Different Circles

Chapter 9: The Masters

Santa Monica, California

May 16, 1992

Jake’s plane touched down gently on Runway 21 of Santa Monica Airport after the three and a half hour flight from Coos Bay. It slowed to taxi speed and then turned off onto the taxiway and made its way to the row of hangars just south of the main airport buildings, where it came to a halt in front of hangar number 37, one of the bigger ones on the grounds, a precious space that Jake paid six hundred and fifty dollars a month for. The engines shut down, the lights were turned off, and then the door opened and Jake himself stepped out onto the concrete. He stretched out a little, limbering up his legs and his lower back, which were a bit stiff from the flight. He was feeling a mix of emotions—melancholy, excitement, a little fear, and a great deal of anticipation. The project of the two albums was finally done, the tunes for both put down on masters in their final formats and mixes. He was home for good this time—or at least in what passed for home.

Jake was the only one in the plane. Celia and the Nerdlys had flown home two days before, leaving Jake behind to take care of the final details of their stay there. He’d sold the van they had used while in Coos Bay, taking an eight hundred dollar loss from the purchase price. He’d arranged to have the rental house thoroughly cleaned before it was returned to the vacation rental company. And he’d arranged to have his BMW driven back to LA. One of the studio techs they’d worked with was performing that task for him for the price of six hundred dollars and an air ticket back to Coos Bay. The car would be back in his garage by Monday, if all went as planned.

He looked at his watch—it was just after two o’clock in the afternoon of a beautiful southern California spring afternoon—and then back down the tarmac between the rows of hangar complexes. That was when he saw the car approaching. It was the old Toyota Corolla that belonged to Laura. Since it was not a school day, she had volunteered to come pick him up when he arrived. He smiled, anxious to finally see her. They had not laid eyes on each other in two and a half months, since the morning after the Dr. Dave incident.

She parked her car where Jake pointed—just next to the hangar door of number 36, well out of the way of any other aircraft that might come through. The engine had barely died when she was out of the car and rushing toward him. She was looking particularly adorable to his eyes, dressed in a green and white pullover sundress that showed off her legs and accented her breasts, her hair loose and flowing freely over her shoulders, a large anticipatory smile on her own face. They came together in an embrace and Jake relished the feel of her body against him, the whisper of her breath against his neck, the touch of her lips against his.

“Welcome home,” she breathed when their kiss finally broke and they pulled back a little to look at each other.

“That was a good welcome,” he told her, his fingers playing with a lock of her hair. “You look beautiful, hon. The best thing I’ve seen in months.”

“Thank you,” she said, flushing a bit. “I can’t wait to get home and get naked. It’s all I can do to keep from jumping you right here.”

“I know the feeling,” he said, letting his hand trail downward, sliding it slowly across her bare shoulder, over her breast, and then down the curve of her abdomen to her hip. Soon he was touching the soft skin of her thigh, just below the hem of her dress. The hungry look appeared in her eyes and he was about to slide his hands up under the skirt for a quick feel, but then another car, a Toyota pickup, suddenly turned into the row and started driving toward them.

“Hmmph,” she grunted as they took their hands off of each other and stepped apart. “Let’s gets this plane in there and go home.”

“Right,” he said, smiling at the thought that she considered his house to be home.

Jake opened the cargo compartment at the nose of the plane and unloaded his two suitcases. He carried them over and stowed them in Laura’s trunk. All of the rest of his belongings—including the four guitars he had taken to Oregon—were being brought back in his car. He grabbed the aircraft caddy out of the hangar and attached it to the nose wheel of the plane. It was electric powered and fully charged from sitting plugged in for the last six months. He used it to first pull the aircraft out in front of the door and then to push it backwards into the hangar itself. A veteran of the process, he managed to perfectly park the plane on the first try.

“Nice work,” Laura said appreciably as he leaned over to remove the caddy from the wheel. She could not resist running her hand over his ass. “Did I ever tell you how nice your butt is?”

“No,” he said, enjoying her touch on him quite a lot. “Please do.”

“It’s like ... mmmm, really nice,” she said, continuing to stroke it.

“You keep that up and we’re not going to wait until we get home,” he warned.

“Really?” she asked, interested, but also confused. “Where would we do it?”

He turned and looked at her. He was already half hard in his pants, working toward full-on boner status. He was quite unaccustomed to going two and a half months without sex that did not involve only himself. He was starting to like the idea he was having more and more. “Right here,” he told her. “In the hangar.”

She looked around for a moment, her eyes going from place to place. “There’s no bed in here, Jake,” she said.

Jake chuckled. “It is possible to fuck without a bed being involved,” he informed her.

“It is?” she asked. “How come we’ve never done that before?”

“A good question,” he allowed. “How about we do it now?”

“Are you serious?”

“I am dead serious,” he assured her. “You up for it?”

“But how would we ... I mean, where would we...”

He lifted her face and put a kiss on her lips, shutting her up. When he pulled his lips away, he waved her into the hangar. “Step inside my office,” he told her.

“Okay,” she said, walking in, stepping carefully around the left wingtip and going behind it.

Jake reached up and pulled down on the hangar door. He did not close it all the way, however. Instead, he stopped it about a foot above the ground. He then turned and made his own trip around the wingtip.

“Jake,” Laura said. “The door is still open a little.”

“It has to be,” Jake told her. “There’s no ventilation in here. If I don’t leave it cracked it’ll get hot as hell in here in about three minutes.”

“I can’t do it with a door open!” she hissed at him.

“Nobody is going to come in here, Laura,” he assured her. “And nobody is going to peek under the door. You’re just going to have to be quiet while we do this.”

“I’m sorry, Jake,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t take off my clothes while that door is open like that.”

“Who said anything about taking off your clothes?” he asked, stepping close to her.

“Huh?” she asked, genuinely confused now.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” he whispered to her, taking her in his arms.

“Jake, I...”

Once again, he shut her up with a kiss. This time he slid his tongue into her mouth. She swirled her tongue with his, hesitantly at first, but then with growing enthusiasm. Her own arms went around his neck.

He let his hands slide downward, over her ass, which he paused to give a little squeeze, before continuing downward, onto the backs of her thighs. He then began to move the hands upward again, beneath the hem of her dress. Soon he had a double handful of her butt, his fingers feeling the lacy material of her panties. He pulled her against him, so she could feel the bulge of his erection pushing into her stomach.

“Mmmm,” she said, pulling her mouth free for a moment. “Oh God, Jake. That feels so good.”

“It does,” he confirmed, sliding his lips down to kiss and nibble at her neck. Meanwhile, he let his fingers probe under the elastic of the panties, so he was now touching her bare buttocks. He squeezed some more, enjoying the feel of her silky-smooth skin on his fingertips.

“I’m getting really hot,” Laura whispered to him, still quite cognizant of the partially open door. “How ... where ... do we do this?”

“Right here,” he said.

“Next to the airplane?”

“On the airplane,” he corrected. He pulled back from her.

“On the airplane? You mean inside of it?”

“No,” he told her. “I mean on the airplane.” He slid his hands down and grabbed the hem of her dress. He then lifted it up until it was above her waist, showing the frilly green panties she was wearing. They matched the dress perfectly. “Put your arms around my neck.”

She did this, grasping firmly. He stood up tall, lifting her feet off the ground. He carried her two steps forward and one to the right before setting her down on the wing of the plane, well clear of the retracted flap, right near where the primary flight surface attached to the fuselage. The height was just about perfect.

“Oooh,” she squealed. “This is cold on my butt.”

“It’ll get warm in a minute,” he promised, letting go of her. His hands went to the buckle on his belt. She watched him with growing lust as he opened his pants and pushed them and his underwear down to his knees, freeing his erection.

“Mmm,” she said, looking at it hungrily. “I’ve missed that so much.”

“And it missed you,” he assured her, his hands now stroking the skin of her bare thighs.

“I kind of see what you’re going to do here,” she told him. “Should I take my panties off?”

“No,” he told her, stepping a little closer and adjusting his stance. “You shouldn’t.”

She reached out to stroke his member, her fingers gripping him, feeling him, playing with him. “But how are we going to ... you know... do it, if I leave them on?”

“Like this,” he said, sliding his right hand over her thigh until his fingertips were caressing the crotch of those panties. They were damp and he could feel the outline of her lips beneath them. He caressed her in this manner for a few more seconds and then hooked his fingers beneath the elastic band and pulled the crotch to the side, exposing her swollen lips to his gaze, letting a powerful whiff of her aroused juices into his nose.

“Oh...” she said softly, her green eyes shining. “I get it now.”

“You certainly do,” he told her, pushing her hand off his straining erection. He put his left hand around her, grasping her by the ass while pushing himself forward, aiming for where he wanted to go. The head of his manhood touched warm wetness, feeling the slippery juices that had been produced. He pushed forward and slid in the tip. He then pushed a little harder and buried himself inside of her body.

“Oh ... sweet Lord!” she squealed delightfully at the intrusion.

“Shhhh,” Jake hushed her as he ground around a little, feeling her grip at him, lost in the sensation of sinking into female flesh after so long without it. “Remember the door.”

“Right,” she panted, putting her arms around his neck again. “This is so ... so ... dirty!”

“It is,” he agreed. “Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she whispered. “Now fuck me, Jake.”

“Gladly,” he said and began to thrust.

His thighs quickly became tired and threatened to cramp up on him, and his lower back wasn’t really pleased with the angle of attack, but he powered on, driving himself in and out of her body. Almost immediately he had to employ his best mental blocks to keep from firing off quickly. It felt just so damn good to be inside of her again.

She was obviously enjoying herself quite well too. She thrust back at him as much as she could, kissing his face, his neck, nibbling on his lower lip, occasionally plunging her tongue into his mouth and sucking on his tongue. Her hands kept busy too, going up and down his back, sometimes dropping to his ass to pull him harder against her, sometimes going up to his head to run her fingers through his hair.

“Come for me, baby,” Jake whispered to her when he felt his blocks starting to crumble. “Come and then I’ll shoot up inside of you.”

That did the trick. The moment these words were out of his mouth, her thrusting became erratic and her breathing grew heavier. The flush of her pale skin darkened almost alarmingly.

“That’s it,” Jake whispered, thrusting harder, giving her the little grind at the bottom of each stroke. “Come for me.”

She began to squeal and Jake had to cover her mouth with his to keep her quiet. She tightened up against him as her orgasm blasted through her body. Jake could tell it was a little more powerful than her typical one. As soon as she started to relax a little against him, he let himself go as well. A few seconds later it was he who was erratically thrusting, he who had to have his mouth covered with hers to keep the audio level outside family friendly. The exquisite pleasure exploded from his center and he poured himself out into her.

They held each other tightly, exchanging soft kisses for a bit, before he finally withdrew his wilted member from her body. A stream of their combined juices ran out and puddled on the surface of the wing. Jake saw that the side of his penis was abraded from rubbing up against the band of her panties. That was the price one had to pay for the old pull-the-panties-to-the-side trick. It was worth it.

“That was incredible,” Laura told him as he helped her back down to the floor. Her face was sweaty and still flushed.

Jake gave his signature see-saw of the hand. “It was all right,” he said.

“Fuck you,” she said, slapping at him playfully. “You know that was hot. How do you come up with ideas like that? I never would have thought of doing it on the wing of a plane.”

He shrugged and then reached down to pull up his pants. “When you think about sex as much as I do, some good ideas will inevitably form.”

She giggled a little, and then turned a little more serious. “Have you ... ever done that before?” she asked. “You know ... with someone else?”

“No,” he assured her, quite truthfully. “That was the first time I’ve ever screwed someone on the wing of my plane. Hell, I’ve never even screwed inside the plane before.”

“Hmm,” she said. “I guess we’ll have to try that one later.”

Jake drove home, not because he wanted to, but because Laura was old-fashioned enough that she insisted the man drive whenever feasible. As they made their way out of the airport and toward Santa Monica Boulevard, Jake pointed out a small paper bag he had stashed in the back seat.

“Why don’t you take a look in there,” he suggested.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Look and you’ll see,” he said.

She picked up the bag and then squealed when she saw what was in it. She reached in and pulled out two CD cases, both of them white with plain black writing on them. “The master CDs?” she asked excitedly.

“Well ... copies of the masters, but yes. Those are them.”

“Oh my God, I can’t wait to hear them. I wish I had a CD player in the car.”

“Maybe we can get you one,” Jake said.

“A CD player?”

“No, a new car,” he said. “This one has almost a hundred thousand miles on it. What kind of car would you like?”

She was shaking her head. “Jake, I can’t afford a car right now.”

“I can,” he said.

She looked at him pointedly. “You’re not serious, are you?”

“I’m pretty serious,” he said. “How about a Volkswagen Jetta convertible? A green one, maybe. You would look so totally cute in one of those.”

She was shaking her head. “Jake, I can’t let you buy me a car.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because ... well ... it’s just ... well, I really don’t know, truthfully, but I just can’t.”

He shrugged. “Well, think it over. I’m going to keep pestering you about this.”

“I thank you for the offer,” she said.

“And who knows?” he said mysteriously. “Maybe this Corolla might meet with some unfortunate accident one of these days and you’d be forced to take me up on my offer.”

She looked at his face for a moment, trying to determine if he was joking or not. A slight smile gave him away.

“Anyway, new subject,” Jake said. “How is Phil’s gig down at the studio going?” Armed with vocal credits on the upcoming Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez solo albums, and with letters of recommendation in hand, and, with a little phone call from the Nerdlys to certain bigwigs in the recording department at National Records, Phil had gotten himself a few sessions singing backup for various projects that needed a baritone voice. According to earlier conversations Jake had had with Laura on the phone, Phil was making a good impression over there.

“He’s getting called in about twice a week now,” she told him. “Usually working on low end stuff, but they pay him union scale—forty dollars an hour with a minimum of four hours just for showing up.”

“He’s getting by then?” Jake asked.

“It’s not quite enough to make the rent in and of itself,” she said, “but he’s still got most of the recording money banked, so he’s making it okay for now.”

Jake nodded. “Tell him if he ever needs any help to contact me. I owe him a big one for keeping Dr. Dave off of you.”

“I’ll do that,” she said softly, shuddering a little at the mention of the dentist. Though she had not heard a word from him since Jake had had his little talk with him, she was still scarred by her relationship with him and by what had almost happened that day. She had confessed to Jake that she sometimes obsessively thought about how things might have turned out if Phil hadn’t happened to have been home to hear her screams.

“And what about you?” he asked her next. “You have ... what? Three more weeks of the teaching gig before summer starts?”

“About that,” she said.

“Are you going to go down and audition at the studio as well?” he asked. “You know that Nerdly got you an open invitation to blow some horn for the head studio hauncho, just like he did for Phil. And I’m told there’s a much bigger demand for sax session players than there is for singers.”

She frowned a little. “I ... well ... I just don’t know,” she said. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“What’s to think about?” he asked. “You have an in, hon, and they’ll probably put you to work. Don’t you want to play your sax and make some money from it?”

“I do ... but...” She shook her head. “It’s complicated.”

“Explain it to me.”

“I’m ... well ... I’m afraid I’ll do the same thing I did at your audition,” she said.

“The same thing?”

“Yeah ... you know what I did,” she said.

“You mean come across like an aloof, cold fish and then play the horn like shit on the pieces we wanted you to play?”

“Yeah,” she said sourly. “Thank you for putting that so delicately.”

“You’re not going to do that, Laura,” he told her.

“How do you know?”

“Because you’ve learned something from the time you spent with us ... or at least I hope you did. You’ve grown musically and learned to appreciate music that is outside your favored genre. I mean, look at you. You listen to Led Zepplin sometimes now, and Journey, and didn’t I hear you cranking out some Bad Company a time or two back there in Oregon?”

She gave him an embarrassed smile. She had indeed learned to like about half of the albums that Jake had introduced to her during their challenge—as he had learned to like about half of the albums she had introduced him to—but this was not something she was particularly proud of. When she was caught listening to something in the rock genre she always blushed and acted a little like a teenage boy who had been caught masturbating. “I like the technical aspects of that album,” she said defensively.

“Of course,” he said, giving her a little eye roll. “And I read Hustler for the journalistic excellence they represent. Anyway, my point is not what you listen to, it’s your musical growth. Go to the audition and play. I think you’ll surprise yourself.”

“I’ll keep thinking about it,” she told him.

“And I’ll keep pestering you about it,” he promised.

“Deal,” she said.

He made the turn onto Santa Monica and started heading east. “I’m kind of hungry,” he said. “You want to stop somewhere and grab a bite?”

“Uh ... no,” she said, quite firmly.

“Why not?”

“Jake,” she said, “we just had sex. I still have your ... you know ... your stuff up inside of me. It’s leaking into my panties.”

“That’s hot, baby,” he told her.

“It is not hot!” she said, and then she reconsidered. “Okay, maybe it is kind of hot, but there’s no way I’m going to a restaurant like this.”

“Prude,” he told her with a smile.

“I am not a prude,” she said. “I’ll have you know that I just fucked a guy in an airplane hangar on the wing of a plane while still wearing my dress! What do you think of that?”

“Anyone I know?” he asked.

She slapped at his shoulder. “Shut up,” she said. “No restaurant if I have stuff in my cooter. Besides, Elsa is making you a special dinner for your homecoming.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked. “What is it?”

“You’ll just have to wait and find out,” she said. “I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”

“What a rip,” he said sourly.

Jake played the master copies for her when they got home, starting with Celia’s album. The first cut was The Struggle, and she listened in awe as she heard the final version, as she listened to her saxophone—that’s me playing that, she thought in wonder—coming out of the speaker, mixed perfectly with the rhythm instruments and Jake and Celia’s guitars.

“Wow,” she whispered, feeling pride and wonder competing for top billing.

“Pretty good shit we came up with, eh?” Jake asked.

“I can’t believe how good it sounds.”

“The Nerdlys outdid themselves on this project,” Jake said. “They used that mixing board as another instrument, maybe even the most important instrument. They blended all of those basic tracks and all of those overdubs into a work of freaking art.”

“It’s amazing,” she said, listening to Jake’s guitar solo on the cut. She had heard him play it dozens if not hundreds of times before, but she had never heard it like this. It sounded crisp, clean, the timing absolutely perfect, the blending of volume in perfect symmetry with the backing instruments.

The next cut was Done With You, which featured the dueling solos between Laura and Mary on the outro. Again, she had personally played her part of that dozens upon dozens of times during the recording process and the overdubs, but hearing it now, fully mixed and integrated, was almost like hearing it for the first time. She knew the notes, of course, but hearing the blend of the instrument with the others, hearing how it played against the backbeat of the drums and bass, was surreal, as if she were listening to someone else’s work—someone with some talent—but at the same time, she knew it was her lips, her fingers, her aptitude that had produced the music.

“That chick on the horn kind of rocks, huh?” Jake asked her.

“She really does,” Laura said with a smile.

They listened to the entire CD from start to finish and then put in Jake’s and listened to that as well. She was not quite as familiar with Jake’s work as she was with Celia’s, as she was only featured on one cut: South Island Blur. True, she had heard all of Jake’s tunes just from being in the studio while they had worked on them, but she did not know them quite as intimately. Had she been hearing them for the first time ever, especially without the benefit of her recent experience as part of the unnamed band, she probably would not have cared for most of them. Most featured some level of distorted electric guitar for the primary melody, a sound she had emphatically abhorred in her pre-enlightenment days. But now, now the tunes sounded sweet to her ears, particularly Insignificance, which had been mixed into a hypnotic blending of Jake’s tenor voice, his fingerpicking acoustic skills, and Mary’s brilliance on the violin.

“You guys did a really good job in the mixing,” she told him.

“And the mastering,” Jake added. “Don’t forget about that.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Mixing is the blending of the tracks together to construct the cut out of the available tracks. Mastering is the setting of the cut order and the adjustment of the volumes and levels so that all of the tracks on each and every cut on the CD mix together in a similar manner and sound good in whatever format they’re being played. It’s what keeps Insignificance from being louder than Island, or vice versa. It’s what makes the CD sound good while being listened to in someone’s car, but also while being played over the airwaves as a radio song.”

“I had no idea there was so much involved,” Laura said. “Now I know why you had to stay another two and a half months after I left.”

“That was what we were doing,” he said. “Making CDs and then listening to them over and over again under all kinds of different conditions. We listened to them in the house, in the cars, out of a boombox down on the beach, you name it.”

“What’s the next step?” Laura asked.

“The next step is to let some record execs hear what we have. Obie has already sent out some copies to certain people. Once they get a listen ... well ... that’s when the fun really starts.”

The following Monday afternoon, in a conference room on the upper floor of the National Records Building in Hollywood, that fun was about to start.

Steve Crow, who had been assigned as the contact between Oren Blake II, the holder of the MD&P contract with Jake Kingsley for his solo album, and National Records, the entity that had the ability to fulfill that MD&P contract if the price was right, had called a meeting. He had received the envelope with the two master copies that very morning. It was time to hear what Kingsley had come up with.

Also present at the meeting was James Doolittle, the head of the artists and repertoire department, and Rick Bailey, the head of the new artist development department. All three participants remembered another gathering they’d participated in a few years before—in this very room, in fact—to listen to a cassette tape that had been presented by the band Intemperance. That tape had been a joke, filled with songs like Fuck the Establishment, which was an angry, profanity ridden piece that, while powerful, was also completely unsuitable for airplay; and The Choice, which was a contrite yet playful tune about picking out a can of soup in the grocery store; and The Discovery, which was about finding a piece of lint in one’s navel. Intemperance—Jake, Matt, and Bill the ringleaders, of course—had deliberately produced and recorded substandard and offensive tunes as a ploy to renegotiate their contract.

And it worked, Crow had to remind himself sourly. He still had some hard feelings over having a band full of young punks get one over on him.

“All right,” said Doolittle, who was the highest ranking member of the meeting—for what that was worth. “I understand we’re going to hear Kingsley’s master, at last.”

“Got it right here,” Crow said, holding the white CD case up.

“It’s kind of a boring album cover, isn’t it?” asked Bailey. “Is he going for a White Album kind of feel, or maybe The Wall?”

Crow rolled his eyes. He was not a real fan of Bailey, never had been. The man had obviously been put into his position because of connections, and not because of his musical and industry knowledge. “This is not the final album cover,” he explained, as if he were talking to a four-year-old. “This is just the master copy they sent us. If we decide to go into production with the project, an actual cover will be designed for the shelf product.”

“Oh ... I guess that makes sense,” Bailey said.

“Glad I could clear that up,” Crow said.

“Is there a copy of the Mexican chick’s master in there as well?” Doolittle asked. “Remember, any deal we make for Kingsley’s work is contingent on us agreeing to manufacture, distribute, and promote Valdez’s work too.”

“Yeah,” Crow said unenthusiastically. “It’s in here as well. I guess we’re kind of obligated to give it a listen.”

“That’s pretty shrewd of Kingsley to include her in the deal like that,” Bailey observed. “He’s got to be boning her. Why else would he tie up his career with such a has-been?”

“Yeah, he’s sliding her the salami all right,” agreed Crow, “but I wouldn’t use the word shrewd to describe him. I’d use the word stupid. Depending on how bad her crap is, that could be the deal breaker.”

“I’m not sure there’s much hope for a deal with this bunch anyway,” said Doolittle. “They already signed a contract with OB2 for forty percent royalties. That means that OB2 won’t accept anything more than mid-thirties. There would have to be some extremely marketable shit on those masters for us to even consider entering a deal for that kind of a percentage. Especially when they’re not planning to tour to help us promote the fucking things.”

“Well,” Crow said, pulling the CD out of its case. “Shall we get on with it?”

“Let’s hear it,” Doolittle said.

Crow put the CD in a small boombox and turned it on. The first cut started. It was called The Easy Way, according to the track sheet. It started off slow, with a gentle melody played out with a mildly distorted electric guitar and backed by...

“Is that a synthesizer?” Bailey asked.

“It is,” Crow confirmed.

“On a Jake Kingsley cut?” Doolittle said. He shook his head. “We’re not off to a good start here.”

They continued to listen. Jake sang through the first verse and then did a slow, mellow rendition of the first two lines of the chorus, using his voice to its best advantage. And then the tempo kicked up. The distortion on the electric guitar grew more distorted, more authoritative. Percussion kicked in along with bass. Jake’s vocals became stronger, more authoritative as well. But still, there was that synthesizer laying down the secondary melody.

Crow stopped the CD when the song faded out. “Well?” he asked his companions.

“It’s kind of catchy,” Bailey offered. “And Jake does some good vocalizations there.”

“Yeah,” said Doolittle, “but it’s not heavy metal. There was no guitar solo in that song at all. Who is playing guitar for him?”

Crow looked at the track sheet and shook his head. “It doesn’t say,” he reported. “It just says that Ben Ping is on the bass guitar, Ted Duncan is on the drums, Mary Kingsley is on the violin...”

“Violin?” Doolittle said incredulously. “A fucking violin is on this CD?”

“Mary Kingsley?” asked Bailey. “Does Jake have another sister?” They were, of course, very well acquainted with Pauline, the sister of their nightmares.

“Not that I’ve ever heard of,” Doolittle said.

“His mother is a symphony musician,” Crow said, pulling a bit of trivia out of his ass. “You don’t suppose that’s who Mary Kingsley is ... do you?”

“His mother playing on his album?” Doolittle thundered. “That’s absurd!”

“And the piano player is listed as Cynthia Archer,” Crow read. “Nerdly’s mother is a pianist! I remember him telling me about that.”

“Holy Jesus,” Doolittle said, shaking his head again. “They’ve actually got their mothers playing music for them? And they want us to agree to thirty-five percent? Good fucking luck with that.”

“And then there’s this Laura Best chick listed as the saxophone player,” Crow finished up.

“Saxophone?” Doolittle nearly screamed. “He’s got saxophone on this album too?”

“I hear it’s for sure that he is boning this sax player,” Crow offered. “Word is that he’s set up an audition for her with Frank Vile down in the basement.”

“Is she hot?” asked Bailey.

“I don’t know,” Crow said. “I’ve never met her.”

“If Kingsley’s boning her, she must be hot,” Bailey opined.

“I don’t give a fuck who Kingsley is boning,” Doolittle said, “or what she might look like. I do give a fuck that he is expecting us to help promote an album that has fucking violins and synthesizers and saxophones on it. Kingsley is associated with the heavy metal genre. He can’t just go changing to this catchy feel good shit and expect us to go thirty-five percent. That’s why we didn’t offer him a contract after Intemp broke up! Because he wanted to do shit like this.”

“Why don’t we listen to the rest of the cuts?” Crow suggested. “Maybe there’s some heavier shit in there.”

Doolittle sighed. “All right,” he said. “Let’s hear what else he’s got.”

They weren’t terribly impressed with what else he had, at least not on an economical basis. There was only one tune on the entire CD that could be considered hard rock—that was Can’t Keep Me Down, according to the track sheet—and, while it was a powerful song with deep, meaningful lyrics and a catchy hook of a chorus, it was still not even close to heavy metal, which was what Jake Kingsley fans were going to want. And then there was Insignificance, the song that featured Kingsley’s mother quite heavily on her violin. There wasn’t a single lick from a single electric guitar in the whole tune! There was no percussion either! It was mostly just Kingsley’s voice (mixed with a chick’s voice during the choruses) and a fingerpicked guitar backed up by the violin—a fucking violin! True, the lyrics were quite dark and the chorus was quite catchy—Baily actually found himself humming the melody and singing the chorus under his breath—but it was barely rock and roll. Who was going to buy something like this? What radio station was going to play it?

“I’m inclined to just reject this deal out of hand,” said Doolittle once the last track was played. “Maybe if we could get sixty or sixty-five on royalties—and even that’s a big maybe—but with Kingsley slinging this feel good pop shit and OB2 asking for thirty-five.” He shook his head. “Negotiations wouldn’t even be worth our time.”

“I don’t know,” said Crow. “I’ll agree that it’s not quite what we were hoping for in a Jake Kingsley solo album, but some of those tunes actually sound pretty good.”

“That’s not the point,” Doolittle said. “I’m not saying he made bad music here—I’ll even admit that I keep turning that song with the violin around in my head like a fucking ear worm...”

“Which one?” Bailey asked. “He had three songs with violin in there.”

“The one about how life sucks,” Doolittle said. “The one without any fucking percussion or electric guitar in it.”

“Yeah,” Bailey said. “I kind of like that one too.”

“But again,” Doolittle said. “That’s not the point. It’s not what people are going to be looking for in a Jake Kingsley release. His fans want to hear grinding guitars and ripping solos and pounding drums, not fucking violins and horns and synthesizers. I just can’t see this thing selling all that much. He’ll go Gold just on hype alone, but I seriously doubt he’ll come anywhere near Platinum.”

“Do you really think his reputation is that important?” asked Bailey.

“What?” Doolittle asked.

“Well ... pretend this master didn’t come from Jake Kingsley,” he said. “Pretend it came from some unknown band that we were considering signing. Judge those tunes on that basis and what do you think?”

Doolittle sighed. “They’re good tunes,” he said. “I’ve already said that. And if I were to judge them by themselves, without considering who had put them down, I think we would probably offer a contract and would even expect to cash out on it. But this is not an unknown we’re talking about here. The music industry is a harsh one and the consumers that buy our albums have their own psychology about them. This is Jake Kingsley putting these tunes down and they will reject them because it’s not what they want to hear from him.”

Bailey sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” he said.

“All right then,” Doolittle said. “So, we’re in agreement then? No offer to negotiate with OB2 on this shit?”

“We haven’t heard Valdez’s master yet,” Crow said.

Doolittle looked at him as if he were a bug. “Valdez’s master? Why would we listen to that crap if we’ve already decided not to go with the deal?”

“It’s part of the same deal,” Crow said. “Shouldn’t we at least give it a listen, just so we can speak with authority when we reject OB2’s offer?”

Another roll of the eyes. “Sure, why not?” Doolittle asked. “Maybe it’ll be good for a few laughs.”

Crow opened up the CD case and removed the disc. He ejected Jake’s master from the boombox and inserted Celia’s. He closed the compartment and pushed play. The music began to issue from the speaker.

They listened to the entire CD, track by track, saying little, but passing some looks back and forth.

When the final cut came to an end they simply sat there in silence for a moment.

“Holy fucking shit,” Doolittle whispered.

“My feelings exactly,” Crow said.

“Can we listen to that again?” asked Bailey.

“Later,” Doolittle said. “For now, I think maybe we’d better contact OB2 and get him to fly down here.”

“Right,” Crow said. “I’ll get my secretary working on it right away.”

Twelve days later, it was a Saturday once again, the last Saturday of the month of May 1992. Jake and Laura had been enjoying their experiment in non-legally-sanctioned domestic cohabitation in Jake’s house. So far, things had gone smoothly enough. They slept in Jake’s bed every night and usually had sex in some way, shape, or form at least once a day. Elsa cooked meals for them and cleaned up after them—taking particular care to wash the sheets on the bed every single morning. Laura went to school each weekday morning and taught her seventh and eighth graders the finer points of the English language and it nuances—or at least she tried to. And Jake, with not much else to do, simply stayed at home, answered some fan mail once in a while, and worked on composing new material with his battered old Fender guitar. He had a few beers or a few glasses of wine at night, but he avoided drinking during the day unless it was a special occasion. And even at night, he rarely progressed much beyond a solid buzz before calling it quits. He did not want Laura to see him hammered unless she was too.

Tonight was somewhat of a special occasion. An old friend of Jake’s was coming over for dinner and bringing his new fiancé with him.

“Have you ever smoked weed before?” Jake asked Laura as they were getting dressed for the occasion at five o’clock that evening.

“Weed?” she asked, looking over her shoulder at him from her spot before the bedroom mirror. She was dressed only in a strapless white bra and a pair of slinky matching panties. Her hair was damp from her shower and she was combing it out stroke by stroke. “You mean pot?”

“Right,” he said, admiring her form. She really did look good in a state of undress. “You ever fire up?”

She smiled. “I was raised a Mormon, remember?” she said. “Mormons aren’t even allowed to have caffeine. They particularly disapprove of marijuana.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, pulling on a pair of tan slacks over his black BVDs, “but I can’t help but notice you swilling down the Jamaican Blue every morning when Elsa puts it before you.”

“Well ... I’m not really a Mormon anymore,” she said.

“So I noticed,” he said with a chuckle, thinking of the many non-Mormon approved things she had done with him. “Now give it up. You ever burn or what?”

“I played around with it a little back in college,” she allowed.

“Played around with it?”

“My roommate in the dorm was a pretty good stoner. In fact, she flunked out her junior year because of it. Anyway, I used to smoke a little with her every once in a while—just to see what it was like, you know?”

“Oh yeah, I know,” he assured her. “Did you like it?”

She shrugged. “It was okay. Mostly it just made me hungry, but it felt kind of good. It was really hard to study though.”

“Yeah, I could see that,” Jake agreed, walking to the closet to pick out a shirt.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, Gordo is probably going to want to burn a little while he’s here,” Jake told her. “I just wanted to mention it to you before the subject came up.”

“You have some?” she asked, surprised.

He laughed. “I’m a musician,” he said. “Of course I have some. I just don’t smoke it very often. It’s one of those things that used to be really important back in my teens and twenties, but that I can take or leave now that I’m in my thirties. Most of the time I leave it. Still, there is a time and a place for burning. Tonight just might be both.”

She nodded, giving her hair a few more strokes (and causing her boobs to jiggle in a most appealing way). “Are you asking me if I want to smoke some tonight?”

“I suppose I am,” he said. “You don’t have to. Again, I’m just broaching the subject now so we go into the evening with an understanding.”

“That’s a very mature thing to do, Jake,” she told him.

“I thought so.”

“Anyway, as a public school teacher, I’m subject to random drug testing.”

“Really?” he asked.

“Really,” she confirmed. “And testing positive for marijuana is an automatic termination offense. No union representation, just pack your stuff and get out.”

“Oh ... I see,” he said, a little disappointed.

“But,” she said, “since I only have one more week of classes before summer starts, and, since I’ve never been randomly tested a single time since I did my initial hiring pee test ... what the hell? The odds are in my favor. Let’s burn, sweetie!”

Jake grinned at her. “All righty then,” he said. “Let’s burn.”

Gordon Paladay, more commonly known as Bigg G, rang the doorbell at precisely 5:30 PM that evening. Jake answered the door personally, allowing Elsa to keep cooking the tacos she was working on in the kitchen. Bigg G was standing there on the porch, his top-of-the-line Cadillac parked in the circular driveway behind him, an exotically attractive light skinned woman who appeared to be a mix of African-American and Asian on his arm. G was wearing a pair of purple slacks and a red, button-up shirt that was unbuttoned to midway down his chest. A silver medallion in the shape of a clenched fist hung in the gap between the buttons. A large gold hoop dangled from his left ear. His hair was neatly styled into cornrows and shiny with oil.

“Jake?” Gordon asked as he got a good look at the rocker’s new image.

“It’s me,” Jake assured him. “A little disguise action so I can pass, you know what I mean?”

Gordon chuckled. “I know what you fuckin’ mean,” he said, holding out his hand.

They exchanged a complex, multi-faceted handshake that involved three different grasps from three different angles, two fist bumps, an elbow tap, and then Gordon pulled him into a bro-hug that was full of affection and sincerity.

“It’s good to see you, Gordon,” Jake told him, pounding his back a few times and then releasing him.

“Fuckin’ A on that shit,” Gordon returned. “Can I introduce you to my lady?”

His lady looked like the epitome of high-class. Aside from the exotic beauty of her face and the almost painful curves of her body, she was dressed to kill. The white and black evening dress showed off her legs quite nicely and clung to her curves in a manner that could only spell custom fit. Her black, straight hair was done just so, styled to the point that it looked like a work of art in a museum. And the ring on her left fourth finger ... it belonged in a museum as well. It was huge, with a central diamond that had to be somewhere in the vicinity of four carats, surrounded by a perimeter of another carat at least.

“I am anxious to make her acquaintance,” Jake said, struggling to keep his eyes on her face instead of her body.

“Jake,” Gordon said, “this is Tanisha Jefferson, my fiancé. She likes to be called Neesh. Neesh, this is the infamous Jake Kingsley, although he ain’t looking himself, as you can see.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Neesh,” Jake told her, holding out his right hand.

She smiled, a warm, friendly smile that contrasted with what had been an unfavorable first impression Jake had based entirely on appearance. Neesh just looked like she might be a stuck-up bitch. Perhaps she really wasn’t?

“It’s nice to meet you at last, Jake,” she told him, taking his hand in hers and shaking with him. “Gordon has told me a lot about you.”

Jake chuckled. “And you still came here?” he asked.

Her smile widened into a laugh. “It can’t all be true, can it?” she asked.

“We’ll have to go over the stories case by case,” Jake told her. “Come on in. Elsa’s making her tacos for us—as requested by Gordon.”

“It’s what I had the last time I was here,” Gordon said. “The woman makes a mean-ass taco.”

“I can’t wait to taste them,” Neesh said.

He led them into the main part of the house and then to the entertainment room, where Laura was waiting. She was a little nervous about meeting the famous rapper and his fiancé, but she made an effort not to show it. She smiled as they entered the room and met them halfway across the floor.

“Gordon, Neesh, this is Laura,” Jake introduced. “She’s my girlfriend—at least for as long as she can put up with me. Laura, this is Gordon and his fiancé, Tanisha, who likes to be called Neesh.”

Handshakes and ‘pleased-to-meet-you’s were exchanged all around. Jake saw Laura looking Neesh up and down, obviously a bit intimidated by her spotless appearance and her dark beauty. She was probably comparing herself unfavorably to Gordon’s fiancé. Laura, despite all the growth she had done over the past eight months, still had a significant self-esteem problem.

“How about some drinks?” Jake offered. “Anyone up for one?”

It turned out that everyone was up for one. In honor of the coming tacos, Jake made a pitcher of Midori margaritas, which he served on the rocks after putting salt rings on the glasses. They gathered at the bar and sipped from them as they went through the getting-to-know-each-other ritual.

“So,” Neesh said to Laura, “tell me how the two of you met.”

“Well,” said Laura, blushing a little, “I was the saxophone player on the albums we just recorded.”

“Oh, you’re a musician as well,” Neesh chirped brightly. “That’s very cool.”

“Where did old Jake dig you up?” asked Gordon. “Were you doing studio sessions?”

“No, actually, this was my first recording gig. I’m not really a professional musician at all, I’m a teacher.”

“A teacher?” Gordon asked, surprised. “What do you teach?”

“Junior high school for LA unified,” she said. “Seventh and eighth grade English over at Carver in the south City.”

This earned her a significant look of respect from both the rapper and his lady. “You teachin’ in the hood, baby?” Gordon asked.

“I am,” she confirmed. “Going on three years now. It’s challenging at times, but when I get those moments that I feel like I’ve actually reached someone ... that’s special.”

“Teaching is such a noble profession,” Neesh proclaimed. “I could never do something like that, especially not in the ghetto.”

“It’s a living,” Laura said with a shrug.

“So how did a junior high ghetto teacher end up playing saxophone with Jake Kingsley?” Neesh asked next. “I sense a good story here.”

“I don’t know if it’s that great of a story,” Laura said, “but I’ll tell you, if you really want to hear.”

“We really want to hear,” Gordon said. “Tell us how this ugly mofo ended up with a hot piece like yourself. You took pity on him, didn’t you? Because he used to ride the little bus?”

Jake laughed and Laura blushed again, but she told the story, starting with her association with Ben Ping, the bass player, and working her way to her audition with the band with no name and how none of them had really cared for each other at first. She glossed over her relationship with Dr. Dave, just mentioning that she’d been in a long term relationship that wasn’t really going anywhere, leaving out the details about how he was married and about how he later tried to rape her. She described their trip to Portland to buy the soprano sax and how they’d bonded together on the flight back to Coos Bay. She then described in PG detail their first romantic interlude in the hot tub that very night.

“And we’ve been together pretty much ever since,” she concluded. “We’ve been living together here ever since Jake got home from Oregon.” She shrugged. “So far, so good.”

“That is a cool story,” Neesh said with what seemed sincerity. “It has romance, an airplane, a hot tub. What more could you ask for?”

“So, you’re saying that an airplane is a good way to pick up some trim?” Gordon asked with a grin.

This earned him a slap on the shoulder by Neesh. “That’s all you got out of that story?” she demanded.

“That was the primary theme, I believe,” Gordon said. “I’m thinking maybe it’s time to start taking me some flying lessons.”

“Oh, shut your ass,” Neesh told him with a shake of her head.

“I actually think it’s the airplane/hot tub combo that sealed the deal,” Jake put in. “What do you think, Laura? Could I have gotten past first base without the tub?”

“Probably not that night,” she said with a smile.

They had a laugh and then Laura asked to hear the story of Gordon and Neesh’s acquaintance and romance. Neesh gladly told the tale. She was a second-year student at the USC-Gould School of Law, her emphasis on corporate law in general and entertainment law in particular. She and Gordon had met when she had been interning with the law firm of Jacobs, Patterson, and Myers, which was the firm that Bigg G, the entity, did business with. She had been assigned to his case because he was the only black client they had and she was the only thing resembling a black person in their office who was not assigned duties such as cleaning the restrooms or serving coffee. It was thought that they might be able to relate to each other. They had. They started dating almost immediately and she had moved into his Malibu mansion within two months.

“I’ll have to introduce you to my sister, Pauline,” Jake told her. “She’s a graduate of Stanford Law School and worked her first few years in corporate law before she took pity on us poor musicians and became our manager.”

“That’s right,” Gordon said. “I hear she’s the badass bitch that got those tighty whities over at National to renegotiate the Intemperance contract.”

“Assuming something like that ever really happened, of course,” Jake said with a grin. He was still technically bound by the non-disclosure clause of that little renegotiated contract.

“Of course,” Gordon said.

“I’d love to meet her,” Neesh gushed, clearly excited about the thought. “Maybe she might want to take on an intern? I’m committed to Calloway and Jackson this summer, but maybe next summer?”

“I can’t speak for her in that regard,” Jake said, “but I’ll see to it that the two of you meet. You can go from there.”

“Thanks, Jake,” she said. “That would be fantastic.”

They finished their drinks and then poured some more before making their way into the kitchen to check in with Elsa.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. G,” Elsa told Gordon after Neesh was introduced to her.

“You too, Elsa,” Gordon said. “Although I’m surprised that a strong, highly skilled sista like yourself is still letting The Man here...” He pointed at Jake. “ ... so shamelessly exploit your talents for his own prosperity.”

“I am actually the one exploiting him,” Elsa replied, deadpan. “He actually thinks that this is his house. He actually pays me money to live here in my home. Part of the deal is that he gets to sleep here too—on occasion anyway. I’m working on that.”

Gordon chuckled. “I might have to write me a rap song about this shit,” he said. “And how are those two grandkids of yours?”

This was Elsa’s favorite subject to discuss and she became quite animated, telling Gordon all about the latest exploits of Gerald and Delilah, both of whom she was justifiably quite proud of. Delilah was now a junior at USC, her major: biology, her plan to apply for medical school once her degree was awarded. Gerald would be graduating from high school in only one more week, salutatorian of his class and already accepted with a partial academic scholarship to UCLA, where he planned to major in computer technology.

“A good school, UCLA,” said Neesh with approval. “That’s where I got my graduate degree in Business.”

“It’s one of the best,” Elsa agreed. “And he wouldn’t be able to do it without Jake.”

“Oh?” Gordon asked. “How’s that?”

“Jake is picking up the cost of his college expenses that aren’t covered by the scholarship,” Elsa said. “He’s been doing the same for Delilah. It’s a godsend, really. They don’t have to work to get by because of that, and because the schools are local, they can stay with their parents and not pay the housing costs.”

Gordon looked at him with new respect. “You’re seriously doing that shit, Jake?” he asked. “Putting a brother and a sister through college?”

“I’m just helping out a little,” Jake said, embarrassed by his good deed. He would have preferred it if Elsa had not mentioned it. “They did the hard part, getting themselves into those schools in the first place. I just wanted to make sure they could live up to their potential.”

“That’s very generous of you, Jake,” Neesh told him.

“Goddamn,” Gordon said, shaking his head in wonder. “Just when we start to think we should send all you whitey mofos back to Europe, one of y’all goes and does something like that.”

They ate Elsa’s tacos a few minutes later, washing them down with another pitcher of the potent margaritas. Elsa, as usual, refused to sit at the table with them, her position being that it just wouldn’t be proper. She also refused any and all offers of assistance in clearing the table.

“Go, get out of here,” she shooed when the meal was done. “Go sit on the balcony and smoke your shit, or whatever it is you do out there.”

“Well, you heard the boss,” Jake said. “Shall we retire to the smoking area?”

They grabbed seats out on the balcony that overlooked the Los Angeles basin. The smog wasn’t too bad today. You could kind of make out the outlines of the buildings downtown. Jake rolled a joint out of his supply of Humboldt green bud, fumbling with the construction a few times since he was out of practice. He then lit it up and passed it around. Everyone took a few hits, even Laura, who nodded appreciably as she felt the first inhalation go to work on her head.

The girls soon got very giggly, laughing at things that really weren’t that funny, and swilling down the margaritas as fast as Jake could supply them. Soon, one of the more notorious side-effects of good ganja made its appearance.

“I’m kind of hungry,” Laura declared. “I could really go for another taco.”

“Mmmm,” Neesh said, her pretty brown eyes reddened and half-lidded. “That sounds amazing.”

“Let’s go!” Laura said. “Elsa will be done cleaning by now. She keeps the leftovers in a little Tupperware thingy in the refrigerator.”

“I’m in!” Neesh said, standing up. “You two coming?”

Jake and Gordon looked at each other and then shook their heads.

“I’m still pretty stuffed,” Gordon said.

“Me too,” Jake said. “But go knock yourselves out.”

They trooped off into the house, giggling the whole while. The two men watched them go and then turned their attention back to the view.

“I really dig your lady, Jake,” Gordon told him. “She’s got this whole innocent charm thing going on. Is that shit for real?”

“It’s for real,” Jake assured him. “She was brought up pretty sheltered—Mormon you know.”

“Aww man, that’s some fucked up shit,” Gordon said sadly.

“She’s recovered from it mostly,” Jake said. “Although her family still doesn’t know she’s dating me. They know she moved in with a guy—which they certainly do not approve of—but she still hasn’t told them who I am.”

“Does that bother you?”

Jake shook his head. “I’m not really anxious to meet them anyway. They sound like a bunch of Book of Mormon thumping hypocrites to me. When she’s ready to tell them, she’ll tell them, I guess.”

“Yeah, sometimes it’s best to let the ladies decide those things.”

“Your lady seems pretty cool too,” Jake said. “She puts off this air of classiness...”

“Yeah,” Gordon said with a smile. “Like she’s got a major stick up her ass or something, right?”

“Well ... I wasn’t going to say that, but she does kind of give that as a first impression. It’s a wrong impression though. She’s very nice, very down-to-Earth once you start talking to her.”

“That’s the truth,” Gordon said. “I knew she was the bitch for me the first time I met her.” He chuckled. “Of course, it took her a little while to get the memo on that one. I had to fight for that shit, homey. Had to win her over with my charm.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said. “She didn’t give a fuck that I was Bigg G—in fact, she seemed to be kind of put off by that shit at first. I slowly wore her down though and she warmed up to me. I think that’s a big reason why I love her. She ain’t like the other bitches I fuck. I had to earn that shit; you know what I’m saying?”

“I know what you’re saying,” Jake said. He picked up his margarita glass and held it out. “To earning our bitches,” he toasted.

“To earning our bitches,” Gordon returned. They clinked their glasses together and drank.

“How goes your career?” Jake asked him next. “I heard you had some trouble with C-Block Records.”

“Yeah,” Gordon said sourly. “That has-been motherfucker No-Bail tried to fuck me outta some of my royalties. Thought he was being all slick and shit. That’s how I ended up in that law office where I met Neesh, as a matter of fact. I was putting together a lawsuit against his ass to force him to pay out what he owed me.”

“How’s that going?”

“He settled shortly after we filed. Gave me all I was asking for and paid my lawyer fees. He knew he was gonna lose his ass if we went to court. He didn’t have a leg to stand on and would’ve been hit with punitive damages, sure as shit.”

“A happy ending, I suppose,” Jake allowed. “What about now? Are you working on anything new?”

“I’m putting together a new album now,” he said. “Still in the development stages. I’m hoping to go fully independent like you and Celia did.”

“It’s been quite a journey,” Jake said. “We ended up going considerably over budget, and we still haven’t paid the manufacturing and distribution costs yet. Do you know what studio you’re going to use?”

“I got some feelers out, but I’m still a few steps away from needing studio time. Like I said, I’m still putting the material together right now, and ... well ... there was something I thought you might be able to help me out with.”

“What’s that?” Jake asked.

“I’m trying to go a little experimental on this next release,” he said.

“Experimental?”

“Straight rap is getting old,” Gordon told him. “Both for me and for the music consumer in general. It’s evolving into something else and I want to evolve along with it ... or help shape that evolution. You know what I’m sayin’?”

“I’m not sure I do,” Jake said.

Gordon sighed. “I’m gonna tell you something right now that could destroy my reputation if it got out, you dig?”

“Uh ... yeah, I dig,” Jake said.

“I’m not just a rapper, Jake, but a full-on musician as well. I can play the drums, the fuckin’ harmonica, some ‘bone, and even a little guitar, though I was never good at that shit.”

“I didn’t know that,” Jake said.

“I try not to let that get out,” Gordon said. “Especially not this part: my primary instrument, the one I actually compose the basics of a lot of my shit on, is the piano.”

“The piano?” Jake asked incredulously, trying to picture Bigg G sitting at a bench and fingering the ivories.

“The piano,” he said, his face showing shame. “I’m actually classically trained, like my homey Nerdly, though I’m nowhere near as good as him.”

“Ain’t that some shit?” Jake said wonderingly. He looked back at Gordon. “Where you going with this, G?”

“I got a tune I want to put on the next album,” he said. “It’s called Step In and it’s about putting yourself in the place of someone in a fucked-up situation and learning not to judge them. Some strong lyrics in the piece, but something I don’t think translates well into a rap song.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “Sounds intriguing enough. What does it have to do with me?”

“I composed it on my piano and I really like the melody that goes with the tune. I don’t want to change it, but having a piano play it on a Bigg G album might be just a little too much for my audience. I was thinking that maybe a strong acoustic guitar might be what I’m looking for.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “An acoustic guitar? You want me to play for you?”

“You’re the best fuckin’ acoustic guitarist I know, Jake,” he said. “You would be able to lay down that melody with style and really bring out what I’m trying to do. And having you credited on the album would probably help with sales and airplay as well, especially if your shit sells as well as you’re hoping it does.”

“Interesting,” Jake said. “Tell me more about the piece.”

“The melody would be in G-major and the guitar would be the primary instrument with a little gentle drum beat, heavy bass behind it, and some rhythmic turntable for secondary melody. Three verses and a bridge with a fade-out of the primary chorus for the outro.”

Jake nodded. “That would be something new,” he offered.

“That’s what I’m counting on. Will you help me with it?”

Jake smiled. “I will,” he said. “I’m intrigued. When can we get together and try jamming it out?”

“How about tomorrow?” Gordon asked. “My place? Say around noon?”

“Well ... I normally go to church on Sundays, you know,” Jake said with a grin.

“Yeah. Fuckin’ right!” Gordon scoffed.

“I’ll be there,” Jake told him. “It’s about time I got to see the notorious Bigg G’s crib.”

Obie’s suite was on the top floor of the Four Seasons Hotel in Beverly Hills. It was quite opulent, with a large sitting room, a fully stocked bar, a sunken jacuzzi tub, and an inspiring view of the Hollywood Hills from the main bedroom.

At 11:00 AM on Monday morning, while Obie was dozing contentedly in the large bed, the phone rang. His bare arm shot out, groped around for a few moments, and then found the phone handle. He grasped it and hauled it in, putting it to his ear.

“This is Obie,” he grunted. “Speak to me.”

“Mr. Blake,” a female voice, annoyingly chipper, said in his ear. “This is Darla from National Records. Can you hold a moment for Mr. Doolittle?”

“Why not?” Obie said with a yawn, feeling the sleep slip away bit by bit.

The phone clicked in his ear and the Muzak version of Daniel, by Elton John, began to play. It barely made it past the first chorus before there was another click and a gruff male voice was on the line.

“Obie?”

“The one and only,” Obie told him. “What’s up, Doolittle?”

“I’m calling to let you know that we’ve decided to accept the terms of your proposal,” he said.

“Very nice,” Obie said, smiling. He’d had a feeling they would. But they were also notorious game players. “I trust you mean all of the terms I presented?”

“Well ... the board didn’t like some of those terms, Obie. I have to be honest with you about that.”

“I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck if they like the terms or not,” Obie told him. “Those terms were part of the contract I proposed and they will be spelled out in detail on anything I sign. Jake and Celia absolutely insist upon that.”

“I understand that, Obie, but ... well ... it is our opinion that letting Jake and Celia dictate the manner and the order in which their tunes will be released and promoted ... it’s very hard for us to do business that way.”

Obie sighed, sitting up a little straighter in the bed. There was a half a glass of scotch sitting next to him, the ice long since melted, but enough of the liquid left to still have a somewhat amber color. He picked it up and swigged it down, wincing a little at the watered-down taste but knowing he needed it. “Listen up, Doolittle,” he said. “If you don’t do business that way, then I guess we won’t be doing any business at all, and this whole goddamn phone call is nothing but a waste of my time. Those terms are not negotiable. I though we went over this shit when he had our little sit-downs last week. I thought I’d made myself perfectly goddamn clear with you people. Jake and Celia will retain rights to dictate the promotional aspects, release dates, and release order of both the songs and the albums of the project. Why are you jerking my fucking chain with this shit now?”

“We’re not jerking your chain,” Doolittle protested. “I’m just expressing the concerns we have with putting the promotional aspects of the releases into the hands of people who don’t really know what they’re doing. This is really unprecedented.”

“Everything is unprecedented until someone comes along and sets a precedent, right?”

“Uh ... well ... I suppose,” Doolittle said. “In any case, our promotions department has a combined total of more than three hundred years of experiencing dictating how and when songs should be released. We really think those decisions should be in their hands, not in the hands of a couple of musicians who have no idea about the ebbs and flows and the ins and outs of music promotion.”

“Ebbs and flows and ins and outs are kind of the same thing, aren’t they?” Obie asked.

“Uh...”

“But that’s neither here nor there,” he continued. “I’ve gotten to know Jake pretty damn well over this last year. He seems to have his head on straight to me, and he seems to know what he’s talking about when it comes to promotion. I trust the man with this thing, otherwise I wouldn’t have agreed to it in my contract with him.”

“Jake talks a big game, and he can sound very convincing,” Doolittle said, “but...

“Ain’t no fuckin’ buts involved here,” Obie told him. “I have a contract with KVA Records that says Jake and Celia get to dictate promotion. I have to allow that or I’m in breach of contract with them and putting my royalties at risk in this deal. We ain’t having that shit, Doolittle. If you want me to sign, then those clauses related to Jake and Celia being in charge of promotion had better be there. You with me, or should I go over to Aristocrat and see if they’re ready to play some ball? I’ll sacrifice that extra two percent y’all offered me to keep those promotion clauses in place. That ain’t no shit, there.”

Another sigh. “We’re with you,” Doolittle said. “We were just hoping some common sense might erupt.”

“I’m kind of hoping the same thing,” Obie said. “When can we sign?”

“I’ll get the documents all printed up and ready for final review and signatures tomorrow morning around nine.”

“Better make it closer to noon,” Obie told him. “Nine is a bit early for the likes of me.”

“Noon it is,” Doolittle said. “You’ll tell Pauline about this?”

“Absolutely,” Obie promised. “I’ll tell her as soon as I hang up with you.”

“Very good,” Doolittle said. “See you tomorrow at noon.”

“Looking forward to it,” Obie replied. He hung up the phone, a smile on his face.

He turned to his left, where Pauline was on her back in the bed, the sheets pulled down, her enticing breasts on display.

“Doolittle says we have a contract,” he told her.

“Very nice,” she replied. “Noon tomorrow?”

“Noon tomorrow,” he confirmed, reaching out to put his hand on her right breast. He began to play with it. “You up for another shot, darlin’?”

“So soon?” she asked with a smile. “I thought you old people needed a couple of days to recharge.”

“Old?” he barked. “I’m forty-seven, hon, only ten years older than you.”

“That’s still pretty damn old,” she told him. “You sure you’re gonna be able to get it up?”

“Try me, darlin’,” he challenged.

“All right,” she said, pushing the covers the rest of the way down. “Let’s see what you can do here.”

“So, here’s the deal,” Obie told Jake, Celia, Greg and the Nerdlys as they had a pre-meeting breakfast at The Brick Town Restaurant the next morning. “National collects thirty-five percent royalties on the deal, which will come out of the forty percent that I collect from y’all.”

“You called it, Obie,” Jake said, impressed. “That is exactly what you predicted you would get.”

“Yeah, I could’ve got a little better I think, if not for that promotional clause y’all wanted to slip in.”

“Obie,” Pauline said warningly, though with a smile on her face. She seemed in a particularly good mood this morning, Jake could not help but notice. What was up with that? Was it just the contract?

“I know, I know,” Obie said. “I’m not bitter about it or nothing. I agreed to that clause in the contract with my eyes open, knowing it might cost me a percentage point or two.”

“Which, apparently it did,” Nerdly added helpfully.

“Yeah ... right,” Obie grunted. “Anyway, National agreed to play ball on the promotions as well, although they fought tooth and nail to try to keep it for themselves. They really seem to think they know a lot better than you, Jake, about how to sell those albums.”

“They have always thought that,” Jake said. “And we’ve proved them wrong time and time again. If we’d listened to them, Intemperance would’ve been hawking a bunch of hacker tunes about Satanism mixed in with some cover tunes as filler. That promotions department is the very epitome of killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.”

“I suppose,” Obie said. “In any case, they assure me those clauses will be there and will be intact. However, I know how sleazy they can be as well. Pauline here is going to look that contract over like ... well ... like a lawyer looking over a contract. She assures me that they will not be able to slip anything past her.”

“I know how those fuckers operate,” Pauline said confidently.

“And I will look things over as well,” Greg said.

“Hey, the more eyes the better,” Pauline told him, unoffended—at least externally.

“If we sign this thing today,” asked Celia, “when can actual production start?”

“They can start in two weeks, I’m told,” Obie replied. “That is, of course, contingent on the transfer of funds to their account to cover manufacturing and distribution costs, which, under my contract with them, I will be financially responsible for, but, under my contract with you, you all are financially responsible for.”

“So ... we have to wire the money to your account,” said Nerdly, “so you can wire it to theirs?”

“That’s the way the game is played,” Obie confirmed.

“Do we have an amount?” asked Greg.

“We do,” Obie said. “Three hundred thousand dollars per album for manufacture and distribution of one million copies apiece.”

Greg whistled. It was not a happy sound. “Six hundred grand, huh?”

“That is the minimum amount,” Obie said. “If you don’t sell a million copies, they’re not giving the money back, by the way. And if you sell more than a million copies, then you will be responsible for the extra costs associated with producing more than a million.”

“That’s goddamn highway robbery!” Greg said.

“Perhaps,” Obie said, “but it would be a nice problem to have, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Greg grunted.

“A silver lining to every cloud, eh?” Obie asked. “And if y’alls’ records both tank and don’t even sell a million copies, at least you won’t have to worry about additional fees.”

“You do have a way of finding that proverbial silver lining, Obie,” Nerdly observed.

“I do,” he agreed. “Now, let’s go into this here meeting with our facts straight and with all of us on the same page, okay?”

“Okay,” Celia said, and then furrowed her brow. “What are you talking about exactly?”

“About you, darlin’,” Obie told her. “I want y’all to understand exactly which way the toast is buttered here.”

“A good analogy Obie,” Jake told him. “But we still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No, I suppose you don’t,” he allowed. “Here’s the deal.” He looked at Jake. “Sorry to say this, Jake, but they weren’t all that impressed with your master.”

“They weren’t?” Jake asked, raising his eyebrows.

“They weren’t,” Obie confirmed. “It’s not that they think the music is bad, it’s that they think it’s too much of a departure from the genre you’re normally associated with. They are of the opinion that it won’t sell many copies and that it won’t get much airplay.”

“Really?” Jake said, feeling a little surge of anger at this information, but not surprise.

“That’s the way it is,” Obie told him. “They were inclined to trash the whole deal when they first heard it, but then they listened to Celia’s master.”

“My master?” Celia asked.

Obie looked at her and nodded his head. “You blew them away, darlin’,” he told her. “They took one listen to that thing and they knew what I knew when I first heard your work. It’s good shit that is going to sell like hotcakes. They’re anticipating a multi-platinum seller at the very least, maybe even a Grammy at the next awards, maybe even multiple Grammys.”

Celia was astonished. “They’re anticipating that?” she asked. “From my album?”

“Wait a minute,” Jake said. “How did you get this information?”

“They told me,” Obie said. “They weren’t trying to make no secret of it. In fact, they even hinted around the edges about how if I wanted to just sign Celia and keep you for myself, they’d offer a better rate.”

“Son of a bitch,” Jake whispered. They didn’t like his tunes? What the hell?

“What makes them think my album is going to be so great?” Celia asked. “I mean ... I think we did some good work there, but it’s not exactly groundbreaking or anything.”

“Actually, that’s where you’re wrong,” Obie said. “It is groundbreaking work, going from a pop music icon who relied on teenagers to sell your work to a fully mature, deep artist with some deep music. And then there’s the whole female artist thing.”

“The female artist thing?” asked Greg.

“We’re in the beginning of a little renaissance for female singers, a trend that is only projected to get stronger over the next few years. Don’t sell yourself short, darlin’. You’ve put down some powerful, wonderful tracks and now it’s time to cash in on them. That is what I wanted y’all to know before we went in there. Celia is the true negotiating point, not Jake. Any games they try to play with promotion is going to be toward Celia, not Jake. Those assholes honestly believe that they know how to promote Celia better than y’all do. They will try to worm their way into the process, no matter what is written down in the contract we sign.”

“So, I’ll just be left on my own?” Jake asked, more than a hint of bitterness in his tone.

“No, I’m sure they’ll try to stick their little noses into your crotch as well,” Obie assured him. “And I don’t want you to get me wrong, Jake. I like your music and I have great confidence in it. Don’t go projecting onto me what those assholes believe. And, most certainly, don’t go projecting it onto yourself. I’m just telling you the plain facts about how they feel in there, about what their motivating factors are. This is information for us to use against them, not to believe in ourselves. You copy that?”

“Yeah,” Jake said, nodding his head slowly. “I copy that.”

“All right then,” Obie said. “Let’s finish up our breakfast and then get our asses over there to look this thing over. Remember, they’re likely to start trying to put the pressure on for Celia right away. If y’all want to keep their sleazy little hands off of her, you establish your no interference maneuver firmly and immediately. Copy?”

They copied.

They finished their breakfasts. Obie picked up the check. Once it was paid, they headed for the National Records Building, two blocks away.

For Jake, the meeting was a little blast from the past—an unpleasant past that he associated with conflict and getting screwed in a figurative manner as opposed to a literal one. Steve Crow, Intemperance’s long-time adversary and the face of the evil record company they had most seen and dealt with, was the host of the meeting. Also present were James Doolittle, Crow’s boss and the man they would be sent to when Crow could no longer control them, and Rick Bailey, who was so fond of telling them his opinions on what they should do to their music to make it sell better. But the real treat was Eric Frowley, the lead lawyer for National Records.

“Frowley, my man!” Jake greeted when he saw him sitting there amidst two of his flunkies, all of them dressed in custom fitted Italian suits. “How the hell have you been, brother?”

“Uh ... fine, Jake,” Frowley said. “It’s good to see you. You look ... well ... different.”

“And you look just the same,” Jake assured him. “Still whoring yourself out for these freaks, huh?”

“Uh ... well, you know how it is?”

“I know how it is,” Jake assured him, remembering all the times that he and Frowley had butted heads and measured dicks. The man was as unscrupulous as any lawyer and would do whatever he needed to give an advantage to his side, legal, quasi-legal, or even outright illegal. This was the man who had arranged to have one of his fraternity buddies from college take the case of National vs Intemperance when their contract dispute had been raging—a move that Pauline managed to neatly counter. This was the man who had tried to threaten Jake and Matt with legal action if they did not agree to use pre-written material for Intemperance’s third album. This was the man who had vehemently argued against National Records’ renegotiation of the Intemperance contract, trying to call what he thought was a bluff—and which might very well have been one. He was also the man who had stood up in a Cincinnati courtroom and defended Jake Kingsley against obscenity charges—successfully, no less—like he was defending Jesus Christ Himself. He was a punch-clock villain, of that there was no doubt. But he was a good one.

“All righty, y’all,” Obie announced one all the preliminaries were done. “How about we get this rodeo in operation here?”

They got the rodeo in operation. Frowley passed out copies of the contract that he wanted Obie to sign, the contract for manufacturing, distribution, and promotion of two albums being released by the entity known as KVA Records.

“All of the terms that we discussed and agreed upon have been put down in that contract,” Frowley assured them when he saw that Pauline, Obie, Nerdly, and Greg all seemed to have every intention of reading through the twelve-page document word by word.

“Well, Mr. Frowley,” Pauline said sweetly, “it’s not that we don’t trust you, but ... oh hell, who am I bullshitting? We actually don’t trust you, and with good reason. We’ll just peruse this document a bit before Obie signs it, if you don’t mind.”

“Be my guest,” Frowley said.

They read it over and, sure enough, there were numerous subtle loopholes inserted into the language that could have been construed as giving the power of promotion decisions over to National Records under certain circumstances. Pauline found the first two such clauses. Nerdly found the third. Greg the fourth and fifth. Obie the sixth and seventh. At that point, they simply stopped reading and threw the copies back at Frowley.

“It’s pretty obvious you’re trying to screw us without lube here, Frowley,” Obie told him. “Didn’t I warn you about shit like that?”

“I told you,” Frowley insisted, “you’re being paranoid. None of those clauses were intended to circumvent the rights of KVA Records in promotional decisions. They were all just innocent wordings meant to address what would happen in the unlikely event that Jake and Celia decided to not exercise those rights.”

“Uh huh,” Pauline said dryly. “And how about that little phrase in chapter nine, subsection three that states: ‘... dependent upon National Records’ approval of the plan’?”

“That’s just saying that the promotion department has to approve of all of the plans made by Jake and Celia,” Frowley told them. “It doesn’t mean that National’s approval is necessary.”

“That’s how it reads,” Pauline told him.

“That’s just a housekeeping clause that outlines how National is going to carry out its responsibilities under the contract,” Frowley said. “I’m telling you, you’re reading way too much into this.”

“No, you’re putting way too much into this,” Obie said. “Didn’t I tell you people not to fuck with me?”

“I see no need for that kind of language in this setting,” Frowley said huffily.

“I do,” Obie said plainly. “Take these contracts away and bring me back what we fucking agreed to in negotiations. Do not try to slip any of this shit into the next copy. We will read it over just as carefully. You have one hour to make this happen. If you do not have the contract in front of us in one hour, I walk and take my business elsewhere. If you try to slip one more sleazy little lawyer trick into the next contract, I walk and take my business elsewhere. Do I make myself clear?”

He made himself clear. An awkward silence developed around the table as Frowley and his merry men disappeared to rewrite the contract, but they had fresh copies before them in forty-nine minutes.

Once again, Pauline, Greg, Obie, and Nerdly examined them with all the care of forensic analysts perusing an ancient text document. There were no sleazy lawyer tricks in this one.

“All right then,” Obie said. “I think we got ourselves a deal.”

“Finally,” Crow said.

“Who has a pen?” Obie asked.

Frowley handed him one. A minute later, it was official. KVA Records had a partner for manufacturing, distribution, and promotion.