Snowblind

Chapter 13: Novel Solutions

West Covina, California

August 25, 1995

Paramedic Jim Ramos was sitting on the rear bumper of the Ford ambulance in the bay of Kaiser Hospital. A battered metal clipboard which opened up to store paperwork inside sat on his lap and he was composing a patient care report—called a “tag” in the vernacular of the job—about the patient he had just dropped off. It had a been a routine call—a lifelong smoker experiencing shortness of breath from his chronic lung disorder—and it was a routine tag. Jim had been in the paramedic business for nearly fifteen years now and most of his mind was elsewhere as he put the words to the pre-printed form.

Jim was thirty-six years old. Tall, thin, and lanky, he filled out the Southern Medical Services summer uniform of dark blue slacks and a light blue polo shirt reasonably well. He was considered a veteran medic at his seniority level and, though he had certainly not seen it all in his fifteen years, he had seen a lot of it. Working at SMS was, for many paramedics and EMTs, a springboard to higher paying jobs at one of the local fire departments, but, unfortunately, family genetics had cursed him with a case of stubborn, early onset hypertension that required a regimen of three separate medications to keep under control. And, since heart disease and cerebral vascular disease were both considered presumptive work-related maladies for firefighters under the civil service rules, and since hypertension was a huge risk factor for both of those diseases, no fire department wanted to have anything to do with hiring Jim. Of course, they never came out and said that was the reason they weren’t hiring him—oh no, that would be a violation of several anti-discrimination statutes—but it just seemed like he never placed very high on any of the lists once his preliminary medical report was taken.

He had given up even trying for a fire department job several years ago, tired of the frustration. Instead, he settled himself into SMS and, as a result, he felt himself to be in a bit of a rut these days. He loved being a paramedic, but he was now maxed out on seniority raises and there was really no room for advancement within the company itself. His was not an uncommon story among the ranks of private paramedics and EMTs.

“West-Co Medic Six,” his portable radio suddenly blurted. “Priority traffic.”

“Goddamn it!” Jim barked in frustration. Priority traffic could only mean they had another call for him and Carla, his EMT, who was currently inside the ER talking to the crew of the Pasadena Fire Department ambulance parked next to them, undoubtedly trying to coax one (or both) of them into a little hose coupling drill after her shift was over.

He pulled the portable radio from his belt holder and keyed it up. “West-Co Six,” he said, not bothering to hide the pissed-off tone in his voice. “Go ahead.” He lifted up his tag so he could write the latest call information on the log sheet taped to the front of the clipboard.

But they were not getting another call. “West-Co Six,” the dispatcher said. “We’re placing you out of service for a special assignment. Landline the West-Co supervisor for details.”

Special assignment? What the hell? This was certainly not a routine occurrence at SMS, where the philosophy was to have as few crews as possible running as many calls as possible at all times. He thought about asking the dispatcher for more details and then quickly reconsidered. She probably did not know anything anyway. He keyed up again. “West-Co Six copies we’re out of service. Will landline the sup.”

He thought about finishing his tag first, but curiosity got the better of him. He put the portable radio back in its holder and then, clipboard in hand, walked into the ambulance entrance of the hospital. He saw that Carla—a hot brunette with large, jiggling boobs and full, sensuous lips (called DSLs by the many firefighters who had experienced her skill with them)—was indeed chatting up the Pasadena crew, making all sorts of hair-twirling, eyelash batting, giggling signals of mating readiness toward them. She did not even notice his entrance. He walked over to an empty portion of the nurse’s station and picked up one of the phones there. He dialed nine, listened for a dial tone, and then dialed up the supervisor’s office number.

“Southern Medical Services, West Covina,” a male voice chirped. It was Steve Marx, a twenty-five-year-old ass-kissing up and comer who was padding his resume in the supervisor position under the assumption it would help him land a position with LAFD.

“Hey, Steve. Jim Ramos. Dispatch told us we’re out of service for a special assignment or something?”

“That’s correct,” Marx said and then, infuriatingly, said no more.

“So ... you gonna tell me what this special assignment is all about?” Jim asked him, fighting to keep his voice even.

“Oh ... right,” Marx said with a little laugh. “I guess you do need to know that, right?”

“Right,” Jim agreed, shaking his head a little. His suspicion that Marx might have a bit of a difficult time passing the general knowledge test for the LAFD occurred to him, not for the first time.

“Do you remember a couple of weeks ago when you ran that call on Matt Tisdale?” Marx asked.

“Uh ... yeah,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. “I do seem to recall that call.” Do I remember running a call on Matt fucking Tisdale? Yes, he remembered it well. Tisdale and his band—who were supposed to be releasing their latest CD early next week—had been rehearsing for their upcoming tour at a warehouse over on the west side of the city when Matt had an episode of SVT and got short of breath and hypotensive. One of the band members called 911 and Jim and Carla had gotten the call, along with Engine 4 of the West Covina Fire Department. The engine arrived first, but it was not a paramedic engine, so they had been able to do nothing but confirm that Tisdale’s heart had been beating at 240 beats a minute and his blood pressure was 86/38. The guitar player looked like absolute shit when Jim first assessed him and told Jim that this had happened to him before and that Jim should ‘just light me the fuck up if you need to’. Jim determined that he needed to, but that Matt was not so unstable that he couldn’t start an IV and give him a little Versed for sedation and amnesia first. He did that, cardioverted the guitarist successfully after only one shock, and then transported him with lights and sirens to West Covina Medical Center. Since Jim was an Intemperance fan—and he kind of liked what Tisdale had done on his last CD—the call was a brightly glowing orb in an otherwise drab last few years of his life. Almost as cool as Ted Duncan, who worked over in the Pomona Division, playing drums for Jake Kingsley and Celia Valdez. But what did Matt Tisdale have to do with the special assignment he was getting now?

Marx told him what it had to do with it. “Tisdale wants you to go back over to his warehouse so he can thank you for what you did.”

“Go back to the warehouse?” Jim asked. “You mean right now?”

“Right now,” Marx said. “As soon as you can get there.”

Jim raised his eyebrows. “You’re taking us out of service for this?” he asked in disbelief. SMS management did not like for units to go out of service. When they were out of service, they could not make the company any money. Everyone knew the story of when Julie Streng’s mother had died unexpectedly one winter night and the on-duty supervisor had tried to get her to work out the rest of her shift because: “it’s not like there’s anything you can do about it now, is there? And it’s really hard to get a replacement medic to come in for only half a shift.”

“That’s right,” Marx said. “This came from Bruce Graham himself.”

“No shit?” Jim said, whistling appreciably. Bruce Graham was the big guy, the CEO of SMS’s southern California operations from the Mexico border all way to Kern County. Jim had seen him in a mandatory meeting once a few years ago, spouting the company line, but other than that, he was nothing but a creature of legend.

“No shit,” Marx said, his voice almost awed. “He called me up not ten minutes ago and told me to take you out of service and send you over there. He said to keep you out as long as necessary and for this division to cooperate with Tisdale in any way possible. I’ve already let dispatch know what’s going on. I want you to drop whatever you’re doing and head over there now. Do you remember where it’s at?”

“Yeah, we remember where it’s at,” he said, giving another eye roll. “We’ll clear the hospital and go now.”

“You do that,” Marx said. And then, after a moment. “I wonder if I should head over there as well ... you know ... just to have a supervisory presence?”

“Were you specifically invited?” Jim asked.

“Well ... no.”

“Then I don’t think you should be there,” Jim said.

“But...”

“I’ll let you know how it goes, Steve,” Jim told him quickly. “Catch you later.”

He hung up before Marx could say anything else. He then went to go pry his partner out of the grip of the two firefighters.

Carla parked their rig in front of the rehearsal warehouse twenty minutes later, just a few minutes before four o’clock. In the parking lot was a limousine with a uniformed driver in front, two transport buses, and several higher end vehicles parked haphazardly. There was no signage or anything else to indicate that this building was Matt Tisdale’s rehearsal warehouse. Jim and Carla had been quite surprised when they had entered it on that fateful day. Today, however, Jim was more than a little awed knowing they were soon going to be talking to the legendary (and notorious) guitarist. Carla, on the other hand, was less than thrilled with their mission. She was not a music fan in general, and believed that Matt Tisdale in particular was a slimy, disgusting pig of a man. All in all, she would rather be back in service where she could be running calls and talking to more male firefighters about hose coupling drills.

They exited the ambulance, both of them instinctively carrying their portable radios with them despite the fact that they were out of service. They walked to the same man-door they had entered and exited through on their last visit. Then, it had been chocked open. Now, it was closed and locked. Jim knocked on it and a moment later it was opened by a large, tattooed man who introduced himself as Jack Ferguson, head of tour security. Jim had noticed the man hovering around when he had been here to treat Tisdale but had not been introduced to him on that occasion.

“Nice to meet you,” Jim said, shaking hands with him. “And you remember my partner, Carla?”

“I do,” Ferguson said with a smile.

Carla did not shake with him. She was looking at him with an unshielded expression that was half fear and half disgust. Ferguson seemed unoffended. He led them through the door and into the warehouse. As had been the case last week, the stage and all of the lighting were in place, though everything seemed to be powered down now. Longhaired men in t-shirts and jeans were everywhere. Some on the soundboard, some wandering around the stage area, many just sitting in chairs and talking. Most were drinking bottles of Corona beer. More than a few were smoking cigarettes, imparting the place with a haze of fragrant smoke.

Matt Tisdale was sitting on the edge of the stage just in front of one of the microphone stands. He was looking a lot better than the last time Jim had seen him. His skin was still a bit on the pale side, and he looked generally unhealthy, but nothing near the almost dead, sweaty mess he had been. He had his own bottle of Corona next to him and was munching on a fried chicken breast. His eyes lit up when he saw the EMS crew being led toward him.

“Hey!” he said happily, setting down the chicken on a plate and hopping down onto the warehouse floor. He wiped his hands quickly on his shirt and then headed over to meet them. “It’s the two people who saved my ass! How you motherfuckers doing?”

“Uh ... pretty good, Mr. Tisdale,” Jim said, holding out his hand for a shake.

“Fuck that ‘Mr. Tisdale’ shit,” Matt said, grabbing Jim’s hand and shaking with him. Jim could feel the chicken grease on it. “Call me Matt. Anyone who saved my ass gets first name privileges.”

“All right,” Jim said, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his uniform pants. “Matt it is. And I’m Jim. Jim Ramos.”

“Ramos huh?” Matt said with a nod. “You a beaner?”

Jim blinked a little. “Uh ... no, not really,” he said. “My family originally came here from Brazil, but that was three generations ago.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully. “I didn’t think you looked like a wetback,” he said. He then turned to Carla. “And you’re Jim’s partner. Carla, right?”

“Yes,” she said tersely, refusing to step forward far enough for Matt to offer his hand to her. “I’m surprised you remember my name.”

“I didn’t,” Matt said. “That corporate motherfucker I talked to on the phone earlier looked it up for me.” He let his eyes look her up and down for a moment. “You know, I was a little too busy getting lit up like a fuckin’ car factory in Sarajevo to notice this before, but you’re kind of hot.”

“Uh ... thanks,” Carla said slowly, showing absolutely no sign of being flattered by this declaration.

“Just callin’ it like I see it,” Matt said. “Now then. Can I get you two anything to drink? We got some beer and a full wet bar set up over here by the soundboard. Or maybe you’d like a couple lines of coke?”

Jim looked at him to see if he were joking. It certainly appeared he was not. “Uh ... no thanks, Matt,” he said. “We’re uh ... you know ... on duty.”

“Oh ... right, of course,” Matt said, nodding. “I guess you don’t do that shit on the job, huh?”

“No,” Carla said evenly, her eyes now looking at Matt as if he were a bug. “We do not.”

“I can respect that,” Matt said. “I don’t get fucked up before performing either. I guess it’s the same for you guys.”

“Right,” Jim said slowly. “We try to stay away from the cocaine when we might have to drive a five-ton rig through heavy traffic and then make life and death decisions when we arrive where we’re going.”

“Understood,” Matt said with a nod. “Anyway, the reason I asked you two to come here, first of all, is to say thanks for saving my ass. This is the third time now that one of you paramedic motherfuckers has helped me out when my heart started doin’ that shit, the second time one of you had to light me up. And you’re the first one to use that Versed shit on me. That was all right, my man! I don’t even remember you frying my ass, don’t remember you putting them paddles on me, don’t remember screaming like some fuckin’ bitch who saw a spider. Not only that, it was a halfway decent high too. So ... from the bottom of my fuckin’ heart, thank you both for what you did.”

“No problem at all, Matt,” Jim said with a genuine smile. Perhaps Matt’s speech of gratitude wasn’t the most poetically expressed in the world, but it was a sincere thank you, something that was few and far between in their line of work, and Jim appreciated the sentiment.

Carla did not seem so impressed. She merely grunted.

Matt glanced at her, his eyebrows going up a tad, and then he seemed to shrug it off. “Anyway,” he said, “having said that, I’d like to actually show the two of you how grateful I am.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jim. Was he going to try to give them some money? It would be a shame if he did, as they were ethically and legally not allowed to accept it.

But money was not what he had in mind, not really anyway. “I don’t know if you know this about me, but I own a motor yacht. It’s an eighty-nine-footer and I have it docked over at Marina Del Rey.”

“Uh ... no, I didn’t know that,” Jim said, although this news was not particularly surprising. Tisdale had to be almost as rich as God.

“It’s the shit, my man,” Matt said. “It’s got a full bar, a hot tub, and five bedrooms, not including the master suite and the crew quarters. There’s even a place to land a helicopter on it—a small helicopter, you know—but I haven’t got me one of those yet.” He shrugged. “Maybe when the royalties start flowing in from this next album. Anyway, I hired up a whole crew to run this boat for me. I got some dago captain who used to drive cargo freighters or some shit like that, a chef and an assistant chef who used to work in some snooty French place, two beaner motherfuckers to work with the captain and keep everything running, a couple of old gook bitches to clean the rooms and pick up all the trash and shit, some fuckin’ kraut marine mechanic to keep the engines running, and a couple of dick-smoking professional waiters from restaurant row to serve the food and make the drinks.”

“Wow,” Jim said slowly since some reply seemed necessary. He wondered why Tisdale was telling them all of this. “Sounds like it costs a lot of money to run this boat of yours.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt agreed. “The gooks and the faggots and the frogs only come aboard when we actually take the boat out for more than a day. The wop and the kraut and the beaners, however, they’re full-time on my payroll to keep things running and maintained and all that shit, even if the boat is sitting in dock. And not only do I have to pay them, but I have to pay for all this fuckin’ work comp insurance and their fuckin’ healthcare plan and bullshit like that. So ... yeah, it’s pretty fuckin’ expensive, but hey; I can afford it. Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this shit is that we’re taking the boat out tomorrow afternoon. Me and the boys just finished up with tour rehearsal this afternoon and we’ll be hitting the road for the first show in Seattle in ten more days. Since we got those ten days to kill, we’re gonna scrounge up some slutty bitches here in LA, sail down to my pad in Cabo, maybe do a little fishing, maybe have a few parties with some local gash down there, and then cruise back home. It’s gonna be one long, continuous fuckin’ party.”

“Sounds like fun,” Jim said, trying to picture the drunken debauchery of a Matt Tisdale yacht party. His imagination was not quite up to the task. It was like trying to wrap your brain around the Theory of Relativity.

“Like I said,” Matt told them, “it’s going to be fucking epic. And, since the two of you saved my ass, I’d like to invite you both to come with us.”

Jim was a little surprised to be issued such an invitation, and a little flattered, but his instinct was telling him that this was a jerk-off invitation that Tisdale did not really want or expect them to accept. Not that they could accept it even if it were sincere. “Uh ... that’s very nice of you to offer, Matt,” he said, “but I’m afraid we won’t be able to do that. We just started our work rotation and we’ll be twelve-on twelve-off for the next three days.”

Matt shook his head, smiling. “Nope,” he said. “You’re both off for the next two weeks, starting at the end of your shift today.”

Jim wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “How’s that?” he asked.

“What do you mean we’re off for two weeks?” asked Carla suspiciously.

“I arranged for you both to have some vacation time,” Matt said. “I talked to that corporate asshole of yours and he agreed to grant you emergency leave starting at seven o’clock tonight.”

“You did what?” Carla asked, anger in her voice now.

“Emergency leave?” asked Jim. “I can’t afford that, Matt. I only have about twenty hours of PTO in my bank. I can’t cover two weeks off.”

“You don’t have to cover it,” Matt said. “I covered it for you.”

“Huh?” Jim asked. He had covered it for them? What did that mean?

“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Carla.

“It’s simple,” Matt said. “Kind of, anyway. I told that suit that I wanted you two freed up for my boat trip. He hemmed and hawed and started spewing a bunch of corporate bullshit at me, but you know what they say. Money talks and mine was speakin’. I funded a so-called ‘EMS conference’ in Vegas for his ass and just like that, he’s making sure you’re both pulled from the schedule and good to go. Of course, he wasn’t going to pay for you to have those two weeks off, so I’m paying for it for you. I was just going to give you the money—cash in fuckin’ hand, you know what I’m sayin’? —but Mr. Suit said I can’t do that. Some ethical bullshit apparently. But I can donate money to fund your paid time off banks. Apparently that shit isn’t unethical.” He shook his head. “Who comes up with these fuckin’ rules anyway? It’s okay to send him to a first-class hotel suite in Vegas, pre-pay for a couple of hookers to slurp his schlong for him, and call it an EMS conference; it’s okay to donate money to your time off fund; but I can’t just give you cash? What the fuck?”

Jim was still trying to process that he had just been given two weeks off with pay. Was this some sort of joke? Carla, on the other hand, was clearly offended by what she had just been told.

“You ... you paid for us to have two weeks off so we could go on your yacht with you?” she asked, her voice cold and steely.

“That’s right, baby,” Matt said with a grin. “I bet you look smokin’ hot in a bikini.”

She gritted her teeth a little and took a deep breath. “And ... and ... you just assumed that I ... that we would go with you?”

“Well ... yeah,” Matt said. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“Oh ... I don’t know,” she said sarcastically, “because I’m not a fan of being plied with booze and God only knows what kind of drugs and subjected to gang rape by degenerate musicians in international waters?”

Matt chuckled. “Would you prefer to have it happen in territorial waters?” he asked.

Carla actually shuddered for a moment, her fists clenching, her mouth opening to say something that her mother probably would not approve of.

Tisdale headed her off at the pass, however. “Don’t sweat it, baby,” he told her, giving a shrug. “If partying with me and the boys for a few days ain’t your flavor of bongwater, that’s cool with me. Nobody was gonna rape you or anything like that, but I’m not here to try to force anyone to have a good time if they don’t want one. I’m still giving you those two weeks off though, whether you want them or not. I repay my debts, you dig?”

Now Carla was not sure how to react. “Uh ... well ... yeah, I dig.”

“And check it out,” he said. “Since you don’t want to party with us, and since you got the next two weeks off anyway, how about I set you up with something else to occupy your time?”

Carla shook her head, “No,” she said. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Of course it’s not necessary,” Matt scoffed, “but I want to do it anyway. Let’s see ... how about Vegas? You like Vegas?”

“I’ve only been there a few times,” she said. “Really, Mr. Tisdale...”

“Matt,” he corrected. “Call me Matt. And I’m determined that you have some fun for helping to save my ass. How about this? I’ll get one of my limo drivers to cruise you and a guest to Vegas. I’ll book you a suite at that new place they just built ... the MGM Grand on the strip.”

You could see Carla thawing out by the second. “A limousine?” she asked. “A suite?”

“Fuck yeah, a suite,” Matt said. “It’s the only way to go. Four days, four nights and then the limo will bring you back home. Any drinks, any food you want, you just fuckin’ sign it to your room and it’s covered. And how about ... oh ... say twenty grand in casino chips? Ten for you, ten for your guest. That do you for four days and four nights?”

“Uh ... well ... yeah,” Carla stammered, looking a little dazed and confused now. “That should be enough.”

“All right then,” Matt said, smiling at her. “It’s settled. Just let my man Jack over there—he’s that big, scary looking motherfucker that let you in—know what days you want to go, and he’ll make sure it happens.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I’ll do that.”

She wandered off in a continued daze, heading over to where the large security chief was standing, his eyes watching over everything.

“Kind of a hot piece of trim,” Matt commented to Jim as she walked away. “You ever bone her?”

“No,” Jim told him. “She doesn’t want anything to do with me. She’s a hose bunny.”

“A hose bunny?” Matt asked, seemingly intrigued. “What’s that?”

“A firefighter groupie,” Jim clarified. “Those without a pair of turnouts need not apply for entry.”

“Ahhh,” said Matt, nodding, understanding now showing. “I guess that makes sense. Those guys get a lot of pussy then?”

“Probably not as much as you do,” Jim allowed, “but they don’t want for it much.”

Matt nodded. “Good for them. I’m in favor of everyone getting all the pussy they can—even dykes. What about you guys? Are there paramedic groupies?”

He shrugged. “We do okay with the night shift waitresses and the nurses in the convalescent homes. Not quite the same league as the hose bunnies, but when I need to get laid, I can.”

“That’s good to know,” Matt said seriously. “Anyway, are you up for the boat trip? If you’re not, I’ll set you up with the same deal as your partner there.”

Jim was torn. Four days in Vegas in a hotel suite did sound like a pretty damn good time, especially with free drinks, free food, and twenty grand in casino chips thrown in. But on the other hand ... cruising on a yacht with Matt Tisdale and his band ... well ... how often did an offer like that come around?

“Are you sure you really want me there, Matt?” Jim asked meekly. “I’m probably kind of ... you know ... square compared to the people you’re used to hanging out with. If you’re just making the offer to be polite...”

“I ain’t making the offer just to be polite,” Matt said. “I really want to thank you for saving my ass, and I really want you to have a good time. Come party with us, dude! Seriously. There’s gonna be good booze, good blow, good weed, premo fuckin’ chow, and some of the hottest, sluttiest, nastiest bitches I can scrounge up on short notice. Shit that’ll make those night shift waitresses of yours look like fucking prudish nuns in comparison.”

“Well ... I don’t do weed or blow,” he said carefully.

Matt simply shrugged. “More for the rest of us then,” he said. “I’d really like you to be there, Jim. And for more than one reason.”

“What’s the other reason?” Jim asked.

“You’re a paramedic,” he said. “We’re going to be out on the high fuckin’ seas for part of the time and in a fuckin’ third world country with shitty healthcare the rest of the time. If my heart starts doing that funky shit again, it would really be nice to have you there to help me out.”

Understanding flooded into Jim’s brain. Now things were starting to make sense. Unfortunately, Jim was afflicted with the curse of honesty. “Well ... to tell you the truth, Matt,” he explained, “there wouldn’t be much I could do if I’m off duty. If I don’t have my monitor and defibrillator with me, I can’t do anything about SVT.”

“I bought one of those Lifepak things you carry,” Matt told him. “It’s already on the boat. I also got my hands on twelve doses of Adenosine in case I go into SVT and you can stop it without having to light me up.”

“You ... you bought a Lifepak?” Jim asked, astounded.

“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said.

“Wow,” Jim said. “I didn’t know you could just buy one of those like a pack of cigarettes.”

“When you have enough coin, you can buy anything,” Matt assured him. “The fuckin’ thing cost me twelve grand, and the Adenosine was another grand, and then I had to buy some IV fluids and tubing and all that other shit to go with it, but I’m now equipped for you to deal with my heart if you need to.”

Jim was still shaking his head. “That’s all good and everything,” he said, “but I can’t just treat you out on your boat.”

“Why not?” Matt asked.

“Well ... even if I have the equipment, I’m only allowed to act as a paramedic when I’m on the clock. It’s a legal thing, you see. I act under a medical director’s license following written orders known as protocols. They don’t apply when I’m outside of Los Angeles County or off duty. And I’m not allowed to administer Adenosine at all. It’s not in the California scope of practice for medics.”

“But you know how to use the monitor to light me up, obviously, since you’ve done it.”

“Right,” Jim agreed, “but that was when I was on duty acting as...”

“And you know when and how to use the Adenosine, right?” Matt interrupted.

“Well ... yes,” he said. “It’s pretty straightforward. We’ve been arguing to put it in our scope for years, but...”

“So...” Matt interrupted again, “correct me if I’m wrong, but these rules and regulations about scope of practice only apply when you’re actually in the state of California or the nation of the USA, right?”

Jim’s eyes widened a little. “Uh ... yeah ... that’s right.”

Matt nodded. “So, once we leave Marina Del Rey tomorrow afternoon and make it more than twelve miles offshore, we’ll be in international waters. The rules won’t apply then, right?”

“Uh ... well...” He hesitated, his brain trying to find a hole in Matt’s theory and failing. “Right. I guess that’s true.”

“All right then,” Matt said with a smile. “So ... you my man, or what?”

“What about ... you know ... the drinking and the partying? Am I supposed to stay sober the whole trip just in case you go into SVT again?”

“I do not expect that of you,” Matt said. “Party as hard as you want, fuck anything that will let you fuck it back, just stay coherent enough to do what needs to be done if and when it needs to be done. Fair?”

Jim smiled back. “I guess I’m your man,” he said.

In the late afternoon of August 26^th, a chartered Gulfstream IV jet landed at North Bend Municipal Airport outside of Coos Bay after flying nonstop from Midway in Chicago. The single passenger was Greg Oldfellow, who had just finished his duties during principal photography of the film Us and Them and now had a two-week break before the start of postproduction in Los Angeles. Since Greg’s wife was currently mired in the duties of recording her third album at Blake Family Studios, and since he had not seen her in the flesh in several months, and since ground had finally been broken on the golf resort just south of Coos Bay that Greg was a primary investor in, his choice of destination was unsurprising.

Celia was done with her recording duties for the day and had been given the next day off—they were working primarily on distorted electric guitar and percussion overdubs at this point and did not really need her anyway—so she and her husband could have some alone time. She drove her Mercedes to the airport by herself and loaded Greg and his four bags into the trunk.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go by the house first?” Celia asked him as she climbed behind the wheel. “Everyone is looking forward to seeing you. And Jake is making burgers and French fries tonight.”

“I’m sure,” he said. “We’ll visit tomorrow night; take everyone out of dinner. For now, I just want to get to that hotel room and get reacquainted with you.”

Celia smiled warmly. “I’ll send them our regrets,” she said.

She drove directly to the Seaside Resort, the nicest hotel in the bay area, where she had reserved for them the Presidential Suite for the next week. They checked in, let the bellboy bring up their luggage, tipped him, and then they went directly to bed. They did not leave the room for the next nineteen hours.

It was a good reunion.

As promised, Greg took the entire houseful of musicians and the sound team out to dinner the following night. They met at The Dancing Pelican, one of the nicer Coos Bay establishments. Greg booked the entire upper floor of the dining room and spent the better part of the evening regaling Jake and Laura, Nerdly and Sharon, Pauline and Obie, Liz, Natalie, Coop, Charlie, and Celia with tales of Chicago and his portrayal of a hardened street cop there. No one asked about Mindy Snow and he volunteered no information about her.

Jake watched the two of them carefully as the evening went on. They seemed happy enough to be in each other’s company. He knew from his discussions with Celia—usually during their morning runs—that Greg had stopped talking so much about Mindy in the past three weeks and that Celia believed this was a good thing.

“There’s no way he did anything with her,” she had proclaimed firmly to Jake on several occasions. “He would not be able to talk so easily with me on the phone if he’d put his chorizo someplace it didn’t belong.”

“And they’ve already shot all the sex scenes?” he’d asked the last time the subject had come up.

“That’s right,” Celia replied. “They’ve all been shot. He said they were awkward as hell, even uncomfortable at times, but that everyone was professional about it.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said.

And he had given both Greg and Celia the benefit of the doubt, because there was really nothing else he could do, but he continued to wonder about it. Greg, after all, was an actor, and a pretty good one at that. Jake had experience in how a good actor could make you believe anything he or she wanted you to believe.

Looking at the couple now, however, that speculation mostly faded away. The two of them seemed genuinely happy to be in each other’s company. They looked and acted exactly as one would expect a couple in love to look and act when they were recently reunited after a long time apart.

“Everyone is off tomorrow, right?” Greg asked Jake as they sipped cognac while waiting for dessert to be served.

“That’s right,” Jake said. “We always take Sundays off on this round. Sometimes even Saturdays too.”

“How about you and I take a drive out to the site tomorrow then?” Greg asked him. “I’m anxious to see how the work is going.”

“Uh ... sure,” Jake said with a shrug. He turned to Laura, who was sitting next to him. “How about it, babe? Feel like seeing how Greg’s golf course is shaping up?”

“I can’t,” she said. “Nat and Liz and I are driving up to Newport tomorrow to check out that aquarium they have there, remember?”

“Oh ... yeah,” he said. He did vaguely remember her mentioning something about that.

“I was actually planning to go with them,” said Celia. “There are two lighthouses on the drive that I want to check out.” Celia, since she started spending time on Oregon’s coast, had developed an affinity for lighthouses, collecting pictures and statues of them, buying calendars that featured them, and, when she could find the time and inclination, touring them if such tours were available. She had already hit the ones south of Coos Bay and was ready to start working her way north. She looked at her husband. “Do you mind? I promise I’ll visit the site with you before you head back to LA.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Greg said with a shrug. “It can be a guy trip. We’ll have some beers, smoke some cigars, talk about hunting and fishing and women and how annoying they are.” He turned to Nerdly. “How about you, Bill? You up for a guy’s trip to a construction site?”

“Uh ... well ... as appealing as that sounds,” Bill said, “Sharon and I plan to take advantage of our day off to work on our own construction project—” He winked in a manner that could only be interpreted as lascivious— “If you know what I mean.”

“Ahhh,” said Greg, grinning. “I see. You’re planning to have another child already?”

“Another child?” Sharon asked, frowning. “Absolutely not. Kelvin is quite enough for us to handle currently.”

“That is correct,” Nerdly said. “Whatever in the world gave you the idea we were planning further reproduction of the species?”

“Uh ... well ... you said you had your own construction project to work on,” Greg said. “And then you winked. I kind of assumed that ... you know ... that was what you were talking about.”

Nerdly gave the nerd laugh for a moment and shook his head. “No,” he said. “I was speaking almost literally. Sharon and I are constructing our own website on the worldwide web.”

“A website?” asked Greg. He had heard of such things but was uncertain exactly what they were.

“That’s right,” Nerdly said. “NerdlyandSharon.com. It will be a site dedicated to our lives, our stories, and our theories about sound reproduction, audio engineering, and quantum physics.”

“Nerdly and Sharon dot com?” asked Jake.

“That is correct,” Sharon said. “We secured the domain name several months ago and have been working on construction of the site ever since.”

“And so ... you would rather work on your website than go visit a golf course being built?” asked Jake.

Nerdly looked at him as if he were an idiot. “I would think that would go without saying,” he said tersely.

And so, it came to pass that Jake and Greg climbed into Jake’s BMW for the thirty-minute drive to the huge, empty expanse of dunes that Greg and his investors had purchased just north of the town of Bandon. The drive was pleasant enough, a short trip down Highway 101 through forests of shore pine and cedar trees and along scenic cliffsides overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The weather was clear and pleasant, with the temperature in the low sixties and a mild ocean breeze blowing. The marine layer that could make it cold and foggy was sitting well offshore today.

The property itself was accessed by means of a recently paved two lane road that led west from the highway and into the rolling dunes that defined this part of the coast. The road ended abruptly in a large, circular staging area with a diameter of several hundred feet. A collection of tractors, bulldozers, dump trucks, and other heavy vehicles were parked near the road’s end. A doublewide mobile home on concrete stands stood near the far end and seemed to be the construction office. Approximately two dozen vehicles, most of them work trucks, were parked in front of the office. Leading off in various directions were several unpaved simple roadways that led further into the dunes and rolling hills. Off in the distance, other heavy equipment was operating, either digging, leveling, or hauling. The only human being visible was an unarmed guard in uniform who was sitting in a shade structure just beyond the roadway. He stood when Jake pulled in and stepped forward, putting himself in front of them and holding out a hand.

Jake stopped the car and the guard approached his window. He rolled it down and looked up at the late twenties male who was looking down at him. He saw the guard’s eyes widen in recognition as he took in the two visitors.

“Howdy,” Jake greeted.

“Mr. Kingsley ... Mr. Oldfellow,” the guard said. “I was told that you might be dropping by today.”

“You were told correctly,” Jake said lightly. “Can we park somewhere?”

“Of course,” he said. “Anywhere you can find a place over by the office.”

“Thanks,” Jake said.

“Of course,” the guard said. “It’s an honor to meet you both.”

“Yes, it is,” Greg agreed with a nod.

Jake rolled up the window and pulled forward, parking between an F-150 and a Dodge Ram. He and Greg got out of the car and Jake followed the actor up the short flight of rickety steps to the door of the office. Greg opened the door without knocking and they stepped inside a fairly large construction office. In the center of the room, sitting at chest height on a mahogany stand, was a four-foot square three-dimensional scale model of the project underway, including the buildings that would one day stand. Against the far wall was a bank of vending machines and a cafeteria style table. Four men in jeans and work vests were sitting at the table, eating sandwiches and drinking from bottles of Gatorade or water. They looked up at the two visitors entering and recognition flared in their eyes after a moment or two.

“Gentlemen,” Greg said, nodding at them.

“Uh ... hi,” the oldest of the men stammered. The others then muttered their own greetings.

Greg then led Jake over to the model. Without another word of acknowledgment to the workers in the room, he explained to Jake the layout of the course being built and the plans for the surrounding land.

“All in all,” Greg said, “we have enough land to build at least four separate courses. We hope to construct them sequentially, using the profits from the previous courses to finance the subsequent ones. For right now, however, we’re just concentrating on the first course and the main clubhouse. This is what we have in mind.” He waved at the model.

Jake took it in with genuine interest. He was one to appreciate a good golf course, and the model indicated it was going to be both a nice one and a tough one. It was set up in the links style, with no adjoining fairways. All of those fairways were narrow, most of them with doglegs, many of varying elevations, all influenced by the dunes or the ocean to some degree. It was plain to see that most of the holes would enjoy views of the Pacific. In addition to the ocean, three large lakes and four smaller ones, all connected by a winding creek, were scattered throughout and one form of water or the other (or even all three) would come into play on fourteen of the holes.

“I like it,” Jake said, nodding approvingly. “I assume it’s going to be private?”

“Not private,” Greg said, “just exclusive. We’re planning green fees in the upper two hundreds per round for the on-season, eighty dollars during the off-season. Caddies will be a hundred per round, plus gratuity, all year. That should serve to keep the local riff-raff hackers away. Our target clientele will be wealthy individuals who have the means to fly into your airport by private aviation and stay in one of the exclusive lodges or the five-star hotel that some of the other investment groups are planning just outside Bandon itself. And, of course, our primary goal is to attract PGA and LPGA tournaments several times per year. Those can bring in millions of dollars in revenue if they are planned and carried off correctly.”

“That sounds very lucrative,” Jake said with a nod.

“It will be,” Greg assured him. “We plan to be operating in the black within six years of the initial course opening. And, of course, my group also has a large, though not controlling interest in the hotels and lodging to support the project.”

“And you’ll get to golf for free, right?”

“Yes,” Greg assured him. “As one of the owners, I will get to golf for free. As will you if you choose to play with me.”

“What if you’re not here but I am and I want to play a round?” Jake asked with a smile. “Do I get to play for free then? You know ... since we’re buds and all?”

Greg scowled at him a little. “You can afford to pay the green fees in my absence, Jake,” he admonished.

“Well, of course I can,” Jake said, “but don’t I even get a discount? Say twenty percent off?”

“No, you do not get a discount!” Greg told him.

“What a rip,” Jake said, shaking his head sadly. He turned to the construction workers, who were all monitoring the conversation while pretending that they were not. “Can you believe this guy?” he asked them. “We’ve been friends and business partners for years. I sang a song I wrote at his wedding. He never would have even found this place if it weren’t for me dragging him and his wife here a few years back, and he won’t even cut me a twenty percent discount.”

“All right, all right!” Greg said, exasperated now. “Mention my name and you’ll get twenty percent off! Are you happy?”

“Naw,” Jake said dismissively. “I would never do anything like that. You know I’m not a name-dropper.”

“Then why were you going on about it?” Greg asked.

“I was just fucking with you.”

Greg shook his head and headed to the closed door on the other side of the room that read FOREMAN. Jake followed him over, still smiling.

The foreman was a beefy, balding man in his early fifties, tough as nails looking, with a strong, gravelly voice. He shook hands with the two of them, welcomed them to the site, and offered to give them a guided tour of the construction in progress.

“No, we’ll just wander around on our own, if that’s acceptable,” Greg said.

“Well ... I guess,” he said, plainly reluctant. “But you’ll need to stick to the travel areas and avoid actually going into the dunes. And stay away from the actual places where there is work in progress. And keep a sharp eye out for heavy equipment on the travel areas.”

“Of course,” Greg said.

“And you’ll need to put these on,” the foreman said, holding up two construction helmets and two orange vests.

“Why do we have to wear helmets and vests?” Greg asked.

“It’s a construction zone, Mr. Oldfellow,” he replied. “O-OSHA requires it.”

“But...”

“It’s okay,” Jake interrupted, taking the helmet and the vest. “I’ve always wanted to wear one of these.”

“Really?” Greg asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Hell to the yeah,” Jake said. “Didn’t you ever want to be a heavy equipment operator when you were a kid and watching them work a construction site? Didn’t you ever dream of being the guy who drives the tractor or runs the excavator?”

“No,” Greg said sternly. “I never wished to do that at all.”

“Not even when you were like twelve years old?” Jake asked.

“No,” Greg insisted. “I have always known I was going to be an actor. I have never wished to do anything else.”

Jake pondered that for a moment and then nodded. “That explains a lot about you,” he said, putting the helmet on his head, liking the way it felt there.

They spent the better part of two hours out on the site, walking around down the access roads that led in between the dunes, and then, despite the admonishment by the foreman, climbing over the dunes themselves until they were standing on the beach where the sixth and seventh holes would one day be. Greg viewed the trek as something akin to a religious pilgrimage, pointing out various hills, valleys, and channels and explaining how the construction crews were going to level or enhance them into the vision put forth by Norman Clark, the man who had designed the course.

“He’s a good golf course architect then?” Jake asked.

“He’s one of the best,” Greg said.

“No shit? What other courses has he done?”

“Well ... this is actually the first project that he designed himself,” Greg said.

“Really? Then how do you know he’s one of the best?”

“Because he’s from Scotland,” Greg said, as if that explained everything. And to Greg, it did.

“I see,” Jake said with a shrug.

By the time they got back to the office to drop off the helmets and the vests, they were both perspiring and thirsty.

“Let’s go get some beer,” Jake suggested as they climbed back in the BMW. “Is there a good place around here for that?”

“I’ve never actually patronized a business in the town,” Greg admitted. “There are some tourist-oriented bars along the highway though.”

“Let’s go check it out,” Jake said. “I’ll buy since you were nice enough to offer me that twenty percent discount at your course.”

“Deal,” Greg said.

They found a waterfront bar and grill called, appropriately enough, The Edgewater, that sat along the mouth of the Coquille River near the town of Bandon’s marina. Since it was still before noon—just barely—the bar was lightly populated as they entered, and they managed to find themselves a seat on the deck overlooking the river and the marina without any of the customers recognizing them. The waitress who came to take their orders, however, immediately became star-struck and tongue-tied when she saw who was occupying her table.

“Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod!” she gushed. She was a mid-twenties bleach blonde, not exactly unpleasant to look at. Her body was well proportioned and her face pretty. “Jake Kingsley and Greg Oldfellow at my table! It’s really you!” She hesitated a moment. “Uh ... isn’t it?”

“Well,” Jake said lightly, “I’m really me,” He nodded toward Greg. “And he’s really him. The question is, are you really you?”

“Huh?” she asked, confused.

“Never mind,” Jake said. “We’re looking to score a couple of beers, hon. What do you got on tap?”

“Beer?” she asked, as if she had never heard of such a thing.

“Beer,” Jake confirmed. “You know? Fermented barley and hops?”

“Oh ... right!” she said, giggling nervously. “Beer. Yes, we have Coors, Coors Light, Budweiser, Bud Light, and Heineken on tap.”

“Hmmph,” Jake grunted, unenthused by the selection. “I guess I’ll have to go with the Heineken if that’s all you got.”

“Me as well,” said Greg with a shrug. He was not much of a beer drinker, as he considered it ‘common’ and did not really know one brew from another.

The waitress seemed to be getting herself under some sort of control. “We do have a local microbrew available,” she said, “but it’s only in a bottle.”

“A microbrew?” Jake asked. “What’s that?”

“It’s beer,” she said, “but it’s brewed locally, at a small brewery in Coos Bay that’s owned by a couple of brothers.”

“Brothers?” Jake asked. “You mean black guys, or literal brothers?”

“Uh ... literal brothers,” she said slowly. “There aren’t really many black people in Coos Bay.”

“I see,” Jake said. “Anyway, they make their own beer there? And sell it to you?”

“That’s right,” she said. “They only make a few thousand cases a year and sell it here in the bay area, either to the local bars and restaurants or to the people who drive out to their business. It’s a little pricey, naturally, but it is really good beer.”

“No kidding?” Jake said, becoming intrigued, but still a little dubious about trying a beer that ‘two brothers’ just whipped together in some basement somewhere.

“The alcohol content is quite a bit higher than in commercially produced beer,” the waitress said. “I should warn you about that if you’re driving.”

“How much higher?” Jake asked.

“It’s around seven and a half percent,” she said. “Budweiser and Coors are both around five percent.”

“You talked me into it,” Jake said. “I’ll have one.”

“Very good,” she said. “And you ... Mr. Oldfellow?”

“Sure, I’ll try one as well,” he said casually. “I trust you’ll bring me a glass to drink it out of?”

“Of course,” she said. “Two Lighthouse Ales, coming up.” She disappeared back into the building.

“Do you think she is going to tell everyone inside that we are out here?” Greg asked tiredly.

“Undoubtedly,” Jake said.

“Wonderful. We’ll be mobbed inside of a minute.”

“Perhaps,” Jake said with a shrug. “The life we choose, right?”

“I suppose.”

They did not get mobbed, however. The deck remained empty except for them. A few minutes later, the bleach blonde waitress returned with two frosty beer glasses and two bottles of ice-cold beer. Jake had been expecting home-style bottles with the little flip tops sealing them and a handwritten label, but the bottles were perfectly normal looking, with a professional label that primarily featured a picture of what Jake recognized as the Cape Arago lighthouse just outside of Coos Bay. He and Laura and Celia had, in fact, toured that very lighthouse only a month before.

“Here you go, gentlemen,” the waitress said with a smile as she set the bottles and the glasses down before them. She pulled a bottle opener from her apron and removed the caps from their bottles.

“Not twist-offs, huh?” Jake asked.

“No,” she said. “The Ravens—they’re the brothers who own Lighthouse brewery—use only pry-caps for their beer.”

“Now that’s class,” Greg said with a roll of the eyes.

“I know, right?” the waitress said, failing to pick up his sarcasm.

Jake chuckled a little. “I’m ready to give this hooch a try.” He picked up his bottle and began to pour, tilting the glass and the bottle to avoid producing too much of a head.

“Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” the waitress asked. “Do you want to see the food menu?”

“No, thank you,” Greg said. “We’re just going to have a beer or two and then head back to where we came from.”

“Okay,” she said, seemingly a little disappointed.

“There will, however,” Greg added, “be a considerable gratuity for you if you can see to it that we are undisturbed and unmolested by other patrons of the establishment for the duration of our patronage.”

“Huh?” she asked. That had sailed right over her head without even ruffling a hair.

“We’ll give you a big-ass tip if you keep the other customers away from us,” Jake translated.

“Oh,” she said brightly. “Of course, Mr. Kingsley! Enjoy the beer.”

“Hopefully,” Jake said as she retreated back inside.

Jake finished his pour and then set the glass back on the table. He then examined the beer bottle for a moment, reading the label. Sure enough, it said the brew had come from Lighthouse Brewing in Coos Bay, Oregon, established 1993. Jake wondered where the brewery actually was. Coos Bay was not a large town and he thought he had explored all of it, but he had never noticed a brewery before. In his mind, however, a brewery was a large, factory-sized building with large smokestacks and perhaps some railroad tracks and a warehouse nearby. That was what the Anheuser-Busch brewery in the San Francisco bay area looked like.

He set the bottle back down and then picked up the beer glass. The beer inside of it was a rich amber color, considerably darker than Bud or Coors or any regular beer. He sniffed it. The aroma was rich and pleasantly fragrant. A good sign. He put the glass to his lips and took a sip. The taste was incredible. It was, without a doubt, the best beer he had ever sampled.

“Oh my god,” he said, incredulous.

“That bad, huh?” Greg said sourly.

“No,” Jake said. “It’s great! Incredible even. This tastes like beer!”

“Beer that tastes like beer,” Greg said, starting his own pour now. “Who would have thought?”

“No,” Jake said, “you don’t understand. I mean it tastes like beer! Like beer is supposed to taste! This stuff is to beer what Jamaican Blue Mountain is to coffee!”

This was an analogy that Greg understood. Like Jake, he was a coffee snob and only drank the best. “Really?” he said, showing interest now.

“Try it,” Jake suggested. He then took a bigger drink, savoring every caress of his taste buds.

Greg tried it. He did seem to appreciate the flavor, but not quite on the same level as Jake. “It’s not terrible,” he said with a shrug. “A lot better than that swill you usually serve when the male bonding ritual requires beer.”

Jake laughed. “That’s why I stay friends with you, Greg,” he told him. “You’re such a pretentious snob, but you manage to pull it off in a manner that’s almost endearing.”

“Thank you,” Greg said stiffly. “ ... I think.”

They male bonded and drank their beers, talking of the golf course project and the progress being made on the two albums being recording. Greg was particularly interested in the projected numbers for the MD&P negotiations that would follow the completion of the mixing and mastering process.

“Jill and Paulie think we’ll be able to secure twenty-five percent from Aristocrat on this round,” Jake informed him. “And Celia told you about the ticket prices on the upcoming tour?”

“She did,” Greg said, nodding. “That should be quite profitable. It’s a shame we’ll be apart so long again, however.”

“Yeah,” Jake said. “I think this last separation was a little hard on her.”

“It was,” Greg agreed. “But I do not think the primary reason was the separation itself.”

“No?”

“No,” Greg said. “I think you know what I’m referring to.”

“Mindy Snow?”

“Mindy Snow,” he confirmed. “Celia was not happy that I was working with her. Not a single bit.”

“Yeah,” Jake said, having another slug of his beer. “She did mention her disconcert with your costar on a few occasions. Especially when...” He stopped and shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What were you going to say?” Greg asked.

“Nothing. It’s not important. This beer just has a little more bang for the buck than I’m used to.”

“It does seem to be rather strong,” Greg agreed. “Even so, you cannot start a point with ‘especially when’ and then not follow through.”

“I can’t?”

“You cannot,” Greg insisted. “What were you going to say?”

Jake sighed and took another drink. “Well ... I was just going to say that Celia did not particularly enjoy it when you would mention to her how fabulously you and Mindy were getting along during the shoot; about how much chemistry you were sharing; about how you were ‘clicking’ together as a team. I mean, seriously, Greg. You’ve been married a lot longer than me and even I know you don’t tell your wife shit like that.”

“It was the truth,” he said.

“The truth,” Jake scoffed, shaking his head. “Amateur.”

“I am not!” Greg protested. “You’re saying I should have lied to Celia and told her that I hated working with Mindy?”

“You should have implied it,” Jake suggested. “And you definitely shouldn’t have gone on and on about how much fun you were having with her. Dude, seriously, we’re talking about women here! They’re not rational about that kind of shit!”

Greg thought it over for a moment, took a few more drinks of his own beer, and then slowly nodded. “All right,” he said. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Well, live and learn,” Jake said. “It’s over now, right?”

“Well, I’m still going to be in considerable contact with Mindy through postproduction and promotion.”

“But you’re all done getting naked with her, right?” Jake asked.

“Yes,” Greg said. “The sex scenes have all been shot and edited. There will be no need to revisit that particular part of production.”

“That’s good,” Jake said. “And you did manage to do the right thing and imply that you were uncomfortable filming those scenes. You get a point on your husband card for that, at least.”

“I was uncomfortable filming those scenes,” Greg insisted. “It was very awkward.”

“I bet,” Jake said. “Getting naked and rubbing against Mindy Snow is awkward indeed, isn’t it?”

“Well...”

“Don’t bullshit me, Greg,” Jake said, lowering his voice to a whisper. “She has a fantastic body, and she is sexy as hell. Don’t even try to tell me you didn’t enjoy that shit.”

“Well ... okay. I won’t try to say I didn’t enjoy it, but ... that’s what was awkward about it.”

“That you enjoyed it?”

“No,” he said. “That ... well ... that she went out of her way to make it enjoyable.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “Really,” he said. “Up until we started putting together the sex scenes, she was very professional with me, just like I said. We really did have a chemistry together and we really did click on that level. I enjoyed working with her.”

“Uh huh,” Jake said.

“But once the sex scenes started ... something changed in her.”

“What did she do?” Jake asked.

“She started ... rubbing herself against me during the filming, started trying to turn me on. It was always subtle. Nothing that anyone would notice or comment on, but it was there. When we were up against each other, she would ... squirm a little, making sure I could feel her against me. She would ... you know ... grind herself against me ... against my ... you know?”

“Your dick?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “My dick. She would try to give me an erection whenever she could, and she generally succeeded. And then she suggested during one part of the main scene ... while we were naked against each other except for the crotch coverings that don’t show on camera ... that we actually tongue kiss to make it more realistic looking, more passionate. Fletch—he’s the director—agreed with her.”

“So, you did it?” Jake asked.

“We did it,” he said with a sigh. “And then she kept screwing up the take while we were doing it—deliberately I’m sure—so we had to keep French kissing each other over and over again while we were pretty much naked against each other.”

“Now that sounds like Mindy,” Jake said. “She can be an incredible tease.”

“It was actually quite maddening at times,” Greg said. “I would get back to my hotel and have to ... you know...”

“Whip your weasel?” Jake suggested.

“Uh ... yes,” Greg said, blushing now. “She would have me feeling like a teenager who had just made out in the back of a car every time I got back to my room.”

Jake nodded sympathetically. He remembered his first few dates with Mindy back in the day. That was pretty much how he had come home from all of them. “But you never did her, right?”

“I never touched her outside of the sound stage,” Greg said. “It was tempting, but I never did it.”

Jake believed him. “Did she offer?” he asked.

“Never blatantly,” Greg said. “But the implied offer was there from the first night of filming those scenes. It was so obvious that it might as well have been written in neon fifty feet high on top of the hotel. Her suite was right next to mine. I knew that all I had to do if I wanted to have her was to walk to her door and knock on it. I knew that, Jake.”

“But you resisted,” Jake said. It was not a question.

“I resisted,” he said. “It was very close a few times, but I always stayed in my room once I got there.”

“Good for you,” Jake said, feeling mixed emotions. Greg, after all, seemed to have a little more willpower than his wife and Jake himself.

“I only hope that Celia knows that I stayed faithful to her,” Greg said. “After that stupidity I did in Alaska, I know that trust is an issue.”

“She knows,” Jake said.

“How can I be sure about that?” he asked. “I mean, she seems normal to me, and she was happy to see me, and very ... you know ... enthusiastic the other night, but...”

“She knows, Greg,” Jake insisted. “She talks to me about this stuff a lot.”

“She does?” he asked, seemingly surprised by this revelation.

“She does,” he said. “And she told me before you even got here. She knows you were faithful. She says there would be no way you could talk so casually to her on the phone if you were banging Mindy Snow or anyone else. You have too much of a guilty conscience.”

Greg seemed astounded by this suggestion. “She said that?”

“She did,” Jake assured him. “You did well, Greg. You went up against Mindy Snow and walked away with your sanity and relationship intact. Not many people can say that.”

“Yeah,” Greg said, considering. “I guess I did.”

The waitress came back out, effectively ending the topic. She asked if they wanted another round.

“Hell yes,” Jake assured her. “Two more.”

“Two more coming up,” she said. “I guess you enjoyed it?”

“The best beer I have ever had,” Jake said. “Tell me something, hon. Where exactly is this brewery?”

“Are you familiar with the bay area?” she asked.

“Very,” he assured her. “But I’ve never seen this brewery before.”

“It’s on Alamontro, just past the bridge, before you get to the wharf building and that place they do the helicopter rides.”

Jake knew exactly where she was talking about. It was on the route he took to drive to the airport from the house. But he had certainly never noticed a brewery there before. “Over by the Shell station?” he asked, trying to pin it down a little closer.

“It’s behind the gas station,” she said. “Right next to the fish market.”

“No shit?” he asked, shaking his head. He had bought fish in that fish market many times.

“No shit,” she said. “It’s kind of a small building, just a shack, really. Not much in the way of signs out front.”

“And they sell the beer in bulk in there?”

“By the twelve pack or the case,” she assured him.

“Interesting,” he said. “And what time do they close?”

Two days later, at ten o’clock in the morning, Jake loaded three cases of Lighthouse Ale into the trunk of his BMW along with his Les Paul, his Fender Grand Concert, and a large suitcase full of belongings. It was Tuesday, and all of Jake’s overdub duties had been completed. There was no real need for him to be back in the studio until they started the mixing process in a week or so. And, since Bigg G and his band were finishing up their tour rehearsal in preparation for the upcoming release of the new CD, and since Jake had plans to join G and his boys for selected portions of that tour, it was a perfect opportunity for him to join up with them and rehearse his portion.

“You got everything?” asked Laura, who was going to the airport with him, but only so she could drive the car back to the Coos Bay house after he left. She still had overdubs she needed to do and could not be spared, but even if she could, the trip might have been a little awkward for her.

“I got it,” he said, slamming down the trunk lid. “And if I don’t, I’m rich enough to buy it.”

“Uh huh,” she said, giving him a knowing wifely look. “Do you have the keys to the house?”

He blanched a little. “Oh ... actually, I didn’t grab those,” he said. “Hang on.” He turned to go back inside, feeling a little embarrassment. It wasn’t the first time he had come home from Oregon without the house keys, after all.

Laura smiled sweetly at him. “Way ahead of you, sweetie,” she said, holding up the set of keys.

He smiled and reached to take them from her. She pulled them out of reach. “It’ll cost you a kiss,” she said.

“I gave you one hell of a kiss this morning after you showered,” he reminded her.

“Not that kind of a kiss,” she said. She pointed to her lips—the ones below her nose. “Up here this time.”

“Right,” he said. He gave her the kiss, letting it linger for a few moments, and then she gave him the keys.

“Anything else you need?” she asked.

“Anything else I really can buy,” he said. “Let’s hit it.”

They climbed into the car, Jake behind the wheel, and started the ten-minute drive to North Bend Municipal Airport, where Jake’s plane had just finished a maintenance cycle. It would have been quicker to fly back home private, but he had not been behind the controls in a while and was looking forward to taking to the sky.

“You’ll give Neesh my regrets that I couldn’t be there?” Laura asked softly.

“I will,” he agreed.

“Thanks,” she said. “And ... you’re not going to say anything to G about ... you know?”

He knew, or at least he thought he did. Laura had finally confessed the whole story to him about what had actually happened the day of Gordon and Neesh’s wedding. Neesh was bisexual as well as Tally, her best friend and maid of honor. And the two of them had apparently been carrying on a sexual affair with each other since they were teenagers (a thought which was more than a little hot when pondered). On the night of the wedding rehearsal, the two of them had confessed this relationship to Laura while they were drunk and Laura had, in turn, confessed her dalliances with the bartender and the groupies in South America. That had been what had led to Tally’s offer to service Laura on the day of the wedding in Neesh’s hotel room. But that had not been the whole story.

“So ... Neesh was there when Tally ate you out?” Jake had asked the night she told him this—by this point in the story, he had been sporting a respectable hard-on.

“Not at first,” Laura said. “You see ... uh ... Neesh had to go get cleaned up a little because ... uh ... Tally had ... had just done that to Neesh.”

Jake’s erection took a bit of a lurch at that point. “She ate Neesh out ... in front of you?”

“Yeah,” Laura said, her eyes shining at the memory. “While she was in her wedding dress.”

“Jesus, hon,” Jake whispered, in awe. “That’s hot.”

“I held Neesh’s hands for her while Tally did it,” she said. “You know ... so Neesh wouldn’t mess up Tally’s wedding hair when she ... you know ... came.”

“But you and Neesh didn’t ... you know...”

“No,” Laura assured him. “Neesh and I only touched hands in that hotel room. I ... I smelled her though.”

Another lurch down below. “She smelled good?”

“She smelled amazing,” Laura said. “Anyway, once Tally made her come, and Neesh went to clean herself up before the ceremony, that was when Tally offered to do me as well.”

“And that was when you called me to talk about it?”

“That’s right.”

“But ... Neesh didn’t stay out of the room the whole time?”

Laura shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “She came back just when Tally was really getting me worked up.”

“And she watched?”

Another nod. “She watched. And ... I have to tell you, Jake, it was really hot having her watch. I mean ... the whole thing was hot, but that was particularly hot. That was what finally pushed me over the edge.”

“Wow,” Jake said.

Less than a minute later, his pants had been shucked and he was buried inside of his wife. It had been some of the best sex they had ever had.

And her dishonesty toward him had been forgiven. After all, it had been understandable. She had not wanted him to know that his close friend’s new wife was a bisexual who had been carrying on a long-term affair with another woman, including on the very day of the wedding.

“Don’t worry,” Jake said now, as they drove through Coos Bay. “I won’t say a word to either of them.”

“I appreciate that,” Laura said, relief in her voice. “I know it’s a hell of a thing to keep secret, and I feel a little bad for G, but ... when you come down to it, it’s not our place to let G know about this. It’s Neesh’s.”

“I agree,” he said, patting her leg affectionately. “Still, it is going to feel a little awkward.”

“I can imagine,” he said.

They said no more about it for the rest of the drive.

Once at the airport, they loaded everything into Jake’s airplane and secured it. His plan was to fly to Oceano, spend the night at home, and then fly on to LA in the morning for the first rehearsal.

“I’d better get my flight plan put together and then get some fuel in this beast,” he told Laura.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll head on back then.”

He walked her to the car and they embraced warmly.

“Fly safe, Jake,” she told him. “And call me when you land.”

“Will do,” he assured her.

They kissed deeply and held each other tightly for a few moments before breaking apart and going their separate ways. Laura headed back to the house on the cliff. Jake prepared his plane to fly to another house on another cliff.