Snowblind

Chapter 15: In the Flesh

Los Angeles, California

September 16, 1995

Jake’s plane touched down at Whiteman airport just past one o’clock in the afternoon after the short flight from Oceano Airport. He and Laura had flown home yesterday afternoon but now Jake had a two-thirty appointment at the Aristocrat Records Office in Hollywood, and, after that, he needed to report to the Forum in Inglewood by five o’clock for a sound check. Tonight was the opening night of Bigg G’s national tour and Jake was going to be a special guest of the show; a special guest who would also perform at the shows in Portland and Seattle the following week, thus setting the precedent that he might show up at any further shows.

Jake parked his aircraft in one of the transient spots in front of the office and shut down the engines. He and Laura got out and, after removing the two cased guitars and Laura’s suitcase from the cargo compartment, the two of them secured the plane to the tie downs and locked it up. They then made the short walk to the hangar buildings to retrieve Jake’s Ford pickup, which was parked inside, patiently awaiting his return to the hated LA region.

Jake kept the truck’s battery on a trickle charger when he was away from it for long periods of time—as he had been while he and Celia and the others had been working on their new CDs in Oregon these last three months—so it fired up immediately when he turned the key. He pulled it out of the hangar and, once Laura closed the roll-up door behind him and locked it, she hopped in and they made the short drive to their second home in Granada Hills, where they stayed on those rare occasions they had to spend the night in LA.

The Granada Hills house did not really feel like home, not like their Oceano cliffside house did; not even like the Coos Bay house they stayed in while recording. Still, it was comfortable enough, and fully furnished with brand new everything, and clean, with a maid service and a landscaping service coming in at regular intervals to keep it that way. The refrigerator was stocked with beer and soda and non-perishable food, and the bar was stocked with wine and liquor and ice.

Since he had a meeting to attend, and since he had a live performance to give after that—something he had been looking forward to for weeks—Jake grabbed a can of root beer instead of barley beer. Laura, who had no such concerns, opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured herself a healthy glassful. She then pulled a little baggie and a pipe out of her purse and began setting herself up a nice hit.

“Celebrate a little, why don’t you?” Jake said lightly, partly amused with his wife, partly jealous.

“I think I will,” she returned, flashing him a smile. “We’ve been going full-steam ahead on the CDs for the past two weeks. I’m going to enjoy my time away from the studio.”

Jake could have pointed out that, although she came to the studio with them most days, she wasn’t really doing much there. They were done with all of the actual recording, done with most of the mixing, and were working primarily on the mastering now. Though Laura’s trained musical ear did come in handy on occasion when a difference of opinion between Jake, Celia, and the Nerdlys needed a little extra input, and, she was, subsequently, starting to learn about the mixing and mastering process, it was not like she was a vital part of the operation. Jake had, however, learned discretion was the better part of valor and kept one firmly traveling down the road of marital harmony and continued sexual bliss since he had put his name on that little piece of paper, so he said nothing. And Laura would be fully immersed into blowing her horn again soon enough. As soon as they had masters in hand—hopefully in the next two or three weeks—it would be time to start putting together Celia’s tour. Laura had already agreed (without discussing it with Jake beforehand, and somewhat to Jake’s chagrin) to be Celia’s tour saxophonist on the North American legs.

Jake sipped from his root beer and then went into the living room and sat on the couch. On the end table was a cordless phone sitting in its charging socket. Next to this was a leather-bound address/phone book. Jake had still not made the leap to owning a cellular phone yet, though Gordon Paladay had. Jake picked up the phone and set it in his lap. He then opened up the phone book to the Gs and found G’s cell phone number hand written below his personal home number and his assistant’s number. He dialed it, listened for a moment as the Los Angeles region’s communication system thought the request over, and then, finally, a ringing sound began to issue in his ear.

It only rang three times before there was a click and G’s voice was there. “Jake!” G said happily. “My man!”

“How did you know it was me?” Jake asked.

“This phone of mine got that caller ID shit on it,” G told him. “Once I put in your number and assign a name to it, it tells me on the screen when you’re calling me. Lets me know who the fuck is there so I can decide whether or not to answer.”

Jake knew they had caller ID for landlines (if you paid for the service, which he did), but he had not known the technology extended to cellular phones. “That’s cool,” he said, honestly enough. “And you don’t even sound like shit like most cell phone calls. I guess the technology is improving?”

“Fuckin’ A,” G said. “Nerdly told me recently that in another ten or fifteen years, most people won’t even have a landline anymore. They’ll just use their cellphones.”

“Now that’s quite a stretch,” Jake said dubiously. Though he usually had faith in Nerdly’s technological predictions—especially since the appearance of free pornography on the internet, as prophesized—this one seemed quite unlikely. Why would someone give up their landline when cell phone conservations cost twenty-five to thirty cents per minute? And what about long distance? How would that work?

“I’ll put my money on Nerdly any day of the week,” Gordon said. “And I have, as a matter of fact. I got my broker investing a good chunk of my money in the cell phone industry. So far, it’s working out for me.”

“Hmm,” Jake said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll talk to Jill about all of this. Anyway, I’m in town. Laura and I just got in to the Granada Hills house.”

“I know,” Gordon said. “I have this number listed as ‘Jake’s Granada Hills crib’ in my phone. Tell me something I don’t know, motherfucker.”

Jake laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “I came in early today because the suits over at Aristocrat want to talk to me about something. I’m supposed to meet them at two-thirty in Hollywood.”

“Just you?” Gordon asked.

“Just me,” he confirmed.

“What about?” G wanted to know. “You’re still working on your masters, right?”

“That’s right,” Jake said. “And they didn’t say what it was about. Just: ‘since you’re in town for Bigg G’s shows anyway, how about you pop in and have a word with us?’ Apparently, it’s about something ‘mutually beneficial’.”

“Of course it is,” G said, chuckling. “Think they’re just trying to get a head start on the MD&P contracts for the next CDs?”

“Maybe,” Jake said with a shrug. “But they know we always have Celia and Greg and Pauline on hand when we’re meeting about that.”

“They might be trying the old divide and conquer routine,” Gordon suggested.

“My, but we’re cynical about their motives,” Jake said. “Did it ever occur to you that they might just be checking in with one of their most lucrative clients and that they might have some innocent topic to discuss with me that does not involve sticking an unlubed member up my proverbial ass?”

“No,” G said simply. “That never occurred to me.”

“Yeah,” Jake said with a sigh. “Me either. Anyway, I guess I’ll find out what’s it’s all about at two-thirty. And we have the soundcheck at five, right?”

“Right,” G said. “We’re on our way to the Tower of Power in Compton right now. After that, I have an interview at KSOL. We’ll roll into the Forum just before five.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said. “I’ll see you there.”

“Looking forward to it, brother,” G said. “We’re gonna turn some fuckin’ heads tonight.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Jake agreed.

The meeting took place on the top floor of the Sunset Vine Tower in Hollywood; the nineteen-floor building where Aristocrat Records kept their offices. Miles Crawford, head of the A&R department, was the only person present. He wore his typical custom-tailored Italian suit while Jake wore a pair of tattered blue jeans and a rapidly fading shirt from the Lighthouse Brewery in Coos Bay. They shook hands as if they were friends and Crawford made the obligatory offer of a drink or perhaps a line of cocaine, which Jake obligatorily declined.

“Okay, Miles,” Jake told the suit. “The ritual of the preliminaries has been performed. Now, tell me what this is all about.”

“Okay, right to the point,” Miles said as he sported his best used-car salesman smile. “I like that about you Jake. You keep the bullshit to a minimum.”

“Just trying to set an example,” Jake said. “So ... what’s the deal?”

“The deal is that I ... that is we at Aristocrat, think it’s about time we start talking about a Jake Kingsley tour once the new CD hits the shelves.”

“A Jake Kingsley tour?” Jake said, surprised; and more than a little suspicious. “Are you suggesting that KVA finance such a tour? Because we’ve told you before, we are not prepared to undertake an obligation like that. True, we could afford it now, especially after all the Brainwash income, but we don’t think it would increase sales of my CD enough to justify the expense.”

“We at Aristocrat are fully prepared to finance such a tour,” Crawford said generously. “It would be under the same terms we use for Celia’s tour contract; with the same distribution of profits.”

“Really?” Jake asked, his eyebrows spiking up a bit, correlating with his suspicion level. “And why would you offer such a thing, Miles? We haven’t even presented the masters for the next CDs to you yet. We haven’t even started to negotiate the terms of the next MD&P contract. Why are we talking tour when it’s not even a given that you’ll be promoting my next CD?”

“We have faith that KVA will sign with us for the upcoming projects,” he said. “You have finally made your point to us that you know what you’re doing. The Brainwash project has been extremely profitable for our stockholders and is proof positive that you have an uncanny, almost supernatural ability to correctly predict musical success. We are very eager to keep up our relationship with KVA and I have been assured that we will not allow ourselves to be outbid when the time comes to award a new MD&P contract to KVA.”

“So ... this is about Brainwash then?” Jake suggested knowingly. “You’re trying to kiss my ass a little so we’ll be sure to involve you in their next CD?”

“That is not what this is about,” Crawford assured him. “Although now that you bring it up, when do you plan to have those fine musicians report back to the studio for the next round?”

“Probably not until next summer at least,” Jake said. “Their debut album is still charting quite nicely, as I’m sure you’re aware. And their latest single release is still climbing the Top Forty. You know as well as I do that it would behoove no one to have their current CD competing with their next CD.”

“We do know that, of course,” Miles said. “But it never hurts to start working on the next release anyway. You can always hold it in reserve until the time is right.”

“Why, thank you for the advice,” Jake said sarcastically. “If it’s all the same to you, however, we’ll make our own decisions about when Brainwash starts working on round two.” He gave him a steely look. “Are you sure that this meeting isn’t about Brainwash now?”

“Quite,” he said. “This meeting is about a Jake Kingsley North American tour, as I informed you. We want this to happen, Jake.”

“And you’re prepared to finance such a tour?” Jake asked. “Assuming we do, in fact, sign with Aristocrat for MD&P.”

“That is correct.”

“Why?” Jake asked.

“Because we believe in you, Jake,” he said warmly. “We know you like touring and that you’re eager to get back out on the road to promote your music and let it be heard by the people. And the people want to hear your music. We genuinely wish to help you and the people achieve that noble goal.”

Jake was unmoved by this speech. “Uh huh,” he said. “I feel like I’m about eyeballs deep in the bullshit here, Crawford. What’s the real reason?”

Crawford sighed. “Profit, of course,” he said. “This new custom of charging market value for concert tickets has resulted in an unexpected, though very welcome surge in profits for our industry. Sending Jake Kingsley out on tour and charging the new industry standard rates for reserved seating would bring in an estimated three million dollars for each leg of such a tour. That is why we are suggesting this. And, of course, that profit will be split fifty-fifty, just like with Celia. And we will pay all promotional costs and arrange all of the logistics of the endeavor.”

The idea was growing on Jake. But something still did not smell quite right here. “You think people will pay triple digit prices for Jake Kingsley tickets?” he asked. “The same prices they pay for Celia Valdez tickets? For U2 tickets? For Eagles tickets?”

“Perhaps even more,” Crawford said. “The numbers I’m hearing tossed around are ninety dollars for the rear bleacher seats, one hundred and fifty for the lower level side bleachers, and up to two hundred and fifty for the stagefront seats forward of the sound board.”

Jake scowled a little as he heard this. “No way in hell,” he said. “Nobody is going to pay that to see me get up on stage and perform my solo tunes. The only way they would pay that much would be if I were...” The scowl turned to a glare as realization struck him. Of course! Now he knew what the game was! “ ... if I were doing Intemperance material.”

“Exactly!” Crawford said, delighted that he and Jake were on the same page now. “We’re figuring on a set that contains at least two-thirds Intemperance material. Now, we understand that you’ll probably want to sing primarily your own compositions, and we’re okay with that. The fans will still pay the price.”

“No,” Jake said simply.

“But they will!” Crawford insisted. “And if you’re worried about the rights for those tunes, you don’t have to be. We’ve already talked to the executives at National Records, who owns those rights, and they’re willing to play ball on this. They’re asking for twenty-five percent royalties on ticket revenue and ten percent on merchandising profits.”

“No!” Jake said, more firmly this time.

“You don’t understand, Jake,” he said. “I’ve been authorized to tell you that we will pay National’s cut out of our half of the profits! Your entire revenue stream will stay intact. You can’t beat a deal like that.”

“I’m not planning to try,” Jake told him. “I will not perform Intemperance material in concert. Not a single lyric of it. Not a single note.”

“That’s an absurd stance to take, Jake!” Crawford cried, seemingly near tears. “You wrote those songs! They’re a part of you! And the people want to see them performed by you! They will be willing to pay top dollar to see that! You have to give the people what they want, Jake! You simply have to!”

“No,” he said mildly. “I really don’t. And I really won’t.”

“But why?” Crawford cried.

“I don’t really think you would understand, Crawford,” Jake told him.

“Try me.”

Jake sighed. “Those are Intemperance tunes, not Jake Kingsley tunes. Yeah, I wrote the lyrics to my tunes we did, and I composed the basic melodies, but I was not singular in making those tunes what they are. Matt Tisdale came up with the riffs that were born from my basic melodies and Matt Tisdale came up with the solos in those songs. And Matt and Nerdly and I all worked collectively on the engineering of those tunes. They belong to Intemperance. They are Intemperance tunes. I will not perform them as a solo artist.”

“Are you saying you are incapable of performing those tunes without Tisdale?” Crawford asked.

“Not incapable, just unwilling. It wouldn’t be right.”

Not it was Crawford who sighed. “You’re right, Jake,” he said.

“So ... you understand where I’m coming from?” Jake asked.

“No. I mean you were right when you said that I would not understand. I don’t. I just know that you want to throw away millions of dollars in potential profit.”

Jake shrugged, and then quoted Popeye. “I am what I am. Now then, was there anything else you needed to talk to me about?”

“No,” Crawford said sadly. “I think we’ve covered it.”

“Groovy,” Jake said. “I’m gonna head back downstairs then. I got a show tonight, you know.”

Bigg G was experimenting with the new concert ticket pricing as well. For the first two shows in Los Angeles, the show in San Jose, the show in Portland, and the two shows in Seattle, the prices had been set at seventy-five dollars for the rear bleachers, ninety for the side bleachers, one hundred and twenty for the floor level seats behind the sound board, and one hundred sixty for the floor levels forward of the soundboard. There had been some grumbling about this in some circles—words to the effect that Bigg G was putting on airs and had forgotten where he came from—but all six shows had sold out quickly and the reports were that the scalpers were charging as much as four hundred dollars for the premium seats and two hundred for the not-so-premiums. For the month worth of shows scheduled beyond Seattle—dates in Boise, Salt Lake City, Denver, Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Phoenix, and Las Vegas—the tickets had been placed on sale, but at even higher prices. Some tickets had been sold, but most were still awaiting buyers willing to pay those prices. It was hoped that those buyers would materialize after word spread that Jake Kingsley might actually show up on any given night; though Aristocrat and Bigg G would be extremely careful not to imply his commitment even indirectly to any particular date.

The Bigg G show opened up with the first tune—Terrorize Me, off the new CD—at 7:30 PM that night. In addition to embracing the new ticket prices, G had also embraced the longer set in lieu of an opening act. He would play from 7:30 until 8:40, take a twenty-minute intermission, and then return at 9:00 and play until 9:50. Three encores would then take them to 10:00 PM. Neesh and Laura Kingsley were in the house, sitting in a special, roped-off VIP section just in front of the soundboard along with a few dozen family members and friends of the other band members and two large security guards. Jake himself was backstage when the show started. He was dressed in a pair of black slacks, a white dress shirt complete with a fashionable tie, and a pair of polished patent leather shoes. This outfit would go nicely with the formal prom-style wear that G and the boys would sport for the first seven songs of the set.

Jake watched as G and his band played their opening number to an enthusiastic crowd that was made up mostly of African-Americans, but with sizable minorities of Latin Americans and good old white boys and girls as well. At the moment, everyone seemed to be heeding Rodney King’s advice and were just getting along. No one in the audience except those in the VIP section had any suspicion that a very special guest would be appearing tonight. There was an extra microphone stand on the stage, sitting just to the left of G’s primary microphone stand. Two effects pedals were sitting at the base of it, one on each side. Jake knew that if he were in the audience, he would have noticed such a thing immediately and would have started to wonder what it was all about. But he didn’t think your average concert goer was that in tune with such details.

G ran through Terrorize Me, All the Way In (from his last CD) and then launched into his classic Down With It (the title cut from his first independent CD). The audience cheered wildly as each song was started, even louder when they were concluded. As Down With It was being played, Jake stood from his chair and began to stretch out a little. He would be onstage for the next number. Sitting next to his seat were his two guitars, the black Les Paul and the acoustic/electric Fender Grand Concert. Both had been sound checked, and their knobs and switches marked. As Down ended and the audience cheered loudly, Jake picked up the Les Paul and slung it over his shoulder. Bark Stevens, G’s primary assistant, came over to Jake and motioned for him to turn around, so his back was to Bark. Jake did so and Bark plugged a three-foot guitar cable into the wireless transmitter that was attached to the back of Jake’s belt. Jake then plugged the other end into his guitar. This would be his first time using such a device in front of an audience. It had worked fine in rehearsal, but if anything could go wrong...

As the cheers died down, Bark slapped him on the back, indicating that he was now live. All he would have to do when he stepped out was spin the volume knob on the guitar to full power. Everything else should already be copacetic. Jake nodded and stepped toward the stage left doorway.

“How y’all doing out there tonight?” G asked his audience. They blasted out applause and cheers that seemed to indicate they were doing just fine.

“All right,” G said. “Thanks for joining us on the opening night of our tour. It’s really an honor to be here in LA, playing for y’all.”

Another set of cheers rolled in.

“We’re gonna do a song off the new CD now,” G told them. “It’s the first song we’ve released for airplay, a little tune I wrote and put together with a good friend of mine by the name of Jake Kingsley—do y’all know my brother Jake?”

The cheers indicated that they did, indeed, know Jake.

“I guess you’ve heard of him,” G said with a chuckle. “Anyway, Jake and I got together last year on a little tune called Step Inside, which we’ll be performing later on in the set by the way, and people liked it so much that we decided to put something else together for this CD. I know they’ve been playing it on the radio this last week, and it’s kind of a fusion between the hip-hop that I do and the hard rock that my man Jake does. Have y’all heard it?”

They had heard it, and they seemingly approved of it based on the enthusiasm of their cheers.

“Fuck yeah!” G said. “Now ... obviously we put this set together with the intention of playing I Signed That Line in every show. My brother James here on the lead bass...” He nodded toward James Whitlock behind him. “ ... he plays a pretty mean electric guitar too and he’s the one who will be playing the guitar parts for the tune, as well as for Step Inside, during this tour.”

More cheers, which James acknowledged humbly with a wave and a nod at the audience.

“And my brother Fro over there on the second bass guitar,” G said, “has a pretty good singing voice and can belt out Jake’s lyrics like no fuckin’ tomorrow!”

“But tonight, however,” G continued once the cheers died down, “James and Fro are just gonna keep playing those bass guitars of theirs, because, you see, while they do a real good job of playing those parts just like Jake Kingsley would, it’s always better to have the real thing, isn’t it?”

The cheers began to wind up in volume as the audience started to suspect where he was going with this.

“Isn’t it?” he repeated. The cheers got louder, more enthusiastic. “Fuckin’ A right, it is. So ... with that thought in mind, why don’t y’all help me welcome up onto the stage, the one, the only ... Jake motherfuckin’ Kingsley!”

The audience erupted into the loudest cheers of the night so far, the decibel level deafening. Jake felt the power of those cheers surging through him. A smile formed on his face as he trotted out the stage left door and onto the lighted stage, stepping in front of nearly eighteen thousand people. He waved at them as he came out, guitar in hand. He then walked over to G. The two of them exchanged a complex handshake that ended with a fist-bump and finger slide (they had rehearsed this shake for nearly an hour after the sound check). Jake then walked over to the microphone stand with the effects pedals at the base. He spun the volume button on his guitar all the way up and then stepped down on the left pedal, which would give him distorted reverb output. Bark, meanwhile, had carried an electric piano out and set it up in front of G’s microphone stand before retreating hastily from the stage. G replaced the microphone in the holder and then took position behind the keyboard.

“All right, LA!” G said. “Let’s do this thing!”

They did this thing. G began to play the opening piano melody of I Signed That Line while Rickie played a soft, accompanying turntable backing. And then the main beat kicked in. The drummers and the bass players began to hammer out the rhythm and G began rapping out the angry lyrics. The audience clapped along with the beat.

The first chorus came. The beat changed over from a rap rhythm to a hard rock rhythm and Jake began to play, his pick hitting the strings with his right hand, the fingers of his left hand fretting his guitar in the three-chord riff he’d composed. The sound surged out of the speakers and Jake began to sing.

“I signed that line, turned in my soul

Gave up my life, gave up control

Unseen chains still hold you down

Bullshit gains; here’s a paper crown

That ink’s not blood, the sky’s not blue

I signed that line, my soul to you”

The fans were on their feet now as Jake silenced his guitar and the band switched back to the rap rhythm in E major and G began to belt out the next verses. Jake continued to stand at his microphone stand, tapping out the beat on the side of his guitar, moving his shoulders and head to the rhythm. And then the chorus came around again and he ground out the crunching riff once again, singing out his next part; the lyrics different on this rep except for the first line and the last.

This brought them to the bridge portion, the first true fusion of the two sounds. They extended it out another twenty seconds for the live performance, building it up in intensity before Jake sang out his portion of the angry retrospect of a first-time contract. G then added his portion of the bridge vocals and that brought them to the guitar solo.

Here we go, Jake thought nervously, feeling an intense sensation of stage fright as he prepared to shred a solo in front of an audience for the first time in his life. Let’s see how they like this. Assuming I don’t fuck it up.

He did not fuck it up. His fingers began to move up and down the fretboard while his guitar pick struck the individual strings in rapid succession, producing a cascade of notes that flowed out of the speakers. He did not miss or mistime a single note. And the audience, which consisted almost entirely of rap and hip-hop fans willing to pay top dollar to see this show, went truly crazy as he played. The jumped atop their seats and clapped out the rhythm as he performed. Feeding on their energy, feeling their love and appreciation for what he was doing, Jake let the moment take him away. He bent and twisted his body as he played, pushing the neck of his guitar up, down, sideways, while his fingers hammered out the solo. And when it wrapped up and it was time to switch back to the E major rap rhythm for G’s final verses, the band had to improvise out an extended transition because the cheers and applause in response to the solo were so overwhelming.

Yes! Jake thought, a large smile on his face as he acknowledged the cheers with a wave. This is what is missing from my life right now. I need to get out and do what I’ve been put on Earth for a little more.

They finished up I Signed That Line with an extended outro and a final flourish of instruments. As the last note faded away and the applause and cheers washed over them once more, G walked over and grasped Jake’s right hand with his left. He raised their hands into the air in triumph and then the two of them shared a brief bow. Jake then headed back for the stage left door.

G went over and snatched his microphone out of the stand. “Jake Kingsley everyone!” he yelled. “Let’s hear it for him one more time!”

They let him hear it one more time.

Jake sat back down on his stool in the backstage area while G and the boys launched into the next song in the set: Move Along, from G’s second independent CD. He drank some Gatorade from a bottle that Bark had handed him and then took off the tie and the dress shirt, leaving him only in his slacks and a simple white undershirt. Bark put the used shirts in a bag, where they would be laundered and neatly pressed along with the rest of the group’s stage clothing.

“That was fuckin’ tight out there, Jake!” Bark said, shouting into his ear to be heard over the music from the stage.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Jake shouted back.

The intermission came. G and the band left the stage, and the house lights came up. Jake followed them through the tunnel under the arena back to the locker rooms where their dressing area had been set up. Everyone drank their fill of Gatorade and then G and his band all passed around a joint to reinforce their highs. Unlike Jake and the members of Intemperance, Bigg G and his band embraced marijuana use before performing live, believing it enhanced their ability to feel the music.

To each their own, Jake thought with a shrug, though he had a lot of unpleasant memories about performance mishaps when Darren and Coop started taking hits of marijuana and drinking before shows. He could not bring himself to partake in the joint. No one seemed to hold this against him.

Once they were feeling right again, the band quickly stripped off their formal clothing and put on more casual wear; though they still stuck with slacks and dress-style shirts. Jake joined them in this. He stripped out of his undershirt, shoes and pants and picked up a pair of torn jeans and a black t-shirt that commemorated Pink Floyd’s 1980 tour for their album The Wall. The shirt was in pristine condition. He had bought it on an internet auction site that Nerdly had introduced him to a few weeks before, paying more than a hundred dollars for it, but it had been delivered right to the Coos Bay house three days after the purchase.

“You know somethin’, Jake,” asked James, who was eyeing Jake’s body as he changed. “I was really expecting you to have a pair of tighty-whitey briefs on.”

“No shit?” Jake asked, looking down at his dark blue boxer briefs. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you white,” James said simply. “I kind of assumed all white people wore white jockeys.”

Jake gave him a faux glare. “Why you wanna stereotype my people like that, James?” he demanded.

James chuckled. “Have your people call my people,” he told Jake.

Everyone got dressed in the second-half clothes and made their way back to the stage left door. Most of the crowd was back in their seats now and starting to get antsy for the show to start again. Jake glanced up at the clock. They had four minutes to go before the lights would go back down and the second set began.

“You ready for this shit, homey?” G asked.

Jake glanced at his Fender guitar. “I’m ready for it,” he said. “The question is...” He nodded toward the audience. “ ... are they ready for it?”

“I guess you’ll find out,” G said lightly. “If nobody pops a cap at you while you’re playing, then they like it.”

“Very comforting,” Jake said, borrowing a Laura-ism.

The clock continued to tick down. When it was inside of a minute, Jake stood and picked up his Fender guitar. He slung it over his shoulder. Bark came up behind him and plugged him in, just as he had done with the Les Paul.

“Go out there and shine, Jake,” Bark told him, giving him a pat on the back as the timer reached zero and the house lights went back down.

“It’s what I do,” Jake said with a smile.

The cheers sounded up as the lights went down and then slowly faded back down. Jake took a deep breath and then walked out onto the stage alone. A single spotlight followed him as he strolled over to his microphone. The cheers amped up a bit as the crowd realized he was back, but there was also a bit of puzzlement in the air as they undoubtedly wondered where G and the rest of the band were.

Jake stepped on the right effects pedal and then looked out into the dimness of the audience. “Hey, LA,” he said lightly. “How’s everyone doing out there tonight?”

The cheers erupted again.

“Fuck yeah!” Jake said. “I want to thank G and the band for inviting me to play with them up here tonight. I gotta tell you, it’s been a long time now since I’ve been up on stage, playing and singing for an audience, and I forgot how good it feels. So ... from the bottom of my heart, and with utmost sincerity, thanks G, thanks James and Fro for letting me play your parts, and thank all of you out there for listening to me and making me feel like I belong here.”

The crowd appreciated this sentiment and showed Jake that with more cheers.

“Now then,” Jake said, giving his guitar a quick strum; partly for theatrics, but mostly so he could hear how it sounded. It sounded good. “You’ll notice that I came out here alone to open up the second set. Don’t worry. I’m not taking over G’s show or any kind of shit like that. It’s just that G and the band are back there tokin’ up on a fatty they just rolled and they asked me if I could come out here and keep y’all entertained for a few minutes while they finish their business.”

More cheers erupted, mixed with playful laughter.

“So ... let’s see if I can do that,” Jake said, strumming the guitar again.

He then launched into an acoustic solo that showed off his skills with the instrument. It was partially rehearsed, partially improvised. It started slow and then gradually picked up tempo into a complex mix of chords and chord changes, fingerpicking and strumming. The audience liked what they were hearing and were soon clapping along with the beat he was setting. He built the solo up to a crescendo and then brought the tempo back down to seemingly random strumming once again. He then worked that into the opening melody of Step Inside.

The cheers washed over him again as the audience heard the familiar melody being played. They cheered even louder when G and the rest of the band came out onto the stage and took their own positions. Jake went through the opening melody six times, four more than on the studio version of the tune, so everyone would have a chance to get their instruments set and ready to play. He played the sixth rep with an extra flourish of the E string as he finger picked it out. This was the cue for the rest of the group to pick up the main part of the song after the rep.

They did so, just as cued. Rickie began to spin the turntables while James and Fro started plucking their bass guitars. The drums kicked in. And then G started to sing about how everyone should just try to Step Inside another’s head and see things from their point of view. They played the song pretty much just like the studio version, with the exception of the extended intro melody and a more complex strumming of the acoustic guitar during the bridge. The crowd seemed to appreciate these minor enhancements and they gave Jake a standing ovation when he exited the stage.

Jake sat back down and watched the rest of the second set, nodding to the beat on the songs he knew, sometimes even singing along when he knew the tune well enough to do so. G closed out the set with Got Your Sellout, his runaway hit from the Down With It CD. He strutted across the stage, grabbing his crotch every time he rapped the phrase “Got your sellout right here!” and then, when the tune abruptly came to an end, he told the audience thank you and good night, dropped the microphone to the stage, and then he and the band walked off.

Of course, that was not the end of the show and everyone out there knew it. They immediately began shouting and stomping their feet, creating a tremendous noise as they demanded more and more and more.

G and the boys gave them more. They went back out on the stage and performed Grind It All Night, the biggest hit from the last CD after Step Inside. As the song wound down, Jake stood up again and picked up the Les Paul. Bark plugged him back in. Jake was still a little unsure about what they were about to do, but G had insisted.

“All right, go!” Bark barked at him as the crowd cheered the end of Grind.

Jake went, stepping back out onto the stage with a wave to the crowd. They cheered louder when they saw him, even louder when they saw that Mackie, James’ personal assistant, was carrying a Brogan electric six-string out as well. Mackie took James’ bass guitar from him and plugged the Brogan into his transmitter. James immediately tested the guitar by grinding out a quick power chord that reverberated through the arena. This generated even more cheers.

G came over, microphone in hand, and put his arm around Jake’s shoulders. “Do y’all wanna hear another song by this motherfucker?” he asked the crowd.

The crowd’s cheers indicated that they did. But did they really? He guessed they would find out in a minute.

Jake stepped up to his microphone and stepped down on the left pedal again. He then looked out over the audience. “This is one of my songs off my last CD,” he told them. “While G and I and the band were putting together I Signed That Line in the studio, I got the opportunity to hang with James quite a bit. Now you all know that he’s a badass bass player—one of the best I’ve ever had the chance to play with—and, if you saw any of the footage from the last Bigg G tour, you know he can strum an acoustic guitar with the best of them as well. But did you know he can shred an electric guitar too?”

The crowd cheered as James stepped forward to stand next to Jake at the microphone.

“During some of the breaks in recording,” Jake went on, “me and James would take out our guitars and start playing some tunes together. And then, one day, he mentioned to me that he really liked my song Ocean View and he wanted to play it with me. And so, we started playing around with it and pretty soon, the other guys were stepping in as well and it evolved into what we’re gonna play for you right now.” He looked at the band. “Let’s do it, guys.”

“All right!” G said into his microphone. “Ocean View, by Jake Kingsley, with James motherfuckin’ Whitlock on the lead guitar!”

The cheers sounded out and Jake began to play the opening riff of the song. He sang out the lyrics, talking of his hatred of LA, his desire to move to a place where he could see the ocean, could smell the salt, could be at peace. James kicked in with lead just after the first verse, during the chorus, and the crowd went wild as the two guitars dueled with each other. And G jumped in as well, singing a double track for the end lines of the verses and full duet for the chorus. Rickie even threw in some turntable fills that plugged in perfectly to the tone of the tune.

Ocean View was one of Jake’s harder rocking solo tunes, composed with a building musical and vocal intensity. With each successive verse, the lead guitar grew louder, more powerful, more authoritative, and James (after more than twelve total hours of rehearsing the tune in the previous weeks) played the part to perfection. He then launched into the solo, emulating it exactly in notes but imparting his own, unique phrasing. While they played, Jake and James faced off against each other, giving the audience the impression they were involved in a friendly, but heated guitar competition. All the while G danced and sang behind them, belting out his portion of the harmonies and fills.

By the time the tune came to an end, Jake was sweating freely and his heart was happy. They ended the song and he gloried in the applause that washed over him once again.

This time, Jake and James exchanged a complex handshake and then G came over and gave Jake a hug. The hug was unplanned and unrehearsed, making it all the more meaningful.

“Jake Kingsley!” G said when he released the embrace. “Thanks for coming up here tonight, Jake!”

Jake raised his hand to the audience as he walked off the stage. Already he was looking forward to the show in Portland.

Jake and Laura had a few drinks with G and Neesh and the band after the show, but both of them stayed relatively sober. They went back to their Granada Hills house before the party moved to G’s house in Malibu. Though it was tempting to go join the festivities, Jake wanted to be back in Coos Bay by one o’clock the next day. It would be Sunday and he wanted at least one afternoon and evening of doing nothing before going back to the recording studio and the grind on Monday morning.

“See you in Portland,” G said before they parted ways.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” Jake said with sincerity.

Once at their waystation home (as Jake liked to call it), they each had another glass of wine and then retired to the bedroom for some enthusiastic marital fucking (Laura had been hanging out with Neesh all night, and this had the usual effect on her libido) and then they drifted off to sleep just past midnight. The alarm clock woke them up at seven o’clock. They showered and then headed for Whiteman Airport.

The wheels of Jake’s plane left the ground at 7:55 AM. He flew overland until they passed out beyond Vandenberg Air Force Base’s restricted airspace and then he went offshore and followed the coastline to Bodega Bay, just north of the San Francisco area. They landed there at 10:05 AM and had breakfast in the airport’s restaurant. Laura enjoyed two bloody Marys with her eggs benedict, which mellowed her out considerably for the next leg of the flight, but she soon regretted it because by the time they were passing Fort Bragg, her bladder was sending her messages. By the time they were approaching the Oregon state line, those messages became insistent.

“No, I’m not going to land at Crescent City so you can pee,” Jake told her. “We’ll be on the ground at North Bend in another twenty minutes.”

“I can’t wait that long,” she hissed at him.

“Then use the urinal,” he suggested. “That’s why we have them.”

“I have never peed in this airplane a single time,” she said, “and I’m not going to start now.”

“Then I guess you’re going to have to hold it,” Jake said.

“Fine,” she hissed, gritting her teeth and praying to the time gods for quicker passage of the seconds and minutes.

Two minutes later, they hit a nasty little patch of clear air turbulence and the plane lurched and bounced a few times.

“Oh God,” Laura moaned. “I guess I am going to start now. Where’s that urinal?”

“In the first aid compartment,” Jake said, nodding to the cabin inset panel just behind her seat.

She unbuckled and turned in her seat, opening the cabinet with the red cross on it. Next to the first aid kit were several standard urinals for use by those who had a schlong, and one specially designed female urinal for those who did not have a schlong. It had a wide, C-curved mouth on it, designed to fit over the entire female genitalia region. She took it out, looked it over for a few moments, as if puzzling over how it worked, and then reached up under her summer dress and pulled off her panties.

“Hold these,” she told Jake, tossing them onto his lap. She then began hiking up the dress.

Jake picked up the panties and looked at them. They were bikini style, lime green with white polka dots. He put the crotch to his face and took a large sniff, inhaling his wife’s essence.

“Don’t be a pervert,” she barked as she fussed around, trying to position the urinal where it needed to be.

“Oh, now you don’t want me to be a pervert?”

“This is undignified enough without you smelling my panties,” she said. “God, why did you let me drink that second bloody Mary?”

He didn’t answer her, figuring it was a rhetorical question. Instead, he watched with concealed amusement as she squirmed and contorted and finally managed to seal the mouth of the urinal against her heavenly gate. The sound of urine under high pressure hitting the side of a plastic container followed.

“Ohhhh, God, relief,” Laura sighed as she emptied her bladder.

“Did it occur to you,” Jake asked, “to do that in the rear facing seat where there’s more room instead of in the cramped cockpit seat?”

“No,” she said dangerously. “It did not. Did it occur to you before I actually started peeing?”

“Uh ... no,” Jake said. “Of course not.”

She finished up her business and then began looking for a place to put the urinal. No such place presented itself.

“You’ll just have to hang onto it until we land,” Jake advised.

“Wonderful,” she grunted. And then something else seemed to occur to her. “And then what?” she asked. “Do I have to carry this thing into the office building so I can dump it?”

“Uh ... well ... yeah,” he said. “That is the post-urinal use procedure.”

She was appalled by this thought. “Everyone in that building will know I had to pee in the plane!”

Jake nodded. “Most likely,” he agreed. “But remember, anyone in that building is either a pilot or is associated with one. They’ll understand.”

This did not make Laura feel any better. Jake even offered to dump the urinal for her, but she would not agree to this either. “No way,” she told him. “I peed in it; I’ll take care of it. Besides, it’s a female urinal. They’ll know it was me that had to use it anyway.”

“True,” Jake acknowledged.

They flew on for a few minutes. Laura held the urinal by the handle, treating it like it was an unexploded bomb that might go off at any moment. Jake punched in a new altitude and throttled back so they could begin their descent. He then checked in with the Center and told them they could discontinue flight following.

“You know,” Laura finally said. “We’re making more money these days, aren’t we?”

“An assload,” Jake agreed. “Brainwash was one of the best things we ever did. They just hit triple Platinum last week.”

“And ... now that you and Celia are releasing new CDs soon, and Celia is going back on tour ... we’ll be making even more in the next few quarters, right?”

“Right,” Jake said. “What are you getting at, hon?”

“Have you ever thought about upgrading this plane to something that has a fucking bathroom in it?”

Jake looked over at her and smiled. “I really do love you,” he told her.

Five days later, Jake, Celia, Nerdly and Sharon climbed into Jake’s plane at North Bend Municipal and flew to Hillsborough Airport just outside of Portland. Kelvin stayed behind, with Laura volunteering to be the babysitter for him while they were gone. This was to be the Nerdlys first trip away from their child and both were nervous wrecks about it.

“We should probably remind her again to heat the milk to precisely thirty-seven degrees Celsius,” Nerdly said as he pulled out his cellular phone while they were riding in the back of the limousine heading for the hotel.

“Right,” Sharon said. “To simulate my body temperature at the time of lactation. Also, I want to remind her one more time about his bathwater temperature and the acid-base balance of it. She needs to know to check the Ph level before she puts him into the tub.”

“Guys,” Jake said, rolling his eyes a little. “You wrote all this down for her, didn’t you?”

“Of course,” Nerdly said, “but we just want to reiterate the importance of these measurements.”

“She understands the importance,” Jake assured them. “She’s a teacher, remember? She’s been to college and everything. She knows how to read and follow directions.”

“But...” Sharon started.

“No buts,” Jake said. “If little Kelvin is damaged by improper milk temperature or some sort of acid-base bathwater imbalance when we get back, Laura and I will assume care of him as our own and give you our own firstborn to replace him, okay?”

They looked shocked at this suggestion.

“I was joking,” he told them. “Kelvin will be fine.”

“I don’t think that was very funny at all, Jake,” Nerdly admonished.

They loosened up a little at the hotel, thanks to Jake feeding them a few whiskey sours. They loosened up even more when they got to Memorial Coliseum at 5:00 PM, just in time for Bigg G and his band’s soundcheck. G allowed them to participate in the ritual and they immersed themselves fully into this, actually forgetting about little Kelvin for perhaps the first time since he had poked his little head out into the world. Of course, the sound check took twice as long as usual, and more than one of G’s sound people threatened to kill the Nerdlys, but, all in all, the experience was worth it. And the sound came out pretty damn impressive as well.

No announcement of any kind was made that Jake Kingsley would be a special guest at the Portland show. Word of mouth and media reports had already spread that he had been present at the first LA show, however. It was also known that he had not been present at the second LA show, or at the show in San Jose.

The audience was surprised and delighted when Jake walked on stage to perform I Signed That Line. And they gave him a standing ovation as he left the stage following Step Inside. They absolutely roared with approval when he and James faced off to perform Ocean View. It seemed having him appear was a good thing.

They stayed the night in the same Portland hotel where G and the band stayed. The Nerdlys and Celia all got outrageously drunk at the band party in Rickie’s room. Jake drank tea and soda only and watched in nostalgic jealousy at the drunken antics of a traveling band.

The next morning, at 8:00 AM, Jake flew his load of hungover passengers back to Coos Bay. He drove back to the house with them and, while Sharon reacquainted herself with their little bundle of joy, and Nerdly and Celia headed to the studio to get some work done on the mastering, Jake and Laura retired to the bedroom for a little fuck followed by a little nap.

Four hours later, Jake was back in his plane, alone this time, lifting off for the flight to Boeing Field in Seattle.

He checked into the hotel there and then spent two nights hanging out with G and the boys. He performed during both shows in Seattle. By now, G’s road manager was reporting, the word had spread that Jake Kingsley just might show up and perform at upcoming Bigg G performances and, if he did, it was one hell of a show. Ticket sales at the upcoming venues—the more expensive ones—began to pick up as well, the demographic reports showing that a large number of Caucasians were laying down the funds to score seats. G’s publicist, in response to multiple enquiries from all manner of media outlets, was forced to release a statement on Jake’s appearances. It was deliberately worded to be ambiguous and noncommittal.

“Mr. Kingsley was gracious enough to make himself available for one of the shows in Los Angeles, the show in Portland, and both shows in Seattle,” she said. “He has let us know that he might be available for other dates during the tour as well. Unfortunately, he is busy with the recording of his latest CD and is unable to commit in advance to any specific dates. There is no way for us to know in advance when Jake will be able to play at any particular date.”

But, as Gordon had predicted, just the merest possibility that Jake might be there drove the ticket sales. All dates now sold out quickly, at the inflated prices as soon as the tickets were released for sale.

Alas, there were no more shows featuring Jake Kingsley in the month of September. After returning from Seattle, he and the Nerdlys and Laura and Celia fell back into the grinding routine of mastering the two KVA releases they had been working on. Finally, on October 3, the day that a jury in Los Angeles decided that Orenthal James Simpson was not guilty of murdering his ex-wife and her lover, Celia and Jake walked out of Blake Studios with copies of their final master CDs in hand.

Celia’s CD was titled Two Too Much. The plan was to release the catchy (and sad) tune It Never Happened as the first to be promoted. Jake’s CD was titled A Drop in the Bucket. He planned to release the ballad Teach Me, a love song he had written for Laura, as his first to be promoted and then follow it up with the hard-driving No More Chains.

They left the Coos Bay house in the hands of a real estate management company, who would keep the place clean and maintained until the next time it was needed. The van they used to transport everyone from place to place was put into an auto storage facility near the North Bend Airport. Several members of the studio crew were enlisted to drive Jake’s Beemer and Celia’s Mercedes back to southern California for them. The Nerdlys then contracted for a private plane to take they and their little bundle back to Los Angeles. Celia, Jake, and Laura stayed one more night and then were given a ride to North Bend Municipal by Obie, who would remain behind in his Coos Bay home for another week or so. Jake, Laura, Celia, Pauline, and Tabby then loaded up into Jake’s plane for the flight back home. They flew non-stop to Oceano (everyone remembered to pee before boarding and no urinals were required) and landed just before three o’clock in the afternoon.

Elsa was excited to have, not just Jake and Laura home, but an actual dinner party of sorts to plan and carry off. It seemed she had been a bit bored during their absence. She went all out, preparing cedar plank dill salmon, fresh artichokes, homemade rice pilaf, and, for dessert, a crème brulee. Everyone ate and drank and made merry.

After dinner, after Tabby was tucked into a crib in the large guest suite, the four of them took a bottle of Napa Valley Merlot out to the hot tub on the cliffside deck to watch the early Autumn sun go down.

“You know,” Jake said as the three women shrugged off their robes, revealing two bikinis (Celia and Pauline) and a conservative one-piece (Laura), “we generally don’t wear swimwear in the hot tub. The laundry soap and fabric softener residue play hell on the water quality.”

“Nice try, Jake,” Celia said with a laugh.

“I’m your sister, Jake,” Pauline said, shaking her head. “That’s gross.”

“Besides, you’ve seen her boobs often enough when she was feeding Tabby,” Laura added.

“But he hasn’t seen Celia’s,” Pauline chuckled. Laura joined in. Neither noticed the uncomfortable glance that Jake and Celia shot at each other.

“Well...” Jake said simply, “you’re all going to have to answer to the pool guy that Elsa hired to maintain this thing. I just want you to know that.”

He shucked his own robe, revealing his bare chest and a pair of baggy black swimming trunks. He poured himself a healthy glass of wine and then climbed into the one-hundred-degree water. The ladies followed him in, all of them taking up positions where they could view the sunset.

“To the masters!” Celia toasted, raising her glass to the sky.

“The masters!” everyone chimed. They touched everyone’s glass against everyone else’s and then drank.

“What’s the next step?” asked Laura.

“I’ve already mailed copies of both masters to the big four,” Pauline said. “They should be getting them in the next few days. They know the drill by now. They submit their bids for MD&P to us within one week.”

“Only this time, we’re not contractually obligated to go with Aristocrat as long as they match the low bid,” Celia said. “And the other three of the big four know that.”

“That’s right,” Jake said, smiling. “And the success of Brainwash will need to be factored into the equation as well. Whoever gets the KVA contract for C and I will also get first crack at the next Brainwash CD. And this time, they’re not an unknown, assumed to be negative, quality.”

“They’re a goldmine,” Celia said. “And those putas know it. What kind of percentages do you think we’re going to see, Paulie?”

“I’m guessing we’ll be looking at bids of twenty to twenty-five percent royalty rate,” she said with a predatory smile. “And I’m going to suggest we set a hard ceiling at twenty-five percent.”

“And what about the Brainwash CD?” asked Celia. “I know we’re still a bit out from that, but we should start thinking about it.”

“Twenty-five to thirty would be my guess,” Pauline said. “And I would set the hard ceiling at thirty.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Jake agreed.

“Have you talked to Jim and Marcie and the rest of them lately?” Laura asked. “How are they doing?”

“This must be quite a ride for them,” Celia added.

“I haven’t talked to them in a few months,” Jake said, a bit of guilt flooding through him at this admission. “We’ve been so busy at the studio, and with tour prep, and all that. I’m sure they’re doing well. I signed their royalty checks for them the last two quarters. They won’t be hurting financially, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe you should give them a call soon,” Pauline suggested. “Just to check in with them. Start feeling them out about a setlist for the summer session.”

“I’ll do that,” Jake promised, fully intending to do so.

But the next morning, a phone call from Steve Crow of National Records (who was not supposed to have the Kingsley’s Oceano phone number, but somehow did), put that thought right out of his mind.

The show in Kansas City had just come to a close and Matt Tisdale was ready to get into some serious post-performance debauchery. He was in the dressing room, drinking a can of beer and smoking a cigarette. Once he was done with the smoke, he planned to take a few bonghits from the table and then start chowing down on some of the barbequed ribs that were the main course for tonight’s dinner. After that, it was shower and groupie time. God it was fun being a rock star.

He and the band were all still in their stage clothes. Austin was drinking a scotch on the rocks and gnawing on one of the ribs, sauce staining his face, fingers, and drink glass. Corban was fucking with his hair and drinking some kind of faggy red drink in a tall glass. Steve was already in the shower. He did not like sitting around in sweaty clothes. And Jim Ramos, his personal paramedic, was sitting in one of the easy chairs, drinking a vodka and tonic (undoubtedly not his first one—Jim had no four-hour moratorium to adhere to, as long as he remained coherent enough to act if needed), his football sitting on the floor within easy reach. So far, he had not had to open the football in the line of duty. Hopefully, that would remain the case.

Matt was just crushing out his cigarette when the door suddenly opened. It was Greg Gahn.

“Fuck me,” Matt groaned at the sight of him. Greg had standing orders to stay the fuck away from him during the after-show festivities unless there was some kind of emergency. If Jack had let him in the door, there must be some kind of fucking emergency. “What are you doing here?”

“Pardon the intrusion,” Gahn said politely. “I just have some news to pass on.”

“Did an angry mob of rich-ass white people start rioting in fucking Beverly Hills because of the OJ verdict?” Matt asked.

“Uh ... no,” Greg said. “At least, not as far as I know.”

“Then I don’t give a shit,” Matt said. “Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” said Austin. “It’s an extended travel day, Greg. We don’t get very many of those. That means we don’t have to leave for the airport at oh-fucking-dark-early. We get to sleep in and then spend all of tomorrow in KC. Why you wanna piss on our extended travel day?”

Greg’s grin faded. “Now listen, guys,” he admonished. “I am the manager of this tour, which means I am in charge of all aspects of it. I would appreciate being treated with the respect that such a position inherently bestows upon me.”

“Get the fuck out of here with that shit,” Matt spat at him. “You’re only the tour manager because I allow it. And I only allow it because you’re already broken in and beat down and I don’t want to have to go through all that shit with someone new. But you know and I know that if I say the word, your ass is history.”

“National would never fire me just because you told them so,” Greg said haughtily.

“Don’t think so?” Matt asked. “Want to try me?”

“Really, Matt, there is no reason for this anger,” Greg said, quickly redirecting the conversation. “I did not come in here by choice, but at the direction of Steve Crow himself.”

“What the fuck does Crow want now?” Matt asked.

“He wants you back in Los Angeles immediately,” Greg said. “I’ve already arranged for a business jet to pick you up at eleven o’clock at Wheeler Airport.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Matt demanded. “Fly back to LA tonight? Right now? What the fuck for?”

“Mr. Crow and Mr. Doolittle are requesting your presence at a meeting in the National Records building at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. They told me to spare no expense to get you there.”

Matt’s scowl deepened. “A meeting? Now? In the middle of the fucking tour? What is this shit about?”

“They did not inform me of the subject of the meeting,” Greg said. “They simply told me it was extremely important, and they insisted... insisted, that I make sure you are there for it.”

“Fuck me,” Matt muttered. He turned to look at Jim, who was sitting closest to him. “I bet this shit is about my new contract.”

“Your new contract?” Jim asked.

“The CD I just released was the last of my options,” he explained. “I’m no longer obligated to them. If they want me to make any more CDs for them, they’ll have to renegotiate another contract.”

“Why would they do that now?” Greg asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” Matt said. “They want to get their fucking claws in me and get me to sign something before the numbers for the latest CD are fully in. They know this one is going to be my best seller. They fucking know that shit. They want me to sign my name now so they can screw me into a lower royalty rate. Well fuck that shit. I ain’t going! They can just wait until the tour is over and we know just how many CDs I sold.”

“I don’t think that is what the meeting is about,” Greg said. “And I’m afraid that refusing to go is not an option.”

“Oh really?” Matt asked dangerously.

“Yes,” Greg said. “You are still under contract for the duration of this tour, Matt. And, since you’re under contract, you are obligated to show up for meetings, as required, as long as National pays for transportation and lodging expenses. And we are doing so. If you fail to show up as required, you will be in breach of contract and subject to all of the penalties that entails.”

“You’re saying that National would sue me for breach if I refuse to get on that plane?” Matt asked through gritted teeth.

“I’m saying that they could,” Greg said. “Really, Matt. This is not an unreasonable request. We’ll have you back home just before one o’clock LA time, you’ll get a good night’s sleep in your own bed, go to the meeting at eleven and find out what this is all about, and then we’ll have you back to St. Louis in time for the autograph sessions on Wednesday.”

Matt’s instinct was to continue to refuse, maybe even to physically eject the grinning Mormon freak from the dressing room. But he suppressed it. After all, he was maturing now, right? He couldn’t go on behaving like the old Matt forever, could he? Besides, was the request really that unreasonable? Was he maybe just pissed off because he was in the mood to party right now and that party was going to be interrupted?

“All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”

Greg breathed a visible sigh of relief. “A wise decision, Matt. Thank you for being reasonable.”

“Fuck off,” Matt said. He then pointed at Jim. “And he’s going with me. You got a fuckin’ problem with that?”

“Uh ... no, Matt,” Greg said. “No problem at all.”

“Check my pulse, dude,” Matt directed Jim as they cruised forty-one thousand feet above Utah two hours later. He had just snorted four lines of premium cocaine, washing it down with a tall Jack and Coke from the bar.

Jim, who had been dozing in a chair after finishing a vodka and tonic of his own, blinked a few times and then dutifully got to his feet. He stepped across the narrow space, his head hunched due to the low ceiling, and picked up Matt’s wrist. He felt for the radial pulse and, once he found it, looked at his watch. He counted for fifteen seconds. “You’re truckin’ along, Matt. A hundred and sixteen.”

Matt nodded, feeling relief. “That’s not so bad,” he said. “Doing coke always does that to me. As long as I’m not doing that SVT shit.”

Jim walked over to the small bar. He dumped his glass out and then began constructing a fresh drink. “You know, Matt,” he said, “you probably wouldn’t have as many episodes of SVT if you stopped using so much cocaine.”

“You sound like one of those fuckin’ doctors,” Matt scoffed.

“There is a strong correlation between tachyarrhythmias and habitual stimulant use,” Jim said. “You really should think about the long-term consequences of that white powder of yours.”

“You’re paid to save my ass, not lecture it,” Matt told him. “I like this white powder. It’s what makes life worthwhile ... well ... that and gash ... and music, of course. And even if it is causing these episodes, I have you with me. You’re here to fix that shit when it happens.”

“Just because I’m here is no guarantee that I’ll be able to pull you out of a potentially lethal heart rhythm,” Jim told him. “You do know that, right?”

Matt gave him his signature glare. “Don’t be talking shit like that, dude,” he told him. “You’re being paid good money to save my ass. I fuckin’ expect you to do it if it needs to be done.”

“Yes,” Jim said, “I’ll try, but...”

“No fuckin’ buts!” Matt barked. “You save my ass, or you don’t get fuckin’ paid. You understand?”

“I understand,” Jim said with a sigh.

“Good,” Matt said, satisfied. “Now, would you mind mixing me up another Jack and Coke while you’re over there at the bar? Heavy on the Jack.”

“You got it, Matt,” Jim said.

They flew the rest of the flight in solitude. There was a little bit of turbulence as they came over the San Gabriel Mountains, but they touched down neatly and smoothly at 12:55 AM, Pacific Time. A limousine was waiting for them. The driver took them to Matt’s condo in downtown Los Angeles.

“You can have that guest room there,” Matt said, pointing at a door.

“Okay,” Jim said. “Do you want me to ... you know ... go with you to your meeting?”

“Of course I want you to go,” Matt said. “You’re on the clock, ain’t you?”

“I guess I am,” Jim said.

They both slept soundly until nine o’clock in the morning. Both showered and then ate a breakfast that consisted of frozen egg dishes that Matt kept in his freezer just for such occasions. At 10:30, a limousine, sent by National Records, pulled up in front of the building. They went downstairs—Jim wheeling his ‘football’ in front of him—and climbed into the back.

It was a twenty-minute ride to the National Records building. They passed through the security and got into the elevator for the ride to the top floor. They entered the outer office of James Doolittle, the head of the A&R department. The extremely attractive secretary behind the desk was expecting Matt and told him to head right in.

“You hang out here,” Matt told Jim, pointing to one of the couches. He then leaned close to the paramedic, gave a nod in the direction of the receptionist, and whispered: “She’ll give it up if you play your cards right. And she’s nasty too. Likes it up the ass.”

“Uh ... okay,” Jim said. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Play it, dude,” Matt said with a grin.

He then went to the door of Doolittle’s office and opened it. The first thing he saw was Doolittle and Crow, sitting next to each other behind the desk. They had shit-eating grins on their faces, grins he mistrusted immediately.

There was someone else in the room as well. A familiar looking figure, sitting in the chair in front of the desk. Matt looked over at him and his breath froze in his throat. It was Jake fucking Kingsley sitting there. His hair was a little shorter and his face looked a little older, but there was no mistaking. It was Jake. And Jake looked just as surprised to see Matt as Matt was to see him.

“What the fuck is this shit?” Matt said, glaring at Doolittle and Crow.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Kingsley said, shaking his head. “Is this what you two assholes called me here for?”

“Sorry for all the cloak and dagger,” Doolittle said. “We didn’t think that either one of you would voluntarily show up for this meeting if we just asked.”

“You got that shit right,” Matt said.

“What the hell are you trying to accomplish here, Doolittle?” Jake demanded.

“Gentlemen,” Doolittle said magnanimously. “I know you’ve had your differences. But hear what we have to say. We have a proposition to make.”