Snowblind

Chapter 22: Under Pressure

Birmingham, Alabama

January 25^, 1996

The Celia Valdez show tonight—the seventeenth of the first leg of the Two Too Much tour—was at the Birmingham-Jefferson Convention Complex, a multi-use center in downtown Birmingham. The coliseum of the complex seated 18,500 for concerts. The venue had been sold out long before and the scalpers were offering nosebleed seat tickets for sale for an average price of two hundred dollars. And people were paying for them.

The limousine carrying Celia and her band pulled up to the loading door of the coliseum at 4:30 PM, local time, two hours before the doors would open for the crowd, three hours before showtime. The caravan of tractor-trailer rigs and crew buses were already parked there. Celia and the band had just finished the show-day ritual of music store visits to sign autographs (two of them) and radio station interviews (two of those as well). Now it was time to disappear into the venue until the show was over and the crowd had gone home.

They got out of the vehicle one by one and headed for the man door, which was guarded by Josh Cantele, one of the tour’s security guys, and a private security guard that worked for the convention complex. Josh greeted them but did not bother introducing anyone to his companion. He then handed them their all-access backstage passes which they all hung around their necks.

“All right,” Josh told the center guard once they were all inside. “I’m going to take them back to the stage so they can start working on the sound check. From this point onward, no one else comes through this door unless they have an all-access hanging around their neck.”

“I understand,” the private guard said, his eyes still looking at Celia in a manner that was half worship, half lust.

Josh led them through the maze of boxes, packing containers, spools of wire, and other flotsam and jetsam related to assembling the show. They went up a brief staircase and through a door and they were in the backstage area. Larry Candid, the tour manager, was talking something over with Dan Baldovino, head of security. Other roadies were moving from place to place, still setting things up. From out on the stage came the sound of distorted guitar chords being cranked out and then chopped followed by voices shouting back and forth about levels. This was the sound of the primary sound check in progress, performed by the crew to initially set the levels of the amps and speakers to match the arena acoustics. The final sound check would be the fine tuning of the individual instruments and microphones done by the band itself.

Larry saw them enter and his eyes lit up. “Hey, troops!” he greeted enthusiastically, as if he had not seen them in months instead of just a few hours before when they had checked into the Sheraton Hotel across the street. “How were the meet and greets?”

“The usual, Larry,” Celia told him, her voice monotone. Though he was an excellent tour manager, Celia really did not like the man personally. He was a sleazebag extraordinaire.

“Good, good,” Larry said. “Glad to hear it. We’re running a little behind schedule here as you can probably see.”

“How far behind schedule?” Celia wanted to know.

“Twenty or thirty minutes,” he told her.

“What happened?” she asked.

“A little engineering issue,” Larry said. “Nothing big. The ceiling supports did not quite match up with what was on the floor plan the venue provided us, so the monkeys had to figure out a different way to hang the lighting scaffolding and run the power lines. They worked it out, but it put us back a bit. And, as you know, we can’t have people working on the stage area while they’re hanging the scaffolding and the lights. It’s a safety issue.”

“I understand,” Celia said, shrugging. At pretty much every venue there was some kind of technical or engineering or electrical issue that needed to be solved.

“Do you want Josh to show you to the dressing rooms while they get the primary done?” asked Dan.

“No,” Celia said. “We’ll just hang out here if we’re not in the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” Larry assured her.

Everyone found a place to sit down amid the clutter and chaos. Laura chose one of the cable spools that had been placed near the stage door. There was another empty spool next to it. Eric, after carefully watching to see where everyone else sat, made his way over to her when nobody else sat on the spool.

“Is it okay if I sit here, Laura?” he asked shyly. He always called her by her Christian name, never Teach.

“Of course it’s okay,” she told him. “You don’t have to ask.”

This was a bizarre concept for him. Eric would no more sit next to someone without asking than he would wear a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. But, now that he was given permission, he grabbed a seat.

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, watching the roadies dash about, watching Dan speak into his portable radio to other members of the team, hearing the guitar and bass chords come drifting in from out on the stage. Finally, Eric told Laura he had something he wanted to ask her, his eyes even more downcast than normal, his voice even more hesitant than normal.

“What is it?” Laura asked kindly.

“Uh ... well ... it’s just that...” A long pause. “Oh ... never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Eric,” she said. “I’m not going to forget you said something. You said you had something to ask. So, ask.”

He shook his head again. “It’s stupid,” he said. “And embarrassing. Forget it.”

“Come on now,” Laura told him gently. “I’m your friend, right?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “You really are.”

“And friends can ask each other anything. Don’t be embarrassed. Just ask me what you need to ask me.”

“Well ... it ... it ... has to do with ... you know ... those people.”

“What people?” she asked.

“The people that ... uh ... Coop and Charlie have meet them backstage ... and then take back to the hotel with them.”

“You mean the groupies?” Laura asked. So far, Coop and Charlie were the only ones in the band who had had any dealings with groupies, but they had those dealings pretty much every night. No one begrudged them of that. This was a music tour, after all.

“Right,” Eric said. “The groupies.”

“What about them?” Laura asked. He’s not going to ask me what Coop and Charlie do with those groupies, is he?

He was not. “Well ... the thing is,” he said, “it’s my understanding that Coop and Charlie ... uh ... ask Dan to bring them back for them.”

“Yes,” Laura said. “It’s called a request and one of the unwritten duties of the head of security of a music tour is to ... uh ... see to it that the requests are filled.”

“I see,” Eric said, finally looking up a little now.

“Does it bother you that they do that?” she asked him. “I mean ... I suppose if you’re not used to how things work on the road that it could be a little shocking.”

“No no,” he said. “It doesn’t bother me at all. What I actually was wondering was ... uh ... if maybe ... you know ... if it wasn’t too much trouble, if Dan would be able to ... uh ... uh...”

He could not quite go on. He did not really need to though. Laura finally started picking up what he was laying down. “Ohhhh,” she said. “You want to know if you can give Dan a request.”

He looked down at the floor again, his face blushing an alarming shade of red, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I was wondering.”

She nodded. “And I assume you’re not talking about a female groupie, right?”

“Uh ... right,” he said. “I really ... uh ... don’t do the whole heterosexual sex thing. I tried it once back in high school.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t ... uh ... you know... perform.”

“Just weren’t into it?”

“I really wanted to be,” he said. “It would have made my parents very happy and lifted a really big burden off of me, but ... no ... I wasn’t into it.”

“So, that’s when you chose to be gay, huh?” Laura asked, deadpan.

Eric looked up at her, his eyes looking into hers for the first time all day. He saw that she was kidding. Currently, the unmovable dogma in conservative and religious circles was that homosexuality was deviant behavior that people chose to engage in, because if one chose to do something like being sexually attracted to one’s own gender, then one was not entitled to a few basic human rights and could even be legally discriminated against in matters of marriage, employment, or even the ability to openly display affection for one’s partner. As if people like Eric would voluntarily choose to be a part of a downtrodden minority just for the sake of rebellion and nonconformity. But Laura did not move in conservative or religious circles much these days. She knew Eric, or Phil, or Dexter, or Z had no more chosen to be gay than she had chosen to have red hair and small boobs.

Eric smiled at her, a rare occurrence indeed. “You had me going for a second there,” he told her.

She smiled back. “I’m like that sometimes,” she said. “Anyway, if you want to get yourself ... you know ... some companionship for after the show, I’m sure Dan can arrange that for you. All you have to do is ask and tell him what you want.” She blushed. “Uh ... at least that’s what I understand.”

“Ask him?” Eric said, his smile disappearing in an instant. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Then how would he know that you have needs to be taken care of?” she asked simply.

He shook his head. “I’ll just forget about it,” he said. “Something will come along eventually.”

“How will something come along?” she wanted to know. “You never talk to anyone, Eric. You have to get over some of your shyness and let people know what you want.”

“I’m trying,” he said (though she had seen no evidence of this), “but Dan is so ... intimidating.”

“Danny’s a great guy,” Laura said.

“He’s so big, so daunting.” He shook his head again. “No. I can’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to get the words out of my mouth.”

Laura nodded, suspecting he was right. “Well ... how about if I ask him for you?” she suggested.

“You ask him?”

“That’s right,” she said. “What are friends for?”

He thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “I guess that could work.”

“All right then,” Laura said, standing up. “Let’s go do it.”

A look of alarm appeared on his face. “Right now? Right here?”

“No time like the present,” she said. “Come on.”

“I have to come with you?” the look of alarm was now approaching panic.

“Yes, you have to come with me,” she said. “I don’t know what kind of ... uh ... companionship you have in mind.”

“Oh ... I guess that makes sense,” he agreed, “but ... well ... couldn’t we just...”

“No,” she said. “Now come on. Let’s go do this thing.”

He reluctantly followed her over to the corner of the stage left area, where Dan was now standing alone, his radio hanging from his belt, watching the entrance that led back toward the loading doors.

“Hey, Danny,” she greeted as they came up to him. “You got a minute?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Well ... Eric here...” She looked and saw he was hovering back out of earshot, staring furiously at the floor. She stepped back and dragged him forward, so he was in the little circle of conversation. “Eric was hoping that maybe you could find him ... you know ... some company for after the show tonight.”

Dan looked at the skinny violinist who he had not passed more than a dozen words with since the tour started. “A request?”

“That’s right,” Laura said. “A request. Do you think you could accommodate him?”

“No problem at all,” Dan said without hesitation. “You’re gay, right, Eric?”

Eric muttered something inaudible.

“What was that?” Dan asked.

“He is gay,” Laura replied for him.

Dan simply nodded, no sign of judgement on his face or in his eyes. “I’m assuming you are requesting a male companion then?”

Eric nodded, making no attempt at speech this time.

“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Dan said. “There’s always a few twinks hanging out with the usual crowd at the selection points.”

“The selection points?” Laura asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “The places where the groupies gather and wait for possible selection. You see, over the years, the system has developed so that full-on habitual groupies, which are defined as women, or men in this case, who will do anything just to be the companion of a famous musician for a night, or even the companion of someone just loosely connected to the group, and who are willing to pay the price to get there, gather in certain places in the venue before, during, and after the show. Near the soundboard is a primary area, but also at the side entrances to the stage and in the loading area outside the rear doors.”

“No kidding?” Laura asked, fascinated by his story. She had never really thought much about how the security guys found the groupies—she had always kind of assumed they just went strolling through the crowd and asking likely looking prospects. She had no idea that there were established staging areas for them, but, now that it was explained, it made sense.

“No kidding,” he assured her matter-of-factly. “Anyway, my point is there’s always a few twinks hanging out on every tour no matter who the band is because lots of times there’s a closeted homo or two in the group—especially in country groups. With your band, however, there’s always been a larger selection of them even though we’ve never actually brought any back.”

“Why?” Laura asked.

“Why have we never brought any back?” Dan said. “Because no one has ever asked for any until tonight.”

“No, I mean, why do we have more of them than other tours,” she clarified.

“Oh ... because of Charlie,” Dan said. “Why else? Remember, he was openly gay for quite a few years before his miraculous epiphany that he’s really hetero. Even though he’s never asked for a guy, the twinks hang onto their hopes.”

“Interesting,” Laura said. “Isn’t that cool, Eric?”

Eric muttered something that was inarticulate but that carried the tone of agreement that yes, that was cool.

“All right then,” Dan said, whipping out a small notebook from his back pocket. There was a cheap ballpoint pen attached to the binding of it. He removed the pen, clicked out the tip, opened the book, and then looked at Eric, preparing to write. “So ... what are we talking here, my friend? I’m going to assume you want a topper?”

Eric nodded.

“Should be easy enough,” Dan said, scratching a note down. “Young, old, blonde, brunette, bald? Gimmee some details here.”

“I ... I want him to be nice,” Eric said softly.

“Nice,” Dan said, writing that down. “I’ll make sure of it. What else?”

“That’s ... uh ... that’s all,” Eric said.

“A nice top-boy, huh? All right. I’ll dig something up, but ... uh ... would you prefer any particular body type, any age, any quirks?”

“No,” Eric said simply. “Just that he be nice.”

“All right then,” Dan said. “I’ll get my people on it.”

Laura smiled. “Thanks, Dan.”

“No problem,” he said. “Part of the job.”

She turned to Eric. “Eric, don’t you want to thank Dan for doing this for you?”

Eric muttered something that might have been a thank you.

“You’re welcome,” Dan said.

They headed back to the spools to resume their seats. They were about halfway there when Laura suddenly stopped. Eric stopped with her and looked at her questioningly.

“Go ahead and sit back down, Eric,” she told him. “I just thought of something else I wanted to ask Danny.”

“Oh ... okay,” Eric said. He resumed his course.

Laura turned and walked back over to the security chief, her stride a little more hesitant now, but determined.

“Something else, Laura?” he asked when she got back over to him.

“Uh ... yeah,” she said softly. “One more request.”

“For whom? Eric?”

“Uh ... no,” she said. “It’ll be ... uh ... for me.”

“For you?” he said, his voice toneless, his eyes, once again, without a hint of judgement.

“That’s right,” she said. “What’s the situation at these selection points of yours with ... uh ... lesbians?”

He did not bat an eye. “We generally have a pretty good showing of the muff-munchers,” he told her. “Most are hoping that Celia swings that way, or if not Celia, maybe you or even Liz.”

“I see,” she said, feeling herself blush. Even though she had done this nine times on the Bobby Z tour, it was still always awkward. “Well ... the fact of the matter is ... uh ... that I have been known to swing that way on occasion.”

“Uh huh,” Dan said with a nod, as if this information did not surprise him a bit. He pulled out his notebook and pen again. “What are we talking here? Lipstick lesbian for you?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Age doesn’t really matter, as long as she’s ... uh ... not illegal or uh ... old enough to be my mother.”

Dan nodded and wrote that down. “Big boobs?” he asked.

“I prefer natural boobs, no matter what the size.”

“You got it,” he said. “Tattoos, piercings, weird dye jobs, excess body hair; any of that a deal breaker?

“Well...” she said, considering, “I wouldn’t want a full body sleeve or anything, and I would prefer no hairy legs or armpits or mustaches, but ... a few tattoos, some piercings, weird hair ... that might actually be interesting.”

He jotted down a few more notes. “I’ll handle this one personally,” he promised.

“Thanks, Danny,” she said shyly.

“Of course, you know that the no-kissing rule will still need to be followed, right?” he asked.

“I understand,” she said, her blush increasing.

“And be sure to remind Eric of the same thing,” Dan added. “Josh will be scoping out his companion for the night, and Josh enjoys accepting payment for letting the twinks back.”

She nodded. “I’ll let him know.”

When Laura returned to the performer lounge following her post-show shower, her request was there, as promised. She was a curvy young woman in her early-twenties, somewhat emo in appearance. Her hair, done up in short pigtails, was lavender in color, matching her sleeveless half-shirt exactly. She had pouty lips and a long, narrow nose. She had multiple piercings in both ears. She had several tattoos on her upper arms and one surrounding her belly button. Her breasts, which were precariously contained by her top, were moderately sized, obviously natural, and obviously without a brassiere encumbering their every jiggle and bounce. She wore a pair of loose-fitting black denim jeans, fastened about her waist by a studded leather belt. Her butt was a little larger than what was considered ideal in Hollywood circles, but quite attractive in Laura’s circles. All in all, she approved of Dan’s selection.

As was customary in such a situation, no one said a thing when Dan brought her over to Laura’s side and introduced her. Coop did raise his brows a bit, however. And Celia flashed a brief, knowing smile at her sax player before going back to her glass of wine and her plate of chicken wings.

Laura’s groupie’s name was Connie; Eric’s was Rich, although neither would remember these handles by tomorrow. Rich and Connie, as well as Lynda and Debbie, Coop and Charlie’s groupies respectively, accompanied the band back to the hotel. While Celia, Liz, and Little Stevie headed for the bar to have a few drinks before retiring, the band members who had groupies headed for the elevator.

There was a bit of a crowd waiting to board the lifts, so everyone was not able to get into the same car. This was fine with Laura, as being in too close of proximity to Coop and Charlie’s requests was kind of creeping her out. Not that Connie would ever be asked to solve any physics equations or anything, but Lynda and Debbie were so airheaded she was amazed they did not have to be reminded to breathe every few seconds.

Shortly after Coop, Charlie, and their ladies of the evening disappeared behind the conveyance doors, another elevator arrived with a ding and an arrow pointing up. Laura and Eric and their dates walked over to it and watched as the doors opened. And who should be inside but Njord, the copilot, undoubtedly heading to the hotel bar to sip on ginger ales with lime and try to pick up on any women who happened to be hanging out there. This was a nightly routine for Njord and, according to Suzie and Celia, he was absolutely shameless in this pursuit. He would play the “I’m Celia Valdez’s pilot” card as his primary opening line and then try to wow whatever woman was in his sights with tales from his time as a bush pilot in Alaska while buying her drink after drink to get her drunk. It was a strategy that actually worked more than it did not, as Njord was a good-looking guy and he could spread the bullshit with the best of them.

“Njord is married, isn’t he?” Laura asked Suzie one evening.

“Fuckin’ A,” she said. “He has two kids and a wife in Seattle. She’s older than him, a manager in a bank or something like that. I’m sure she has no idea what he’s up to when he’s doing his overnights. That’s why this is such a dream assignment for him. He gets to spend three months away from home.”

“He’s a pig,” Laura said, shaking her head.

“He is,” Suzie agreed. “And a pathological liar too. You know all that bullshit he spouts about doing time up in Alaska as a bush pilot?”

“He didn’t really do that?”

“He spent some time up there all right,” Suzie said. “About two months. He couldn’t pass his check-rides, so they let him go.”

This was more than a little alarming of a revelation to Laura. “He didn’t pass his check-rides? You mean ... he’s not a good pilot?”

“He’s actually a really good pilot,” Suzie said, “and I trust him in that regard. It’s just that being a bush pilot in Alaska is like being a Navy Seal or a Green Beret. Only the best can fly up there. You have to be able to routinely fly below the minimals in Alaska because of the height of the mountains and the weather. They get from place to place by going through passes and along river valleys with high terrain on every side and where one little mistake means you’re smeared on a mountainside somewhere and they might not even find your body until the next ice-out. It’s no shame for a pilot not to be able to cut it there, but Nordie is one of those guys who has to exaggerate everything, can’t admit he’s ever failed at anything. Therefore, he was a hardened bush pilot. I suspect that most of the stories he tells are tales that the real bush pilots he met up there told him.”

“Does he know that you know this?” Laura asked.

Suzie shrugged. “If he does, he doesn’t seem to care.”

And now, here was Njord right before her, stepping out of the elevator wearing a pair of dress slacks and a button-up shirt, his mullet neatly styled, his skin reeking of Old Spice cologne. He actually had a pair of wings pinned to his shirt. He really was shameless.

His eyes lit up happily when he saw her. This was usual. He made a point to hit on her pretty much every time he found a reason to speak to her despite the fact that she had shot him down every single time and given him absolutely no encouragement whatsoever. “Hey, Teach,” he greeted, completely ignoring Eric. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Yes,” she said tonelessly, not returning his smile—she never did. “Fancy that.”

His eyes took in the groupie standing next to her and got a little wider. It was obvious that he liked what he was seeing, although, in truth, there were not many human beings between the age of fourteen and sixty he did not like as long as they had a functional vagina. “And who is this lovely lady?” he enquired.

“She’s a friend of mine,” Laura said, feeling awkward again. She would have preferred that Njord had not seen or even known about her companion. “We’re just going up to my room to have a drink or two.”

“Is that a fact?” Njord said, his smile widening. He turned to the groupie. “I’m Njord.” He tapped the wings on his shirt. “I’m Celia Valdez’s pilot.”

“I’m Connie,” Connie said blandly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Well, we’ll be heading up now,” Laura said, stepping toward the elevator.

“Maybe I could join you two up there?” Njord suggested. “Of course, I can’t drink alcohol, but I could sip some ginger ale while I keep a couple of lovely ladies company.”

“Hey now,” Connie said, “I didn’t sign up for any sausage tonight. I paid the price I had to pay, but that’s as far as I swing in that direction.”

Njord was looking at Connie in confusion now, obviously trying to piece together what she was talking about.

Laura was now angry. How dare this sleazeball intrude on her pressure release time! Where did he get off inviting himself up to her room? And hitting on her lesbian groupie! “Njord,” she said slowly, her eyes now boring into him.

“Yeah, Teach?”

“Get the hell away from me right now,” she said.

“Whoa ... hey,” Njord said, holding up his hands in appeasement. “No need to get all hostile here or anything.”

“Get away from me,” she said again. “And furthermore, never attempt to hit on me, flirt with me, or charm me again. Never. In fact, I would prefer it if you don’t even talk to me.”

“Now, listen, Teach,” Njord said. “I think maybe you misunderstood what I...”

“I misunderstood nothing,” Laura said. “Go away. Do not speak to me unless necessary. And do not call me Teach. I am Laura to you. If you hit on me one more time I will start complaining to Celia and to Suzie and I will make every effort I can to have you removed from this flight assignment. I don’t know if I can do it, but I’ll try. And even if that doesn’t work, Jake will be visiting us soon. I don’t think you want to find out what Jake will do if I tell him that you are constantly harassing me.”

This speech seemed to have a sobering effect on the copilot. Whether it was the threat of trying to have him removed or the threat of Jake, Laura was not sure, but it was obvious she had struck a nerve. “All right, all right,” he said, holding up his hands again. “I guess I can see when I’m not wanted. You don’t want me to be friendly to you, that’s fine.”

“Good,” she said.

He turned and resumed his trek toward the bar. Laura heard him mutter “that’s some wicked PMS there,” as he went.

She let this go and turned back to Connie, Eric, and Eric’s groupie (she had already forgotten his name). “Now then,” she said. “Shall we head on up?”

“Yeah,” Connie said, a twinkle in her eye now. “Let’s do that.”

They got into the elevator and rode it up to the top floor, where the suites were. Laura turned right when they exited, Eric turned left.

Laura could not vouch for anyone else, but she had a rather enjoyable evening of pressure release. It was just a shame she couldn’t kiss Connie. Connie had some very pouty lips and Molly and Neesh had both taught her that she rather liked kissing girls.

Jake’s flight landed at LAX just past 3:00 PM on the afternoon of January 27 after the three hour and forty-five-minute trip from New Orleans. He had just spent the last ten days on tour with Gordon and his band, making his special guest appearances for two shows in Dallas, one in San Antonio, two in Houston, and two in the Big Easy itself. Once again, the word of mouth would spread that Jake Kingsley could show up at any Bigg G concert, thus keeping the demand (and the price) for his tickets high. And the fact that Jake was paid three percent of the gross revenue for each show he appeared in (not to mention two percent royalties on all album sales in perpetuity) wasn’t bad either.

Jake traveled light out on tour, so he did not need to go to baggage claim with the other sheep. Outside the terminal building a limousine was waiting for him. Tony was the driver for this mission. Jake greeted him politely—Tony was a good guy he had known for years—and allowed him to stow his carry-on bag with his clothes in it into the trunk.

“Home, Jake?” Tony asked him once they were both settled into their respective seats.

“Well ... the Granada Hill house anyway,” Jake replied. “My home is in Oceano.”

“Sounds good,” Tony said, dropping the gearshift into drive. He pulled smoothly away from the curb and started heading for the airport exit.

They made a little small talk for a few minutes; Jake telling him a few anecdotes from his trip, Tony updating him on his wife and children and slowly growing career apart from limo driving. By the time they got to the freeway, the conversation had petered out.

“I’m gonna close the partition, Tony,” Jake told him. “I need to make a phone call and check in with the boss.”

“Laura?” Tony asked.

Jake chuckled. “The other boss,” he said. “Pauline.”

“Ahhh,” Tony said. “The big boss.”

Jake slid up the partition and then pulled his recently purchased cellular phone out of his back pocket. It was made by Motorola, was a so-called flip phone (one of the latest trends) and had cost him one hundred and twenty-nine dollars, plus the activation fee, and, if he went over the two hundred minutes per month his sixty-nine dollar a month plan allowed, he would be charged twenty-five cents a minute extra. He did not think he was going to be in danger of going over two hundred minutes.

He turned the device on and stared at it, having to wait nearly three minutes before it was fully powered up and ready for use. He then extended the little plastic antenna thingy and dialed Pauline’s home number. The connection was a little scratchy—it would never be mistaken for a landline—but he could hear it ringing in his ear.

“This is Pauline,” his sister’s voice answered after four rings.

“Hey, Paulie,” Jake greeted. “You told me to call when I got back to LA, so ... I’m calling. Just landed at the airport a little while ago.”

“How was the touring?” she asked him.

“It was fun,” he said. “We had a good time. Lots of partying. Now I just need to catch up on my sleep for a day or two.”

“Are you flying back to Oceano tonight?” she asked.

“No. I had a few drinks on the flight from New Orleans. I’ll sleep tonight in the Granada Hills pad and then head home when I wake up.”

“I see,” Pauline said. “Any chance you could stop by my place on the way to Granada Hills?”

“What for?” he asked. He did not really want to stop by Pauline’s house right now. He wanted nothing more than to heat up one of the pre-made Tupperware dinners he kept in his Granada Hills freezer just for such occasions, have a little scotch on the rocks, and then crash out and sleep the entire night away.

“I’ve got something important to talk over with you,” she said.

“We’re talking now.”

“It’s something I’d rather talk about in person,” she said.

“Uh oh,” he said, feeling a little worm of dread. “Is it a good something or a bad something?”

“It has the potential to be good,” she replied.

“Potential, huh?” he asked. He sighed. “All right, I’ll swing by for a bit.”

“Sounds good,” Pauline said. “See you in a few.”

He disconnected the phone and closed the little flip cover before putting it back in his pocket. He then lowered the partition again. “Hey, Tony,” he said. “Pauline needs to talk to me about something. You think you could swing by her place and hang out for a bit?”

“No problem at all, Jake,” Tony said, giving no indication whatsoever whether or not he was annoyed by the request. He was a professional. And, of course, he would be paid more for the waiting time and the extra mileage.

Jake left the partition down and mixed himself a rum and coke as they headed for Silver Lake. He had the entire thing in his stomach by the time they pulled up to Pauline’s lakeshore house fifteen minutes later.

“I’ll try to keep this as brief as I can, Tony,” Jake told him as he stepped out of the limo.

“Take as much time as you need, Jake,” Tony told him.

Pauline answered the door wearing a pair of sweatpants and a long t-shirt. Her hair was down, uncombed, and she had no makeup upon her face. She looked like what she was: a harried mother of a rambunctious toddler. Tabby was sitting on the entertainment room couch, watching an episode of Sesame Street and munching on carrot sticks. When she saw her uncle, her eyes lit up and she practically leapt off the couch.

“Unka Jay! Unka Jay!” she squealed, rushing into his arms.

He picked up the squirming child and lifted her high into the air over his head, making her shriek with delight. “It’s the Tabster!” he shouted back, spinning her around until both of them were dizzy.

She gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek and a hug that made his heart feel warm. He really did love his niece, as well as his honorary nephew Kelvin (the Nerdlys did not particularly like it when Jake called him ‘the Kelvinator’ or ‘Kelvaroony’, but he did it anyway). He finally set her back down and she returned to the couch and resumed watching the Muppet band The Beetles sing their signature song Letter B.

“That made this little detour totally worthwhile,” Jake told his sister, his smile still on his face.

“That’s good to know,” she said warmly. “Shall we talk a little business?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Why don’t we sit in here?” Pauline suggested, pointing at the dining room table. “I can keep an eye on Satan that way.”

“Satan?” Jake asked.

Pauline nodded toward her daughter. “The terrible twos have arrived with a vengeance,” she said. “Right on schedule, I might add. Every day she finds some new way to get into some kind of weird-ass trouble and then rounds it out with a screaming fit.”

“The Tabster?” Jake asked. “No way!”

“Way,” Pauline confirmed. “There are times when I wish I had a few vials of holy water to spray on her. You want a drink?”

“I’ll take a rum and coke,” he said.

“Do you want to go make it yourself or be responsible for watching Satan while I do it?”

“I’ll keep an eye on Satan,” he said.

“Your funeral,” she said, walking through the doorway and disappearing.

She returned a few minutes later, a tall rum and coke in one hand and a glass of white wine in the other. Tabby had done no Satanic acts while she was gone—or at least none that Jake had noticed.

“She’s just softening us up,” Pauline said, setting the drinks down and grabbing a seat.

Jake picked up his drink and had a generous sip. It was just the way he liked it, heavy on the rum. “Obie still up in Oregon?” he asked.

“Yep,” she said. “They just finished laying down the rhythm tracks for his next album. They’re going to start working on the guitars on Monday.”

“And he hasn’t killed the Nerdlys yet?” Bill and Sharon had hired on as his sound engineers (and were being paid quite a hefty price for it).

“Not yet,” she said, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t issue any term life insurance to them.”

Jake nodded. “They’re a pain in the ass all right, and so anal that Martha Stewart would call them anal, but they really do make an album sound better just by being involved.”

“That is true,” Pauline admitted. “And they also slow everything down to a crawl. They’d better be done by the time Brainwash gets here for the summer session.”

“They’ll be done,” Jake assured her. “That’s nearly five months away.”

“If you say so,” she grumbled.

“Anyway,” Jake said, “you said you had something to talk about?”

“Right,” she said. “I got a call the other day from a gentleman named Jerry Stillson. Do you remember him?”

The name was very familiar to him. He searched his memory banks for a few moments and it came to him. “The head of tour management at National, right?” Back in the Intemperance days, it had been Stillson who was in charge of organizing and booking all of the tour dates and arranging funding for them. Jake had never actually met the man in person, not even during the battle over Matt’s Strat, but he had talked to him on the phone a few times and had had his underlings drop his name on him more than once.

“That’s right,” Pauline said, “although he doesn’t work for National any longer. He’s now the CEO of a bunch that call themselves Music Alive.”

“Music Alive?” Jake asked. “What is it that they do?”

“Uh ... as the name implies, they are in the business of live music,” she said.

“Live music?”

“Yeah,” Pauline said. “You know? Concerts and shit?”

“I know what live music is,” he said, rolling his eyes. “What does he want with me? I don’t do tours.”

“He knows that,” Pauline said. “He’s not interested in booking you for a tour. His group is putting together a music festival and trying to book some acts for it. It’ll be in late September just outside of Indian Springs, Nevada.”

“Where the hell is that?”

“An hour or so outside of Vegas,” she said. “In the desert. It’ll be a two-day festival over a weekend. They’ll call it The Tsunami Sound Festival. Stillman believes that they will be able to sell ninety thousand tickets for each day.”

“Ninety thousand?” Jake asked incredulously. That was four times as many as he had ever played in front of.

“Ninety thousand per day times two days is one hundred and eighty thousand,” Pauline said. “And he believes that, if he gets the right acts, the cheapest tickets will sell for eighty dollars retail while the VIP area tickets in front of the stage will go for three hundred.”

Jake whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”

“That’s why he and his people are doing this,” Pauline said. “They’re trying to cash in on the new market value tickets trend. In addition, there will be sponsorship revenue from beer companies and communications companies, there will be merchandising up the ass, there will be parking fees and camping fees and concessions. If it works out the way they plan, they’ll pull in upwards of ninety million dollars.”

“Damn,” Jake said. “And are they offering me a cut of that to be one of the performers?”

“They are not,” Pauline said. “They’re offering you a flat fee to play both days.”

“How much?”

“One million dollars,” she said.

“One million,” he said, impressed. “For just doing two shows?”

“Two shows, one hour and fifteen minutes apiece,” she said. “In addition, they’ll pay for travel and shipping expenses and put you and your band up in first-class accommodations in Vegas.”

“Interesting,” Jake said. “And they’re willing to pay me this just for doing my solo work? No Intemperance songs?”

“No Intemperance songs,” she confirmed. “They don’t even want to go there. It would cost them too much to purchase performance rights from National, even if National agreed to allow it.”

“I see,” Jake said, pondering. It was a very lucrative offer, to say the least. “Would I be the headliner?”

“Uh ... no, actually,” Pauline said. “You would be the act before the headliner. Stillson was open and made sure I was aware of that when he spoke to me.”

“I see,” Jake said slowly.

“Is that a problem?” she asked.

“It hurts my ego a little bit,” he said honestly. He had not opened for anyone since the Earthstone tour way back when Intemperance had gone out on the road for the first time after the release of their first album. And even that had only lasted for the first leg before National split the tour and sent Intemperance out on their own as a headliner with the AC/DC soundalike band Voyeur opening for them.

“Does it hurt it enough to turn down a million bucks?” she asked.

“Maybe not that much,” he admitted. “That is a lot of money for just two shows.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. After all, she would score two hundred thousand of that—her cut as his manager.

“Who will be the headliner?” he asked.

“That has not been determined yet,” she said. “I’m guessing they’re shooting for Metallica, Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, someone like that.”

“So, they’re going for more of a hard rock genre then?”

“That was my understanding,” Pauline said.

“Well ... I guess I could give them a tentative yes,” Jake said. “There is, however, the small matter of my not having a band currently.”

“That could be an issue,” Pauline said. “Celia’s tour should wrap-up well before June, potentially freeing up Coop, Charlie, Laura, Eric, and even Liz, but ... well ... I’m already hearing rumblings about Aristocrat wanting to fund a European and South American tour after the North American tour is done. And I’m inclined to think that Celia would be agreeable to such a project.”

“Great,” Jake grumbled. Another five or six months without regular sex.

“Such a tour would be quite lucrative,” Pauline told him. “You have to know that. It would increase CD sales internationally and bring in a buttload of tour revenue. That’s really nice on KVA’s bottom line.”

“I suppose,” he said with a shrug. At least there was such a thing as internet porn these days. “Anyway, if Coop and Laura and the rest are going international, I should still be able to throw a band together. After all, I’m established now. It shouldn’t be much of a problem digging up professional musicians.”

“When would you have to start working on rehearsals and all that?” Pauline asked.

“For a late September date? With musicians unfamiliar with my work and that I’ve never worked with before?” He thought for a second. “We would need to be in the studio and starting rehearsals by mid-June ... late-June at the latest. Which means I would have to start auditioning people by the first week of May.”

“That means you wouldn’t be able to contribute much to the second Brainwash album,” she pointed out.

“That is true,” he said, nodding. “But if I can just help them select the tunes that will be on the next album, the Nerdlys could do most of the rest.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked. “You serve as the voice of reason for the recording sessions, the one who tells them when it’s time to let something go. If you’re not there during the sessions, Brainwash might not make it out of the studio before the summer is up.”

“They’ll make it out,” Jake said. “Even if I have to call the Nerdlys up and yell at them on the phone, we’ll squeak out the deadline.”

“I suppose,” she said doubtfully. “Anyway, I’ll give Stillson a call and let him know you’re definitely interested.”

“Sounds good,” Jake said, sipping a little more of his drink.

She smiled. “A million-dollar gig,” she said. “A long way from those five-hundred-dollar gigs you used to do at D Street, right?”

“Yep,” he said. “A long way indeed.”

Twenty minutes later, he was in the back of the limo again, sipping out of yet another rum and coke. He was developing a nice buzz at this point and was looking forward to his arrival in Granada Hills. His plan was to heat up one of his Tupperware meals, take a bonghit or two while it was cooking, eat, have a scotch, fire up the old computer and peruse some pornographic Usenet boards, whack off, and then go to bed. He might or might not find time for a cigar out on the patio between step six and step seven.

The limo was just climbing up Cahuenga Pass over the Santa Monica Mountains when a jingling, jangling noise began to erupt from Jake’s back pocket.

“What the fuck?” he asked, startled.

“Isn’t that your cell phone?” suggested Tony.

“Oh ... yeah, I guess it is,” Jake said. He had never actually heard it ring before. He primarily used it for outgoing calls and usually did not even leave it powered up when he was not using it. He must have forgot to turn it off after talking to Pauline.

He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the display. This was not helpful, however, since whoever was calling him did not have their caller ID activated. He debated just letting it ring out—after all, the reason he had waited so long to buy one of these infernal devices was that he valued his alone time and did not want to be constantly intruded upon in situations where it was customary to be out of communication—but curiosity got the better of him. He flipped up the cover and put the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Jake? Is that you?” The connection was scratchy, probably because they were climbing a mountain pass, but he instantly recognized the British accented voice coming through the little speaker.

“Yeah, Elsa,” he said. “It’s Jake. Is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine here,” she said. “I knew you were scheduled to return to Los Angeles today and I just talked to Pauline to see if she knew your status. She told me you had just visited her and were heading for your house there. She suggested I might be able to reach you on your mobile phone.”

“I guess she was right,” he said. “I’m in a limo going up the pass right now. Why did you need to talk to me?”

“Well, first of all, I wanted to determine if you would be staying overnight in the city or flying home. Pauline says you’re staying overnight. Is that correct?”

“That is correct,” he said. “I’ve had a few drinks today so I can’t fly until tomorrow. I’ll probably head home in the late morning.”

“Very good,” she said. “The other reason I called is because Mr. Oldfellow was looking to speak with you.”

“Greg? He called you?”

“That is correct. He said he needed to speak with you and that the matter was of some importance. Naturally, I did not give him your mobile phone number since I did not have your permission to do so.”

“Naturally,” Jake replied.

“He did ask, however, that I pass along a request for you to phone him as soon as possible.”

“Okay,” Jake said. “Where is he at?” Greg could be in a couple of different places—the LA house, the Palm Springs house, a hotel out of town somewhere—each of which had a different phone number.

“He said he’ll be...” Her voice faded out and became mired in static as they started down the backside of the pass. A second later, the connection severed as the call was dropped. Jake shook his head, thinking this technology was not all it was cracked up to be.

He left the phone on in case Elsa called back but she did not. Oh well. If Greg was at either of his two houses, Jake had the numbers in his book. And if he were somewhere other than that, well ... what could he do?

He spent the rest of the ride home wondering exactly what the actor had gotten himself into this time and hoping it was something that would not detract too much from his plans for the evening.

Tony pulled the limo to the curb fifteen minutes later after fighting his way through the late afternoon traffic. Jake thanked him for the ride and tipped him fifty dollars. He then carried his bag up the walkway, had to fish in it for a few minutes to retrieve his keys, and unlocked the door. The alarm was beeping away as he entered the foyer. He quickly punched in the code and then closed and locked the door behind him.

He left his bag by the door, having no intention of unpacking it. He would give it to Elsa tomorrow when he got home and she would launder everything in it and put it away. He made his way to the kitchen and opened the freezer. He dug through the stack of Tupperware, pondering his choices and finally settling on the roasted turkey breast with mashed potatoes, gravy, and corn. He released the lid to allow ventilation and then popped it in the microwave, setting the timer for six minutes. After pressing the start button, he went to the bar, where there was both alcohol and a telephone. He fixed himself yet another rum and coke and then opened his phone book, flipping to the C’s where the entry for Celia and Greg was written. There were the numbers for their Los Angeles house, their Palm Springs house, and Celia’s cell phone.

He took a sip of his drink and then picked up the phone from its charging base. He dialed the number for the LA house first. It rang two times and was picked up. Jake was expecting either a voicemail system or the stiff voice of one of the servants, but instead it was Greg himself.

“Oldfellow residence,” his voice said.

“Hey, Greg. Jake. Elsa said you were trying to get hold of me.”

“Jake!” he said brightly. “Thank you for returning my call. I understand you’re here in Los Angeles?”

“I am,” Jake confirmed. “Just flew in a few hours ago. I’m at the Granada Hills pad now.”

“That’s good,” Greg said. “And I understand you won’t be flying back to your primary residence tonight.”

“I am not,” Jake said. “The FAA would not approve of such a trip.”

“Ahhh, I see,” he said. “So ... how was the tour?”

“It was cool,” Jake said. “Tiring, but cool. Elsa said you had something of importance you wanted to talk about?”

“Oh ... yes ... right,” Greg said slowly. “Are you planning to fly home tomorrow?”

“Yes, I am,” Jake confirmed. “I’m going to sleep the night away and catch up on what I’ve lost of late and then probably head for the airport around eleven or so. Why do you ask?”

“Uh ... well ... I was just wondering ... if it’s not too much of an imposition ... uh ... if maybe I could go with you?”

Jake raised his eyebrows a bit. This conversation was strange, Greg’s request even stranger. This did not sound like the Greg Oldfellow that Jake had always known. “Uh ... you want to go to Oceano with me?” he asked carefully.

“If it’s not too much of an imposition,” Greg said.

“It’s not an imposition at all,” Jake said, “but ... uh ... why do you want to do that?”

“Oh ... you know,” he said. “Sometimes it’s good to get away from the city for a bit, have a change of scenery and all.”

“Isn’t that why you have a house in Palm Springs?” Jake asked.

“It is,” Greg agreed, “but I really enjoy the house you built on the ocean. It has a soothing charm to it. I’d really like to have a similar place of my own one of these days—a bit larger of course.”

“Of course,” Jake said slowly. He took a drink of his drink. “Greg?”

“Yes?”

“What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You asking to stay at my house with me is kind of strange. And, while you’re welcome to do so—don’t let me give you the impression that you’re not—I can’t help but think that there’s more to this than you just wanting to have some time on the beach.”

Jake heard the actor sigh on the other end of the connection. “Well ... as a matter of fact ... I received some rather distressing news yesterday.”

“What kind of news?”

“That kind of news one does not speak of on the phone. I would like to discuss the matter with you—you are perhaps the only I one I can talk to about this—but not over the phone.”

A suspicion popped up in Jake’s mind. The only other time Greg had wanted to fly in Jake’s plane somewhere was when... “You didn’t fuck Mindy Snow again, did you?” he asked.

“What? No, of course not,” Greg said.

“You didn’t get a blowjob from her, or tap her ass, or eat her pussy out, or tit-fuck her?”

“No,” he insisted. “I have had no sexual contact with Mindy Snow since the premier trip.”

“Okay,” Jake said, believing him—for the most part anyway. But he still could not help but suspect that this had something to do with Mindy. “Why don’t you meet me at Whiteman Airport at 11:30 tomorrow. Is that doable?”

“I will be there,” Greg promised. “Thank you. I appreciate this.”

“No problem,” Jake said. “And ... well ... just so I can let Elsa know, how long do you plan to stay?”

“Just a day or two,” Greg said. “That’s all I will be able to.”

“Fair enough,” Jake said. “See you tomorrow then.”

“Eleven-thirty sharp,” Greg said.

They hung up. Jake ate his dinner and drank his drink, but he was no longer in the mood for internet porn or a cigar.

He went to bed just before 6:00 PM and slept soundly until 4:30 AM, at which point he got up to empty his bladder and drink some water. He then went back to bed and slept for another four hours.

Greg made only small talk on the flight from Whiteman to Oceano and Jake did not push him. He could tell that whatever was wrong was eating the man alive. He looked terrible, with bags under his eyes, his complexion pale and sallow, and he kept chewing his fingernails, something that Jake had never seen him do before.

Jake landed the Chancellor at 12:33 PM. By 1:00, they were at the house. Elsa had prepared them turkey and bacon sandwiches for lunch, and they ate them at the dining room table while drinking bottles of Lighthouse Ale that Jake had brought from Oregon the last time he was there.

After Elsa took the dishes away Greg suggested that maybe they could go outside and have some scotch and cigars.

“Yeah, sure,” Jake said, wondering if this was where the actor was finally going to get to the reason he was here. “Sounds like a plan.”

“And I brought my swimming trunks,” he said. “How about we get into the hot tub?”

“Uh ... no, we can’t do that,” Jake said.

“Why not?” Greg asked. “Is it broken?”

“It is not,” Jake told him, “but heterosexual guys do not get into a hot tub together if there are no women present.”

“They don’t?” Greg asked, surprised.

“They don’t,” Jake confirmed. “It’s part of the Rules of Being a Dude.”

“Oh,” Greg said. “I did not know that.”

“It’s right up there with you never ride on the back of another dude’s motorcycle, you never touch the other dude during a two male/one female threesome, and you never stand next to another dude at a urinal if there is a further away urinal or a stall available.”

“Ahhh,” Greg said. “I knew about the urinal one. I’m afraid I have never encountered the motorcycle or the threesome situation before.”

“You should probably write all this down at some point,” Jake suggested.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Greg said.

They got their cigars and their glasses and a bottle of Jake’s twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch. They also got their sweaters, since currently the temperature was sixty degrees, overcast, and with a chilly onshore breeze blowing. They set up shop on the deck table, each pouring a healthy amount of the amber liquid, keeping it neat. They sparked up their cigars and puffed on them. And they mostly stared out at the ocean and spoke little until the first glasses of scotch were consumed.

Jake poured them each another rip from the bottle. Greg picked his up and had a few sips.

“Good scotch,” he said.

“Yep,” Jake said. “Hard to believe it started its life back in 1970 as a bunch of mashed up barley.”

Greg pondered this bit of wisdom for a moment and then nodded. “Well put,” he said.

“Thank you,” Jake replied.

Greg had another sip, a larger one this time. He took another puff on his cigar and let the smoke drift away in the wind. He then took his eyes off the ocean and looked over at Jake. “I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about,” he said.

“You suppose correctly,” Jake said. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

“No,” Greg said, “but I think I have to. I’ve gotten myself into a situation that ... well ... I don’t see any way out of.”

“That’s never a good thing,” Jake said. “But sometimes there is a way out of things that you can’t see.”

Greg shook his head. “Not this time,” he said.

“Does this have anything to do with Mindy Snow?” Jake asked.

Greg sighed deeply and took another slug of his scotch, draining more than half the glass. “It has everything to do with Mindy Snow,” he said.

“You said you didn’t fuck her again,” Jake said. “Were you lying?”

“I was not lying,” he assured him. “It turns out that ... well ... that one time was enough.”

“Come again?”

Greg drained the rest of his glass and then held out the glass to Jake. Jake picked up the bottle of scotch and poured him another hit. Greg quickly gulped down a quarter of it and then set down the glass. “Mindy called me on the phone the other day,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Greg said. “On my private number, the same one you called on. I never gave her that number, but she had it anyway.”

Jake nodded in sympathy, remembering how Mindy had known exactly when he had returned from New Zealand long ago and had shown up on his doorstep. “That sounds like Mindy all right,” he said.

“She told me that she needed to meet with me for lunch; that it had to do with the upcoming Oscar nominations.”

“Uh huh,” Jake said.

“I was very reluctant to do so. I suspected that she would try to seduce me again. I even told her that nothing like that was going to happen. She actually laughed at me. Told me she had no interest in sex right now, but that it would be in my best interest to hear what she had to say. I tried to get her to give me some idea of what it was about, but she wouldn’t. So ... I agreed to meet her for lunch. She had me meet her in some out of the way place up in the hills, in a little town called Sleepy Valley. I’d never heard of it before. It was like I’d stepped into Mayberry or something.”

Jake nodded knowingly. “She took me there a few times when we were dating,” Jake said. “Good meatloaf.”

“I had the chicken fried steak,” Greg said. “Very common and white trash, of course, but it was quite delicious.”

“Anyway?” Jake encouraged.

“Right,” Greg said, that miserable look on his face again. “That’s when she told me her news.”

“And what news is that?”

He took another gulp of his scotch, another hit off his cigar. He then looked back at Jake. “She’s pregnant.”

“Pregnant,” Jake said slowly. He was not terribly surprised by this revelation, but it was still a shock.

“That’s right,” Greg said. “And, so, naturally, I told her congratulations and asked her who the lucky guy was.”

“And she told you that you were the lucky guy?” Jake asked, though it was really not a question.

He nodded. “She said she was three months along, that she had known since late in November but kept it to herself. But now she’s starting to show a little. She actually pulled up her shirt and showed me the baby bump. She’s carrying it quite well, and her belly still looks sexy as hell, but it was there, and it was unmistakable. She was not lying. She really is pregnant.”

“And she’s sure that it’s yours?” Jake asked. “I mean ... seriously, Mindy gets around, and you only fucked her that once, right? There’s a really good chance that if she’s pregnant, it’s not yours.”

“I brought that up,” Greg said. “And what followed was one of the most disturbing and creepy conversations of my life.”

“What do you mean?”

Another gulp of scotch, emptying the glass. Another glass held out for Jake to pour more into. Another gulp following that. Finally, he said, “She wanted me to get her pregnant. It was her goal from the moment she heard that I was named the lead in Us and Them.”

“She wanted you to get her pregnant? You personally?”

“Me personally,” he said. “She laid her whole scheme out for me like she was explaining how she would finance a house or arrange for a trip or something. Completely without remorse or apology or shame. When she found out I was going to be Haverty in Us and Them, she knew that I was the one who should father her child. You see, her biological clock is ticking—as she put it—and she wanted to have a baby while she was in her early thirties still and at her peak of healthiness. And she wanted the baby to have good genes.”

“Good genes?”

He nodded. “She and I are both attractive, we’re both intelligent—although I’m starting to question that aspect in my own self these days—and we’re both extremely good actors. It is her belief that, by having my sperm and her egg make the connection, she will give birth to a beautiful and smart child who will be a natural actor of the likes that the world of cinema has never seen.”

“That’s insane,” Jake whispered.

“Not in her mind it isn’t,” Greg said. “She plotted out the whole thing. Even back when her ex-boyfriend, that personal trainer guy, started spouting off to the press about how she had a crush on me ... that was all at Mindy’s direction. She paid him money to talk to those reporters and tell that story in the hope that if I heard she had a crush on me it would make me more vulnerable to her advances.”

“Wow,” Jake said, shaking his head in disgusted awe at the level of her conniving.

“Unfortunately—for Mindy anyway—I foiled her plans to some degree. Her plan was to seduce me into a sexual relationship with her while we were filming the project. That would have given her ample opportunity to have unprotected sex with me over a month or two and virtually guarantee I would get her pregnant. But I didn’t take the bait then. The premier was her last real chance with me. She deliberately got me drunk and used her information about ... you know ... things that Celia won’t do to break down my defense. And it worked. Goddammit, it worked. She told me that she didn’t even think she was in the right part of her cycle when she finally got me to ... you know ... put it in her, but that it worked anyway.”

“So ... she wasn’t taking any birth control then?”

“No,” Greg said plainly. “That probably would not have helped out her agenda.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Jake said. “But ... how do you know it’s yours? Again, Mindy gets around. It seems more likely that it could be her goddamn limo driver’s baby than yours. I mean, you only fucked her that once.”

“Well ... the dates add up, that’s one thing. The other is that Mindy assures me that she has had no sex of any kind with anyone but me since the last time she and her trainer did it two weeks before she reported for primary photography. She wanted to make sure that there would be no accidental conception by anyone with ‘substandard genes’. She wanted mine and she got mine.”

“How do you know she’s not lying about that?” Jake asked. “She lies all the time.”

“I do not know that she’s not lying,” Greg said, “but it wouldn’t really make sense for her to do so. She knows that I’ll demand a DNA test after the baby is born. She didn’t care about that at all. I may not be the best at reading people, but I could tell she was one hundred percent confident that that test would come back showing me as the father. And the only way she could be that confident would be if she were telling the truth.”

Jake had to admit that this made sense. “Fuck me,” he said. “So, I’m assuming that her getting an abortion is out of the question.”

“Yes, it is out of the question,” he said.

“What happens next then? Is she going to tell people who the father of her baby is?”

“She is going to tell everyone who the father of the baby is,” Greg said miserably. “That too has been part of her plan all along. She wants this child to grow up with the entire world knowing that its father is Greg Oldfellow. That way, people will just expect that he or she will be a great actor. That is why she invited me to lunch; so she could give me a little warning about what was about to happen and let me inform ‘those who should probably know’ before the entertainment press did.”

“Christ,” Jake said, taking a gulp of his own scotch. “She is truly one of the evilest people to ever walk the earth. Fucking Hitler and Stalin would bow down to her.”

“You think?” Greg asked, shaking his head again. “You tried to warn me about her, Jake. I’ll always remember that. I didn’t take your advice, but you tried.”

“I did,” Jake agreed. “But even I didn’t know she could be that cold, that conniving.”

“Yeah,” he said miserably.

“So ... I guess you’re going to have to tell Celia about this?” Jake asked carefully.

“I guess I am,” he said.

“When?”

“As soon as possible,” Greg said. “The Oscar nominations are being announced the second week in February. She plans to go public a week before. She’s hoping that the story of our so-called romance during the project will help boost our chances.”

“Very practical of her.”

“Yeah, very practical indeed.” He sighed. “I need to tell Celia in person. This is not the sort of thing you confess to on the phone.”

Jake nodded. “They’re still in the south. I can have Pauline email over a copy of their exact schedule.”

“Okay,” he said. “Once I see that, I’ll start planning my demise.”