt,” she corrected. “You do realize that cocaine is a powerful stimulant, right?”

“Hell yeah,” he said. “That’s why I use it on the road. Touring is some tiring shit. The coke helps keep me awake for all the goddamn record store signings and for the after-show partying. I never do it before a show though. Every time I step on that stage to play, I’m stone cold sober.”

“An admirable work ethic indeed,” Dr. Lee said. “Be that as it may, however, long term use of any stimulant has been irrefutably linked to early onset heart damage and susceptibility to life-threatening arrythmias such as SVT. Just because this doesn’t happen every time you use cocaine does not mean that the cocaine is not what caused it or triggered it.”

“It doesn’t mean that it did either though, right?” Matt countered.

“It is impossible to prove a negative,” Dr. Lee said. “That is one of the principals of logic. But...”

“Hey, that’s some deep shit there, doc,” Matt said brightly. “Impossible to prove a negative. Nerdly used to say shit like that all the time—at least he did before he turned traitor and helped kill Darren. Were you a nerd back in school? I’m guessing a lot of you docs were.”

“Yes, I was a nerd and I still am, in fact. My teenaged angst aside, however, there is another principal of logic which says that if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck and looks like a duck, it’s probably a duck. Your SVT episodes walk like they are induced by long term cocaine use, they talk like they are induced by long term cocaine use, and they look like they are induced by long term cocaine use. Therefore...” She held her hands out invitingly, trying to get him to draw the conclusion she was trying to illustrate on his own.

Matt thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “I’m picking up what you’re laying down, doc, but I still don’t think so. There had to have been something else that caused this.”

Dr. Lee sighed. “All right then,” she said, giving up. “In any case, I’m going to admit you to the telemetry floor for a complete cardiac workup in the morning. Before we do that, however, I want to get some ... why are you shaking your head at me?”

“I can’t stay in the hospital, doc,” he told her. “We’re heading to Chicago in the morning. I got three shows to do there. After that, we’re going to Minneapolis.”

“Matt, you’ve had a significant cardiac event,” Dr. Lee said. “And this is the second time it has happened to you. You need a cardiac workup to see what kind of shape your heart is in. I must insist that you stay here and let us check you out.”

“No can do,” Matt told her. “I’ll sign your little against medical advice paper for you, but I gotta hit the fuckin’ road. The show must go on.”

“You could die if this happens again, Matt,” she told him.

“We all gotta go sometime,” he said.

“Will you at least let me run some labs and do some tests here in the ED before you go?” she asked.

“Sure, why not?” he said. “I’m sure the groupies are all gone from the hotel by now anyway.”

“Uh ... right,” Dr. Lee said. She turned to the two nurses, who had been watching the entire episode quietly, their faces without expression. “Go ahead and get a repeat EKG and then draw standard cardiac labs on him. I’m also going to order an ETOH, a urinalysis, a drugs of abuse panel, and an STD panel.”

“You don’t need that STD panel, doc,” Matt told her. “I always use a rubber ... unless I’m boning Kim, that is. We go bareback when it’s just the two of us.”

“Kim?” Dr. Lee asked.

“You probably know her as Mary Ann Cummings,” Matt clarified. “She used to be a porn star.”

“And ... you have a sexual relationship with her?”

“Yeah, she hangs out at my house and we fuck each other when I’m home. I help her run her business too. She’s all right.”

“I see,” Dr. Lee said. “If it’s all the same to you, Matt, we’ll go ahead and run that STD panel, just to be sure.”

“Whatever juices your clam,” Matt said with a shrug. “And speaking of that...” He looked at the nurses, who were pulling things out of a cart in preparation of carrying out Dr. Lee’s orders. “Do you mind if they step out for a minute? There’s something personal I want to talk about with you real quick.”

“More personal than what we’ve already been discussing?” Dr. Lee asked.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “It’ll only take a minute.”

“Sure,” Dr. Lee said, looking at the two nurses and giving them a nod. They left the room, closing the door behind them. “All right. What did you want to talk about?”

“Well ... it’s kind of embarrassing really. The shit I tell you stays between us, right?”

“Right,” she said. “Doctor-patient confidentiality is a thing.”

“Cool,” Matt said. “It has to do with ... you know ... my equipment.”

“Your equipment?”

“My schlong,” Matt said with a whisper.

“You mean your penis?”

“Right, my schlong,” Matt said. “You see ... right before all this shit happened tonight, I had a couple of groupies with me. One was this bleach blond bitch, the other a goth bitch with a tongue stud. Hot skank, you know? The kind of sluts I fuck all the time after shows.”

“I see,” Dr. Lee said slowly. “Is there a point to this story?”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “You see, when it came time for the action to start, I ... I wasn’t ready.”

“You mean you failed to obtain an erection?”

“Right. My shit wouldn’t get hard. Goth went down and started slurping on it, tongue ring and all, and Bleach Blond was sucking on her tits while she was doing it, but I couldn’t get it up. That shit ain’t never happened to me before, doc. It was distressing.”

“This happened right before you noticed you were in SVT?” Dr. Lee asked.

“That’s right,” he confirmed. “Does this SVT shit keep you from getting a boner?”

“Well ... in all honesty, I’m amazed that with all the substances you abuse simultaneously that you’re able to achieve an erection at all, under any circumstance, but to answer your question, yes, if you are in SVT it is unlikely that you’ll be able to ‘get a boner’ as you say. The blood flow in your body during SVT is compromised to some degree and this causes what we call a sympathetic response, meaning that your sympathetic nervous system is putting you in fight or flight mode. Sexual arousal is primarily controlled by the parasympathetic nervous system, which is suppressed during a fight or flight response. Does this make sense to you?”

“Are you saying that there’s nothing wrong with my shit? That it was the SVT that kept me from getting it up?”

“In all likelihood,” she said.

This made Matt happier than he’d been all night. “All right,” he said. “Thanks, doc.”

“Anytime,” she told him.

She left the room so the nurses could start their work. Even though she had only touched Matt Tisdale a few times to listen to his heart and lungs, she had an almost irresistible urge to go take a shower.

Jake had lived in California all of his life, in southern California for the last twelve years of his life, but he had never heard of the town of Oceano before. Now, at 1:30 PM on April 21st, he was flying into the small San Luis Obispo County town to check out a piece of property that was for sale just a few miles north of it.

Laura sat beside him in the copilot’s seat. She had a notebook open and was transcribing notes on the trip for Jake. Jill the accountant, who had scoped out this particular piece of property for him (very much against her better judgment and advice), was sitting in the passenger seat behind Laura.

“Airport in sight,” Jake said, looking out the right-side window at the single runway facility located only a hundred or so yards from the beach. “What’s our flight time from takeoff?”

Laura checked her watch, wrote down the time, compared it with the time they went wheels-up from Santa Monica, did some quick mental arithmetic, and then reported her answer. “Thirty-eight minutes.”

“Not bad,” Jake said. “And we’ve only burned a hundred and fifty pounds of fuel. Definitely commuter distance as far as I’m concerned.”

“How many gallons is a hundred and fifty pounds of fuel?” asked Jill, who had her own notebook open before her and was jotting down her own notes.

“About twenty-five gallons,” Jake said.

“Twenty-five gallons of jet fuel for a one-way flight,” Jill said. “And you paid four dollars and eighty cents a gallon at Santa Monica, correct?”

“Correct,” Jake said.

“That means that every round trip you take from here to LA and back will cost you two hundred and forty dollars in fuel alone. And how often do you suppose you’ll be making the trip once you get a house built and you move in?”

“If I have a house here and I’m working on something in LA, I’ll fly home every night. I won’t stay in LA at all if I don’t have to. That’s kind of the point of the whole thing.”

“So, we’re talking about five round trips a week on average?” Jill asked.

“Sounds about right,” Jake said.

“Two hundred and forty times five is twelve hundred dollars a week in fuel just for the aircraft. That’s forty-eight hundred dollars a month.”

“What is your point?” Jake asked her.

“That’s a lot of money, Jake,” she said. “All of it for an unnecessary project.”

“Yeah, but I’m a rich motherfucker, Jill. I can afford shit like that. You only live once, right?”

“It’s a frivolous waste of money,” she insisted.

“Fuckin’ A,” he agreed. “And I’m happy that life has made it so I can be frivolous in this manner. Now then, let’s see how easy it is to get into this airport. It looks pretty dead there from up here.”

“A poor choice of words, perhaps?” asked Laura.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, giving her a warm smile. “Winds are onshore right now. We’ll land on two-nine.”

Oceano County Airport had no control tower. Jake used the radio to announce on the facility’s approach frequency that he was entering the pattern with intent to land on Runway 29. No one answered him, which meant, in theory, that there was no other traffic in potential conflict with him. He flew out over the ocean and then turned right, directly into the downwind leg of the approach, dropping down to eighteen hundred feet as he did so. This brought him feet-dry over an extensive and impressive expanse of sand dunes and then over the small town itself. He turned left into the base leg and then left again for final approach, calling out his actions on the approach frequency each time. The radio remained silent and he saw no other aircraft in the sky or moving about on the ground at the airport. He touched down neatly at 1:35 PM and taxied over to the aircraft parking area.

“Engine shutdown at 1:38,” he told Laura.

“That gives you sixty-three minutes from engine start to engine shutdown,” she told him. “That’s from the fueling area, of course.”

“Of course,” he said. “An hour each way, add in a little more if I need to fuel up. The flight time is in my parameters.”

“Agreed,” said Laura.

“How much are they going to charge you to land here?” asked Jill.

“Let’s go find out,” Jake said. “I also want to scope out what hangar space goes for here. Since this is where I’d be living if the land checks out, I’d house the plane here and then just pay landing fees in LA.”

“Do they do maintenance here?” asked Laura.

“Another excellent question,” Jake said, opening the aircraft door. “That’s why we’re checking all this shit out.”

Jake was happy to find that they were close enough to the ocean that they could hear the waves breaking in the distance, could smell the salt air. The sky was blue above them, without so much as a hint of smog. So far, so good. Although his original plan had been to have his own airstrip on the land he bought, that was simply not feasible in this particular location. The land in question was not zoned for that and, even if it had been, the expense of building, operating, and maintaining one’s own airstrip was enough to trigger even Jake’s almost non-existent financial sensibilities. Still, this was a nice looking airport, conveniently located and seemingly easy to fly into and out of.

They went into the airport operations building and met with the manager of the facility, a man in his early sixties who had no idea who Jake Kingsley was and who looked at his longish hair with distaste. He collected the ten-dollar landing fee and then quoted Jake the price for hangar space. Jake thought he misheard him at first.

“Forty-eight dollars... a month?” he asked the man.

“That’s the goin’ rate, my friend,” the man told him. “And we’re the only airport in town, so I guess you’re kinda stuck with it if you want to house your plane here.”

Jake realized that the man thought he was in disbelief because that price was high. “I would be happy to pay forty-eight a month,” he said. “I’m paying four times that for a hangar in Santa Monica right now.”

“Ahhh,” the man said with a nod. “You’re from the city then?”

“Not any longer than I have to be,” Jake said. “How about maintenance services? Are they offered here?”

“No maintenance here,” the man told him. “But just up north at San Luis Obispo airport they have full services. Take you maybe ten minutes to fly there. Old Zeke and his boy Jimmy run Anderson Aircraft Services there. They’re good honest folk, give you a fair shake.”

“That’s good to know,” Jake said. He looked at Jill and Laura. “Are you guys writing all this down?”

“Zeke and his boy Jimmy,” Laura confirmed.

“Forty-eight dollars a month,” Jill said. “That is a pretty good price.”

“You lookin’ to set up shop here, boy?” the man asked Jake.

“It’s possible,” Jake told him. “We’re here to check out some land for sale just north of town. If I like it, I might very well put an offer down and build myself a little house there.”

“You’re kinda young, ain’t ya?”

“Thirty-four years old,” Jake said. “Old enough to go after what I want.”

The man scowled a little. “Just what kinda business are you in, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

“Drug running out of South America,” Jake told him with a straight face. “It’s a pretty good gig.”

The man’s eyes widened comically.

Jake chuckled. “Sorry, couldn’t resist that one. Actually, I’m a musician.”

“A musician?” the man asked, as if he’d never heard of such a thing.

“Yeah. You know, guitars and singing and shit? I do okay.”

The man looked very doubtful at this, as if he was more inclined to believe Jake’s first answer.

“Anyway, I appreciate your time,” Jake told him. “We have a real estate agent who is going to meet us here at two-thirty. Do you mind if we stroll around a bit while we’re waiting, check the place out?”

“Uh ... sure,” the man said. “As long as you stay off the runway and the taxiway.”

“I think we can manage that,” Jake promised.

The real estate agent was a man named Dan Brook. He was in his late forties, bald, more than a little chubby, and drove a 1993 Mercedes 500sel. It seemed he was doing well for himself. Unlike the airport manager, Brook knew who Jake was, although he apologetically admitted that he wasn’t really into hard rock music.

“To each their own,” Jake said with a shrug. “I believe you talked to Jill a few times on the phone?”

“Yes, of course,” Brook said. “It’s nice to meet you in person, Jill. I hope the land lives up to your expectations.”

“Yeah, that would be wonderful,” Jill said sourly.

“Jill is a bit of a mother hen to me,” Jake explained. “She thinks I’m being wasteful for wanting to buy land outside of LA.” He lowered his voice into the conspiratorial range. “She’s an accountant.”

“Ahhh,” Brook said with a chuckle. “I understand.”

“You promised there would be no more accountant jokes,” Jill told him.

“I don’t think that falls into the category of a joke, per se,” Jake said.

“He chuckled,” she insisted. “If you make someone chuckle, it’s a joke.”

“All right,” Jake said. “Point conceded. I apologize for making light of your profession.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“It is a pretty boring profession though. You do realize that, right?”

“Jake!”

He held up his hands in appeasement, then put his arm around Laura’s shoulders to continue the introductions. “Anyway ... this is Laura Best, my girlfriend and my note keeper for this particular trip. She’s a musician as well.”

“I know who she is,” Brook said. “I saw you playing sax for Bobby Z when you performed in Santa Barbara last year. It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Best.”

“Uh ... thank you,” Laura said, surprised that someone recognized her as anything other than Jake’s girlfriend. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“It was outstanding,” Brook said. “I’ve been a smooth jazz fan for years, and Bobby Z is one of the best out there. I think you’re just as good, if not better than Dexter Price. That solo you did was amazing. It brought tears to my eyes.”

This proclamation obviously made Laura’s day. “I’m glad you enjoyed it,” she told him.

“Are you and Bobby Z working on a new album yet? I understand you just go back from a tour of South America.”

“Z is probably working on some new stuff now,” Laura told him. “Myself, I’m on a little hiatus from performing currently. He might ask me to play with him when it’s time to hit the studio, or he might not. Either way, that’s a few months in the future, at least.”

“Well, I just want you to know that I’m a definite fan, Laura ... may I call you Laura?”

“You may,” she said, smiling.

“All righty then,” Jake said. “Now that we all know each other, how about we go take a look at the land?”

“Let’s do it,” Brook said, waving toward the Mercedes.

They piled in and made the drive. Jake asked Brook if he could make a run through the town of Oceano on the way so he could check it out, make sure it had the basics of what a person would need if one chose to live there.

“Sure can,” Brook told him. “In fact, going through town is the only way to the property from the airport. Highway 1 is Oceano’s main drag.”

The made the drive, with Laura keeping track of how long it took while Jake checked out the town. It seemed to have most everything a resident of the area would reasonably need. There were gas stations, several grocery stores, a few restaurants, a fair number of bars and pubs. A pharmacy. A hardware store. There was no hospital in the town itself, but Brook assured him that there was a fine hospital in nearby Arroyo Grande, just a little bit inland.

They left the town to the north and Highway 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH as it was commonly called, merged with Highway 101 for a stretch just outside the city limits. The two-lane road paralleled the coast but they were rarely able to see the ocean itself in this stretch due to the huge sand dunes that stood sentinel between the water and the road. Dozens of all-terrain vehicles of varying type, all of which had tall red flags mounted on poles that stuck far up into the air, could be seen zipping around up and down the dunes and even on the beach itself when it became visible.

“The sand dunes are what this area is known for,” Brook explained. “They stretch for miles along the coast here. People come from all over the world to ride those ATVs in them.”

“What’s with the flags?” Laura asked.

“It’s for visibility,” Brook said. “Riders on opposite slopes of a dune can see each other coming that way and avoid colliding.”

“Ahhh, makes sense,” she said.

Jake had a more practical concern. “Are they riding those things on the property we’re going to see?” he asked. He was all for people having fun, but he didn’t want to hear the constant whine of ATV engines covering up the sound of the ocean.

“No,” Brook said. “The property is just north of where the dunes end. The plot sits on a plateau over a stretch of rocky cliffside seacoast. Just to the south of the property is the northern fringes of Pismo Beach State Park. Just to the north is Dinosaur Caves Park. The land is a little piece of privately-owned property tucked in between two stretches of state-owned land.”

“So, they won’t be able to develop around it?” asked Jake.

“Not unless the state decides to sell off some of its prime beachfront land to a developer,” Brook said. “Something that is extremely unlikely to happen.”

Eleven minutes outside of the town, the highway curved away from the coast a bit. Another mile after this, Brook turned the Mercedes onto a badly maintained gravel path that wound through a passage between a set of hills dotted with sagebrush and a few Cyprus trees. About a half a mile in, they came to a metal gate, painted forest green, that blocked the road. A large sign reading PRIVATE PROPERTY, NO TRESPASSING! was mounted on it. A rusty padlock dangled from the bar that secured the gate.

“This is the start of the property here,” Brook said. “Everything on this side of the gate is owned by the County of San Luis Obispo and is zoned as protected coastal hills unsuitable for development. The owner of the property is granted a perpetual easement for the road itself as long as the owner pays for the maintenance and upkeep of the easement. On the other side of that gate is a little chunk of private land that was granted to the Simmons family shortly after the Mexican-American War. They used to be one of the prominent families in the area, but they squandered their wealth away back during the Great Depression and sold the land to a development company that wanted to build a hotel here. That never came to pass and the land has been sold from one developer to the other a few more times. Currently it’s owned by the Heliodorus Development Company, which is controlled primarily by Andre Heliodorus and his wife. They are probably the richest people in the five-cities area. Most of the development that takes place in coastal SLO county involves land that they own or otherwise have some interest in.”

“Do you know these people?” Jake asked.

“I do,” Brook said. “A very nice family. Very down to earth for people with a net worth that is well into the eight-digit range. They live in a mansion just a little bit north of here, in Avilia Beach.”

“How come they have never developed this property before?” Jill asked.

“Because about the only thing it’s good for is what Jake here is proposing for it,” Brook said. “You can’t really slap down a hotel or condos or a resort because it’s surrounded by state or county land on all sides and it doesn’t really have an accessible beach. There would be no reason for anyone to want to stay here other than the view of the ocean. It would be perfect for a private home as long as one is able to pay for development of the lot, wells, connection to the power grid, and all the other things that go along with building in a place like this. Such buyers are few and far between. Jake, in fact, is the first person who has shown any interest in the property in the past ten years.”

“Why did they buy the land if it’s not good for anything?” asked Laura.

“Because they’re real estate developers and that’s what they do,” Brook said. “Real estate will always go up in a value over time—they can’t make any more of it, after all—so the plot was a long-term investment. There will always eventually be someone like Jake who comes along and wants to buy oceanfront property in California.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Laura said.

“I’m pretty sure they didn’t expect it to take this long to unload, however,” Brook added.

“Then they’ll give me a good price?” Jake asked.

Brook chuckled. “They’ll give you what they feel is a good price,” he said. “They are business people and they will demand fair market value, plus a little more.”

“Fair market value I’ll pay,” Jake said. “I will not put up with anyone trying to screw me though. The first hint that they’re trying to slide it in, I walk and I never do business with them again.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along to them,” Brook said. “Before we start opening negotiations, however, how about we go in and take a look at the land? Maybe you won’t like it and this discussion is all for naught.”

Jake nodded. It was a reasonable suggestion. “Let’s do it,” he said.

Brook unlocked the padlock with a key he carried and swung open the gate. It creaked quite loudly as he did this. He returned to the car and they bounced and bumped their way down the road a little further. As soon as they passed the last hill, they were on a broad, flat plateau, roughly half-oval shaped, covered with scrub brush and tall grass that waved in the wind. There was an unobstructed view out over the blue water of the Pacific Ocean. A few fishing boats could be seen a mile or so offshore. Much further out, the ghostly silhouette of a large ship—probably a container ship heading to LA or Long Beach—could just be discerned.

“Beautiful,” Laura breathed, taking it in.

“It really is,” Jake said, starting to fall in love immediately. “How far above the water are we?”

“Almost a hundred and fifty feet,” Brook said.

“High enough that a tsunami won’t hit us?” Jake asked.

“More than high enough,” Brook said. “The topography of the land here is such that even the worst tsunami would wash out to the north and south of this point of land. Water takes the path of least resistance, and that cliffside is a pretty formidable piece of resistance. The wave would swamp the dunes to the south and the estuary of the river to the north and leave this plot sitting high and dry.”

“That’s good to know,” said Laura.

They reached the end of the gravel road. They were still well over a hundred and fifty yards from the edge of the cliff. Brook shut off the car and the four of them got out. There was a steady wind blowing over them from the ocean and the sound of waves breaking could plainly be heard. Seagulls and the occasional cluster of pelicans flew overhead.

“What are the boundaries of the property?” Jake asked.

“It’s two hundred and twenty acres,” Brook said. “The terms offered on it are that the entire plot will be sold in one piece. It stretches from the gate behind us all the way to the high tide mark on the water’s edge, although that’s kind of a meaningless designation because at high tide what little beach there is down there disappears and the waves crash against the cliff itself. To the south, the property goes to the base of that dune.”

Jake looked south and saw a sand dune rising up. It was perhaps a thousand feet from where he now stood.

“And to the north,” Brook went on, “the property extends to that rock formation.”

Jake looked over there and saw a huge protrusion of black rock rising at least three hundred feet above the plateau. It was perhaps five hundred feet away from them. The land contained within those boundaries was more than enough for his needs, especially since he would not be building an air strip. “I like it,” he said. “Let’s take a little walk around.”

They strolled the plot, walking first to the edge of the cliff to take in the view of it. It was currently low tide and there was a narrow stretch of beach visible down there, perhaps twenty yards wide. The cliff face was steep and rocky and it appeared that one would try to climb down to that beach only if one had a death wish. That was okay with Jake. If one could not climb down there, it was unlikely that unwanted visitors would be able to climb up here.

They then walked around the entire perimeter. This took the better part of forty minutes to accomplish, partly because they walked slow, partly because the ground was uneven. When they finally made it back to the car, Jake turned to Laura and asked what she thought.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. “The air is clear, it’s private, there’s the sound of the ocean. I really like it a lot, Jake.”

“Think you could live here?” he asked.

She smiled and then leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips. “Yeah,” she told him. “I could live here.”

Laura was easy to win over. Now for the hard part. “And what do you think?” he asked Jill.

“Well, you know overall how I feel about this whole endeavor,” she said.

“I do,” Jake agreed. “But let’s go with the assumption that I’ll be disregarding your advice, because I will. What do you think otherwise?”

“It’s a nice plot of land,” she said. “If it checks out, I think it will meet your desires.”

“I agree,” Jake said.

“You’ll note that I said, ‘if it checks out’,” Jill said firmly. “And there’s a lot of things that need to be checked out. We need to get a survey team in here to assess the property. We need to make sure there’s sufficient groundwater here for you to have a well. My understanding is that, in many cases, you cannot get potable water out of land on the coast. That’s the number one thing. We need to look into how much it will cost to run power to the property. We’re close to half a mile from the main road here. I’m sure it won’t be cheap to turn on the lights. We also need to make sure the land itself is suitable for building a structure.”

“Right,” Jake said. “All the shit we had to do before we built the place in New Zealand. You’re familiar with the procedure, right?”

She sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “I’m familiar with it.”

“I want to put in an offer,” Jake said. He turned to Brook. “I understand the asking price for this plot is six million dollars?”

“That is correct.”

“That’s a lot of dinero,” Jake told him. “What do you think they’ll accept for the land?”

“Uh ... well ... in my dealings with the Heliodorus family, I’ve always found that what they offer is what they mean. If they say six million dollars, that’s what they want.”

“Uh huh,” Jake said. “I like this place, and I’m willing to pay good money for it, but not six million, not for land that’s been sitting here empty forever and that no one has even looked at in the past ten years. What’s your commission on a sale like this, Brook?”

“Three percent is the standard rate,” he said.

“I see,” Jake said. “So that means if this sale falls through because of games with what the fair market value is, you’d be missing out on a pretty hefty chunk of change, right?”

“Uh ... right,” Brook said slowly.

“Then it would behoove you to answer my question honestly,” Jake told him. “What do you think they’ll accept?”

He sighed. “If you offer five million, they’ll probably counter with five point seven five and you’ll likely be able to meet in the middle at around five and a half.”

“Very nice,” Jake said. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He turned to Jill. “I want you to offer five million tomorrow and set a hard ceiling of five point five. Sale dependent on a satisfactory survey, naturally.”

Jill looked downright miserable. “Are you sure, Jake?”

“As sure as I’ve ever been of anything,” he told her.

On the 22^nd of April, 1994, the first promoted cuts from Celia Valdez’s new album, Small Talk, and Jake Kingsley’s new album, Living in This World, began to get pre-release airplay across the nation. Directed by Jake, who was KVA’s promotion guru, the first promoted cuts were Should We Believe? for Celia and Breaking Down Fast, for Jake. Both cuts, within forty-eight hours, were the most requested nationwide on both the hards and the pops and the release of the respective albums was highly anticipated. And, as expected, Celia’s cut was generating criticism and even protest due to its purported anti-Christian theme (although if one actually analyzed the lyrics carefully, one would find the overall message was to keep one’s faith in the face of disbelief).

On the night of April 24^th, a combination business meeting and going away party for Celia was held at Pauline’s house. The Nerdlys were there, as was Jake and Laura, as were Celia and Greg. Everyone took turns holding little Tabby and talking business for a bit before any alcohol was served.

“Living and Talk will both be released for sale on Tuesday, May 3,” Pauline told them as they sat at her dining room table. “The suits at Aristocrat are still bitching about the order of song release for promotion, and the fact that we’ve made no videos for the songs, but bitching is all they’re doing. The promotion campaign proceeds as Jake has dictated.”

“You would think,” said Nerdly, “after the significant measure of success KVA enjoyed with Jake in charge of promoting the last albums, they would embrace his methodology.”

“You would think,” Pauline said, “but we’re talking about record company suits here. Their opinion is that Struggle and Down would have sold twice as many albums if only record company professionals would have been in charge.”

Jake shook his head in disgust. “Leave it to them to scoff at triple platinum for me and quadruple platinum for Celia. It can’t possibly be that I know what I’m doing here. They write it off as luck. They won’t even acknowledge that our tunes and engineering are what made those albums. They think we just accidentally blundered into the right gimmick for the times.”

“They’re a piece of work all right,” Pauline said. “In any case, once Celia hits the road this week, I’m expecting over-the-top sales on Talk in every city she visits. You ready to shine, girlfriend?”

“I’m ready,” she said. “Eager to get out there and start playing.” She frowned a little. “I still think they’re screwing me on the whole air travel between venues deal.”

“They’re leasing a plane and a flight crew for the exclusive use of you and the band,” Jake said. “How is that screwing you?”

“It’s a tiny plane,” she complained. “With propellers! I understand that my contract said they would fly us from venue to venue by first class or private, but I really wasn’t expecting them to interpret private as a goddamn puddle jumper.”

“It’s a King Air 350,” Jake said. “That’s a nice plane. It has a bathroom and everything.”

“That’s your qualification for what’s a nice plane?” she asked him. “If it has a bathroom?”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “You’ve been in my plane, right? No place to take a leak there.”

“I know,” Pauline said sourly. “I seem to remember a flight with you where that was an issue.”

“You see?” Jake said. “Paulie agrees with me.”

“How is the tour doing anyway?” asked Greg. “Have they left for Phoenix yet?”

“They rolled out last night,” Pauline said. “The Phoenix Suns are playing their final home game of the season the night before the show, but the arena should be ready when the crew starts setting up on the morning of the 27^th. That show has sold out America West Arena. That’s nineteen thousand tickets sold. Word is that the scalpers are charging up to eighty bucks a ticket.”

“Hey, not bad for a show where I don’t show my tits or dance around and lip synch,” Celia said.

“Exactly,” Pauline said. “And you’ve sold out all of the dates for the next two weeks after the Phoenix show. Of course, Aristocrat credits their concert promotion department with this.”

“Naturally,” Jake said with a shake of the head.

“Hey, as long as the paychecks keep coming in, right?” Pauline said.

“Fuckin’ A,” Jake agreed.

They moved on to the next item on the agenda: Project Brainwash. Jake was in charge of securing lodging for the members of the band from Providence, who would be arriving in Los Angeles on June 6, families and children in tow. They discussed a few details of the itinerary for that. The band would stay in a hotel in LA and occupy KVA Studios for two weeks so Jake and the Nerdlys could help them pick ten or eleven solid tunes from their repertoire to record. They would then move the entire operation to Coos Bay to begin laying down basic tracks for those tunes. Obie agreed to rent the studio time for them at his standard rate and Jake managed to secure the same house on the cliff KVA had used before, though the actual bedroom assignments were still up in the air.

“We’re on budget with this Brainwash thing then?” asked Greg. He was not a fan of the project—he considered it far too risky to KVA’s capital—but had accepted that they were going forth with it over his objections.

“So far, so good,” Pauline told him. “Although the real grinder is going to be how much studio time will be needed and what sort of promotion royalties we’re going to have to pay once we get masters in hand.”

“Both things to worry about on another day,” Jake said.

“I think we should at least open a discussion about this now,” Greg countered.

“If we stop talking about business now, we can start drinking,” Jake replied.

“I move we adjourn the business part of the gathering then,” said Pauline.

“Seconded,” said Celia.

“All in favor?” Jake asked.

The vote was unanimous. Even Greg was ready for a drink.

About an hour later, Greg and Jake were sitting out on Pauline’s deck, watching the windsurfers ply across the lake while they sipped scotch on the rocks and smoked cigars. Greg seemed a lot less stressed these days and he and Celia seemed to be speaking to each other a little more.

“It looks like you and C are getting along better?” Jake asked him.

“There’s still a strain,” Greg said, “but we’re moving in the right direction now. She still won’t talk about ... you know ... what happened up in Alaska or what it means going forward, but she’ll hold a civil conversation with me now. And her interest in sex has come back. Thank God for that.”

“Oh yeah?” Jake asked, unsure whether he should be happy about that or jealous.

“She’s actually been quite amorous of late. It started that night she came home after going out shopping and to the spa with Laura.”

“Really?”

Greg nodded. “I’m not sure what happened that day, what those two talked about, but it obviously had some sort of effect on Celia. That was when she started speaking to me again. And it was right after she got home that she ... well ... she resumed our sexual relationship with a passion.”

“Hmm,” Jake said. “Laura didn’t mention anything about any deep conversation they might have had. She can be pretty insightful though.”

“Well, I thank her for whatever she did. One odd thing about it though.”

“What’s that?”

“Well ... it’s kind of private,” Greg said. “Maybe I shouldn’t discuss it.”

“Oh come on now,” Jake said. “You can’t bring up some shit like that and then shut it down. Give it up.”

“Well ... ever since she resumed having relations with me, she ... well ... she’s become kind of obsessed with ... you know ... oral sex.”

“Oral sex?” Jake asked. “You mean sucking your dick?” That would be odd indeed, as Laura had certainly developed that same obsession since returning from tour.

“No,” Greg said. “The receiving of oral sex, not the giving.”

“You mean she wants you to eat her pussy out?” Jake asked. This was still odd. Laura had chilled a little with her aversion to this act over the past few weeks, but she still never asked for it to be done like she used to.

“That’s right,” Greg said. “She wants that all the time now. It’s how we start out every session.”

“Are you complaining about this?” Jake wanted to know, thinking he’d eat at Celia’s Y all day long if she wanted him to.

“No ... not really,” Greg said, “although my mouth and jaw do get a bit sore at times. I do enjoy participating in that act. I just think it very strange that she suddenly developed this obsession with it. Any thoughts on where something like that might have come from? Something Laura might have said to her to trigger it?”

Jake honestly did not have a clue, though he could not help but think there had to be some connection between Laura’s aversion to the act and Celia’s obsession with it, especially since Celia’s apparently started the very day the two of them had gone out together and gotten drunk. “I don’t know,” he told Greg. “I guess my advice would have to be that you just go with it. Eat all the clam you can get before she goes out on the road. You’re not going to get any more for a while after she climbs on that plane on Tuesday, right?”

“That is true,” Greg said thoughtfully.

Jake raised his glass. “To tuna casserole,” he said.

Greg gave a little nod. “To tuna casserole,” he repeated, clinking his glass with Jake’s.

Meanwhile, back in the living room, Laura and Celia were sitting next to each other on the couch, each drinking a glass of white wine. Across the room from them, Sharon was holding Tabitha in her arms while she and Nerdly cooed and made faces at her. Pauline was at the bar, mixing herself a little drink.

“Did you tell Jake about ... you know?” Celia whispered to Laura.

“No,” Laura said. “I’m still not sure it’s a good idea. What will he think about me?”

“Knowing Jake as I do, I honestly don’t think he’ll be offended ... unless, of course, you keep it a secret from him and he finds out about it some other way.”

“How would he find out about it?” she asked. “You’re the only one who knows ... well ... except for the guys in the band of course, and Ron, but they would never say anything to anyone. What happens on the road stays on the road. That’s the rule, right?”

“That is the rule,” Celia agreed. “But sometimes, when the tale is particularly juicy—as this one is—the rule can be broken.”

“I just don’t know,” Laura said. “I’m afraid he’ll leave me if I tell him.”

“I don’t think he will,” Celia insisted. “It’s not like you were cheating on him or anything—certainly not in the traditional sense of the word. It was a very unique solution to a significant problem.”

“I have a hard time seeing it that way,” Laura said. “I certainly wouldn’t like it if Jake told me he was relieving his sexual tension in that manner. I wouldn’t like it at all.”

“Jake doing something like that would not be the same thing,” Celia insisted. “It’s an apples and oranges comparison.”

“Why?” Laura asked. “How is it different?”

“It just is,” Celia said. “Is it a double standard? Sure. But it’s also reality.”

“Yeah ... I suppose.”

“Look, I just give advice when I’m asked. You asked. You don’t have to do what I suggest, but before you decide to ignore the problem, I’d think through all the ramifications. What’s going to happen if Dexter and Z get back together at some point. I’d say that’s a very likely possibility. Do you think Z might mention this to Dex? Do you think maybe Dex might feel honor bound to mention it to Jake if they play together again? Maybe not ... but also maybe.”

“Yeah,” Laura said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do that,” Celia said.

“Anyone need a refresher on their drink?” asked Pauline, who was holding up the wine bottle.

“Hit me,” said Celia, holding her glass high.

“Yeah,” Laura said. “Me too.”

On Tuesday morning, April 26^th, one week before the scheduled release of her new album for sale, Celia Valdez reported to the Van Nuys Airport for her flight to Phoenix for the first date of the Small Talk Tour of 1994. Greg drove her there, parking in the general aviation lot and carrying her one small suitcase for her.

“That looks like my ride,” Celia said as they approached the twin-engine prop plane that sat next to the building.

“Not exactly a Gulfstream,” Greg said, “but it certainly looks safer than that deathtrap Jake flies around in. More comfortable too.”

“Yeah ... I suppose,” she said.

The rest of the band was already there, bags in hand—or, actually, resting at their feet as the plane was still sealed up and no flight crew was visible.

“I’m going to miss you, C,” Greg told her.

She looked at him, seeing sincerity in his eyes. “I’m going to miss you too,” she said. “But maybe that’s a good thing at this point, right?”

“I don’t know if it’s good,” he said, “but, like Jake always says, it’s the life we choose.”

“The life we choose,” she agreed. Her look sharpened a bit. “You’re going to behave yourself while I’m gone?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve learned my lesson on misbehaving. It’s definitely not worth it.”

She smiled a little. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Do you want me to stay until you leave?” he asked. “I have that meeting to go to about the premier, but they’ll understand if I’m late.”

“No, you get to your meeting,” she told him. “I’ll call you after the show tomorrow.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it.”

He set her bag down on the ground and they embraced warmly—the warmest non-sexual embrace they’d shared since the Alaska incident. She kissed him softly on the mouth and then did it again.

“I love you, Celia,” he told her.

“I know,” she said. “And I love you too. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“I’ll fly out to catch your show as soon as I can.”

“I’ll hold you to that as well.”

He went back to his car and got inside. With one last wave at her, he drove off, disappearing from view. With a sigh, she picked up her bag and walked over to her band. They all greeted her happily. There was a definite excitement in the air about finally heading out.

The flight crew emerged from the building a few minutes later. It was two pilots, dressed not in the standard white uniform shirts and hats, but in blue jeans and light blue button-up shirts with Peterson Aviation stenciled on the breast. Celia was surprised to see that one of the pilots was a female. She appeared to be in her early forties and had a cute face but her hair was cut extremely short. The other pilot was a younger male, possibly early thirties but more likely late twenties. He sported a mustache and long sideburns.

“Hello everyone,” the female pilot greeted. “I’m Susan Granderson, and I’ll be the primary pilot in command of this aircraft as we embark upon this tour. We’re going to get to know each other very well over the next five months, so you can call me Suzie if you like.”

“And I’m Mark Laughlin,” said the other pilot. “I’ll be the copilot on our journey. I just want all of you know that it’s an honor to fly you all around the country. I think we’re going to have some fun together.”

“Nice to meet you both,” Celia said, stepping forward. “I’m Celia Valdez and this is my band for the tour.” She turned and began pointing out the assembled musicians behind her. “That’s Charlie who plays the bass and Coop who plays the drums. They both used to be with Intemperance. Over here is Dexter Price, sax player, and Liz the pianist, Nat is the violinist, and this kid with the baby face here is Little Stevie, the lead guitarist.”

“We’re pleased to meet you all,” Suzie told them. “Celia, I’ll remember your name quite easily, same for Coop and Charlie, as I used to love Intemperance back in my military days. As for the rest of you ... it might take me a day or two to remember names, so please don’t be offended if I have to ask for them until then.”

“Were you a pilot in the military?” Celia asked Suzie, who was intriguing her in some subtle way that she couldn’t quite put her finger on—well, actually she could, but she didn’t want to admit it to herself.

“I was,” Suzie said. “Air Force. I have a master’s degree in aeronautics and I spent almost ten years flying C5s out of Travis Air Force base up north. I decided to take them up on their generous offer to pay me to leave during the downsizing after the Gulf War. I’ve been flying for Peterson ever since.”

“Impressive resume,” Celia said. “What about you ... was it Mark?”

“It was,” he said. “I’ve never done any military time myself, but I’ve been flying planes since I was sixteen. Got my commercial license five years ago and I’ve been with Petersen since ninety-two.”

“Well, it seems like we’ll be in good hands,” Celia said.

“You will be,” Suzy said. “We’re a good team, Mark and I, and this is a great aircraft. It may not be a luxury ship, but it’ll get us where we’re going quickly and safely.” She looked at the baggage on the ground. “I see that everyone followed instructions and brought only one bag apiece. I trust that none of those bags weigh more than fifty pounds, right?”

All agreed that their bags were under the weight limit.

“Okay then,” Suzy went on. “Since this is the first of many flights we’re going to share, let’s cover the boarding procedure right now and then I’ll open up the aircraft and get you all in there. You’ll notice that Mark is carrying a scale with him. I know people are sensitive about their weight, but prior to getting on the aircraft each and every piece of baggage and each person will be weighed beforehand on every single trip ... without exception. This is not a 747 we’re flying here, and total weight of passengers and cargo is something we have to factor in to make sure we stay balanced in flight and that we don’t exceed maximum takeoff weight when we add fuel. So, you’re going to have to get used to that, okay?”

There was a little grumbling but no actual protests.

“Very good,” Suzie said. “And as for your baggage, it will be stowed in the front of the plane on each flight, inaccessible while we’re in the air, so any personal items like music players, video players, writing materials, or anything else you want to use to entertain yourself in flight, must be carried aboard with you and weighed with you before boarding. Mark and I will load your luggage into the compartment. None of you are to ever place anything in there yourselves. Again, this is for proper weight distribution, not because we’re control freaks. We know how to put your bags in there so they are balanced and don’t move around in flight. You do not. Are we clear on that point?”

Everyone was clear.

“And speaking of baggage, I want it made clear that nothing dangerous or illegal is to be brought aboard, either on your person or in your baggage. Nothing that shoots, blows up, is full of compressed gas, or that will attract the attention of the DEA—like cocaine or heroin or meth. If you should happen to slip a little baggie of weed in your baggage, that’s not a big deal—just don’t tell me about it—but if I find out you are transporting any of that other shit, I will personally call the cops on you. Are we clear on that?”

They were.

“There is no smoking on this aircraft—no smoking of anything—but there is a small bar aboard if you’d like to have a few drinks in flight. There is no flight attendant and Mark and I are not servants, so you make your own drinks if you want them and you throw away the little plastic cups when you’re done. There is one bathroom aboard. It’s in the rear of the aircraft and it is tiny. It is also the one that Mark and I have to use if the need comes upon us, so please try to keep it reasonably clean and we would appreciate it if nothing weird occurred in there.”

“Define ‘weird’,” said Charlie.

“Anything other than urination, defecation, or washing your hands in that bathroom would be weird in my book,” Suzie told him.

“Uh ... okay,” Charlie said, “but what about...”

“Anything other than urination, defecation, or washing your hands,” Suzie reiterated. “It’s a simple guideline.”

“Okay,” Charlie said with a sigh.

“And now the most important rule,” Suzie said. “Once we step onto the aircraft and close those doors, I am unquestionably in charge. Mark is unquestionably second-in-command. You will do anything we tell you to do as soon as we tell you to do it whether you agree with it or not. There will be no deviation from this rule and no negotiation with it. I am the captain, Mark is the first officer, and you are the passengers. Are we all clear on that?”

Everyone was clear on that.

“Very good,” Suzie said. “Any questions?”

“I have one,” Charlie said.

Suzie sighed. “Does it have to do with the bathroom?”

“No, it has to do with high altitude bacteria.”

“High altitude bacteria?” Suzie repeated slowly.

“Right,” Charlie said. “I’m assuming this plane has some sort of HEPA filtration system to keep dangerous microbes from the stratosphere out of our breathing air in the cabin?”

Suzie licked her lips a little. She looked over at Celia. Celia, hiding a smile, gave her a little nod.

“Uh ... yes,” Suzie said. “Of course we have a HEPA filtration system for the air. Not only that, we also have an ultraviolet sterilizer downstream of it to zap any bacteria that manage to get through the HEPA filter.”

Charlie was impressed. “Cool,” he said. “I didn’t know that technology was available yet.”

“It’s a prototype,” Suzie said. “We’re among the first to test it out.”

“It’s about time someone started taking high altitude microbes seriously,” Charlie said happily.

“Right,” Suzie said. “Any other questions?” She looked at Coop, who was raising his hand. “Coop. What do you want to know?”

“I’m just wondering,” he said. “You’re like a lesbian, right?”

“Coop!” Celia barked, horrified.

Suzie glared at him. “I hardly think my sexual orientation is any of your business, any of your concern, or has any bearing on this discussion,” she told him icily.

“Hey,” Coop said appeasingly. “I wasn’t tryin’ to piss you off or nothing. And I don’t care if you like to munch clam—hell, I do it all the time myself—I was just curious about the whole Air Force thing. I thought they didn’t allow lesbos in the service back when you woulda started. How’d that shit work?”

“Madres de Dios, Coop,” Celia muttered.

Suzie took a deep breath. “They didn’t ask,” she said. “And I didn’t tell. Now, any more relevant questions that concern the operation of this aircraft?”

There were no more.

“All right,” Suzie said. “Mark’s going to open the aircraft up. Form a line, with luggage in hand, and we’ll get you all weighed.”

They formed a line. Celia pulled rank and put herself first. She stepped forward and placed her bag on the scale—it was forty-two pounds. She then stepped onto it herself.

“One-fifty-eight,” Suzie said, noting this down on a chart. “How tall are you, Celia?”

“Five-eleven and a half,” Celia said.

Suzie nodded appreciatively, her eyes looking the singer up and down for a moment. “You keep yourself in good shape.”

“Thanks,” Celia said with a smile. “I’m sorry about Coop. He’s a great drummer but sometimes his mouth just ... you know?”

Suzie shrugged. “And I’m sorry if I came across as a hard-ass. I’m really not one, not unless I have to be. I just need to establish the rules before we get on the plane for the first time.”

“You did a good job with that,” Celia said.

“Glad to hear it,” Suzie said. She gave another appraising look to Celia’s form, not bothering to hide her interest. “I think we’re going to have a lot of fun on this tour.”

Celia returned the smile. “Maybe,” she said.

Even though Brainwash wouldn’t arrive on the west coast until June 6^th, and wouldn’t need accommodations in Coos Bay until June 21^st, the house on the cliff there became available for the use of KVA Records on May 30. This was because the owners would only agree to reserving the house for KVA during the lucrative summer vacation period if KVA would rent it for the entire season. Jake, who was in charge of the Brainwash Project and whose motto most of the time was ‘it’s only money’, simply cut them a check.

On June 1^st, Jake and Laura climbed into a Lear jet that Jake had chartered out of Van Nuys and were flown to Coos Bay to take possession of the house. Jake told Laura they were making the trip to start getting things in order. They needed to make sure the house was up to standards, needed to secure a vehicle for the use of the musicians while they were there, and wanted to have a little visit with Obie and Pauline and Tabby, who were currently staying in Obie’s house. All of these things were true and Laura did not question them. Jake, however, did have an ulterior motive as well.

They touched down at North Bend Municipal just after three in the afternoon. They were checked into the house by five o’clock. Jake had the taxi that delivered them to the house stop at the store first and he picked up supplies for a nice dinner of filet mignon and scampi, which they enjoyed over a bottle of red wine out on the deck.

They had a brief session of fucking after dinner and then took a little nap, waking up just before sunset.

“How about we watch the sun go down from the hot tub?” Jake suggested.

“Sure,” Laura said brightly. “That sounds like fun.”

“I’ll meet you out there,” Jake told her. “I’m gonna grab some wine first.”

“How about a joint too?” she asked.

“Maybe after we come back inside,” he said.

Laura looked a little confused at this, but shrugged it off. As long as she got to toke up at some point tonight, she would be happy.

Jake gathered up the wine, some glasses, and one other item from his luggage, and then made his way out onto the balcony in his robe. Since they were alone tonight, he was wearing nothing beneath it. The sun was about five degrees above the horizon and there were no clouds, no marine layer to obscure it. Perfect. Laura herself was sitting naked on the first step, her small breasts exposed to the air, a contented expression on her face. Jake poured them each a glass of wine, shrugged off his robe, and then stepped into the tub beside her. The water was the perfect temperature.

“It’s going to be a good sunset tonight,” Laura remarked, taking the glass from him.

“I certainly hope so,” Jake said with a smile that hid his true feelings. He was a bit nervous.

“Are you okay?” Laura asked him, picking up on his angst a bit.

“Perfect,” he assured her. “It’s nice to be here with you, by ourselves, away from LA, away from all the hassles.”

“Yes, it is,” she said, leaning against him and giving his leg an affectionate squeeze. “When is Greg going to get here?”

“Uh ... he’ll be flying in day after tomorrow,” Jake said. “He has another movie promo to do in Detroit tomorrow and he’ll fly directly here from there.”

“He seemed very excited to come out here,” she said.

“He is,” Jake said, watching the sun sink lower and lower. He needed to make a little small talk until it was just about to sink into the sea. “His golf course project finally has the green light. The county approved the plans, the investors have all got their money in, and they’re going to start surveying the property next week.”

“I’m happy for him,” she said. “He can be pompous, but he really is a sweet guy. I hope he and Celia stay together. They seemed like they were getting along better, didn’t they?”

“They did,” Jake agreed. “And he’s very happy about his film too. I read in the paper this morning that it was the number one money maker at the box office for Memorial Day weekend. And the reviewers seem to like it as well.”

“I liked it a lot,” Laura said. “I mean, it was fun going to the premier and all—thanks for taking me there, hon—but I really liked the movie. It was much better than that Northern Jungle.”

“It would almost have to be,” Jake said, although, in truth, he had really enjoyed the movie as well. It had been a well-done, action-packed two-hour flick with lots of exciting flight scenes and rescues and a fair amount of suspense. Though it probably wasn’t Oscar material, it was entertaining throughout.

“It’s too bad Celia couldn’t be there for the premier,” Laura said.

“She sounds like she’s having fun out on the road,” Jake said. “She’s continuing to sell out every venue so far. And her album is already approaching Platinum.”

“Your album is doing pretty well too, isn’t it?”

“I’m holding my own,” Jake agreed. Living in this World had gone Gold just the previous day, in fact. And his tune Breaking Down Fast was currently number twelve on the single chart and still rising.

“I’m very proud of you, Jake,” she told him, snuggling a little closer. “You’ve worked so hard on your music. You deserve everything you get.”

“Thanks, babe,” he told her, giving her a little kiss above the eye. He checked the sun again. The lower edge was just starting to touch the waves. “Listen, Laura. I brought you out here tonight, at sunset, for a reason.”

She took her eyes off the sun and looked at his face. “What’s the reason?” she asked.

“This place is special for us,” he said. “This house is where we fell in love with each other. This hot tub is where we first ... you know ... got together.”

She giggled a little. “I remember that night very well,” she said.

“So ... it seemed an appropriate place,” he said, watching as the sun went a little lower, “for me to ... well ... to give you this.” With that, he brought his right hand out of the water. It was closed. He slowly opened it, revealing the three and a half carat diamond ring he had purchased back in LA and had been holding ever since leaving the bedroom.

Laura took in a sharp intake of breath. “Jake,” she whispered. “Is that ... is it a...” She couldn’t say it.

Jake said it for her. “It’s an engagement ring,” he told her. “Will you marry me, Laura?”

She continued to stare at the ring in his palm, her mouth wide, her eyes big. “Oh my God,” she said.

“Caught you by surprise?” he asked, reeling with anticipation.

“You did,” she agreed.

“Well ... what do you think?” Jake asked. “I don’t want to rush you or anything if you need to think about it, but ... well ... this is going to become awkward in a minute.”

“Oh my God, Jake,” she said. “You’re really asking me to marry you? You’re not fucking with me?”

“I’m not fucking with you,” he assured her.

“I ... I don’t know what to say,” she said.

Jake swallowed. This was not going exactly as he’d envisioned. “Uh ... yes would be an acceptable answer,” he suggested.

“I want to say yes, Jake,” she said. “I really do. I love you and I’d love to be your wife. Oh my God ... I can’t believe this is happening!”

“Uh ... I’m not sure here,” Jake said. “Did you just say yes?”

She sighed. “I didn’t,” she said. “I said I want to say yes.”

“But ... but you can’t?”

“Oh wow,” she said, shaking her head a little. “Before I answer you ... well ... there’s something I need to tell you first.”

“What is it?” he asked. This had definitely become a bit awkward.

“Well ... it’s about something that I ... that I did out on tour. It might change the way you feel about me.”

“Something you did out on tour?” What the hell are we talking about here?

“I should have told you a long time ago, but I didn’t know you were going to propose to me. Oh my God, what a mess!”

“What is it, hon?” he asked. “What did you do?”

She took another deep breath and prepared her confession. She wasn’t even sure how to begin.

The End of Book III