Standing On Top

Chapter 1b

"What mistake?"

She pulled a piece of paper from one of her desk drawers. It was an official looking legal form with numbers printed all over it. "This is a breakdown of your tour revenue as of last week. It lists all forms of expenses and all forms of income, including merchandising. When you read the bottom line it says that we made $1,116,428, or, to round down a bit, $1.12 million."

"Wow," Jake said, whistling. "That's not bad."

"Not bad at all," Pauline agreed. "It's a little over one hundred and eighty grand for each of us, but it kind of disturbs me how willing you were — how willing all of you are — to just accept my word about how much money you're pulling in."

"Why does that disturb you?" he asked. "You're my sister. You're not gonna embezzle from us."

"How do you know that, Jake?" she asked. "Am I not just as prone to temptation as anyone?"

"I've known you all my life, Pauline," he said, more than a little exasperated by this conversation. "I know what kind of person you are."

"You don't know what's in anybody's heart, Jake, nor do you know what limits of temptation that anyone is able to resist. When you're talking about this kind of money you shouldn't trust anyone blindly. Not even your sister."

"Are you saying you're going to screw us?"

"No," she said. "I haven't screwed any of you out of so much as a penny, nor do I have plans to do so, but I could screw you if I wanted to. It would be absurdly easy to do so. I could've told you all we made half a million on the tour, given you each eighty grand, and then pocketed the rest and none of you would have ever known. And that's only the tip of the iceberg. I could be skimming off your royalties and your off-tour merchandising profits too. All of your money comes to me first and then I divide it up and wire it into your accounts. Quite frankly, Jake, in the amounts we're dealing with now, I'm no longer comfortable doing this. I'm basically an honest person and I like to think I'd never embezzle money but I'd feel better if there was some kind of oversight."

"What are you suggesting?" he asked.

"You need to get an accountant," she said. "All of you need someone to help manage your money for you for and it would make sure that I stay honest. It would remove any temptation I might ever feel for helping myself to a little more than my share."

"An accountant?" Jake said distastefully. "I've heard horror stories from some of the other second contract bands about accountants. They say you should never trust any of them. They'll cheat you blind, steal all of your money, and then send you a fucking bill for their services."

"That's because those other bands are letting their accountants run their money the same way you're letting me do it. I'm not suggesting you simply transfer responsibility from me to some bean counter you find in the Yellow Pages. I'm suggesting you find someone with good references who seems at least superficially trustworthy to help manage your money for you. He'll also be able to figure out how best to pay your taxes come next year — what you can deduct, what you can't, how you can set yourself up so you don't owe as much. This is something that I'm not qualified to do — in fact I'm planning to utilize an accountant myself when it comes to taxation issues. In any case, I will be able to keep your accountant honest because I will know how much money I'm turning over to him. He will be able to keep me honest because he will see all the financial paperwork and wire receipts I get from National. Both of us, working together, will be able to keep National honest."

"Why can't I just be my own accountant?" Jake asked. "I can go through receipts and paperwork, couldn't I? I'm not an idiot. I'm sure I could research the tax laws as they relate to..." Pauline was laughing. "What?" he asked, angrily.

"I'm sorry, Jake," she said. "But would you recognize a forged accounting sheet if I showed you one? Would you recognize fake wire transfer receipts?"

"Well... probably not," he admitted.

"And as for managing your own money..." She laughed again. "I'm sorry, but that's just hysterical."

"What's so fuckin' funny about it?" he asked.

"Jake," she said. "You have pulled in just over a million and a half dollars in the past seven months, right?"

"Right," he said.

"And where is that money right now?"

"You know where it's at," he said. "It's in my bank account."

"Exactly," she said. "You have a million and a half dollars sitting in the same checking account you opened when you were sixteen. It's earning no interest for anyone but the bank and it's fifteen times the amount the FDIC even insures. That is not very good money management. This is not income from a paper route or from flipping burgers at McDonalds we're talking about here. We're talking about more than a million dollars, with much more on the way."

He had to admit that she had a point there. He had meant to start looking into managing his money a little better — he wasn't a complete idiot financially — but he'd just never found the time. Maybe this was like looking after his car or cleaning his house or getting from home to the airport. Sure, he could do it for himself if he took the time to learn how, but why not hire someone to do it for him? After all, he was rich now, wasn't he? Wasn't that what rich people did?

"Hmm," Jake said after running these thoughts through his head. "I find you make a good point, Pauline."

"Good," she said. "I thought you'd see things my way. Now the next step is to start looking into accounting firms in the area, filtering through them one by one until..."

"No," Jake interrupted, "I think I already know who I want doing my accounting."

Pauline looked at him sternly. "You do?"

"Yep," he said, nodding in confidence. "I think I do."

"Jake," she asked carefully, "do you even know any accountants? I mean certified ones with cards and everything?"

"Yes I do," he said. "I know one."

"One? Jake, this isn't like picking someone to cut your grass while you're away. An accountant needs to have references and we need to check out his background."

"We're getting the cart ahead of the horse here, sis," he said. "I don't even know if she's really an accountant or not. I don't know if she'd even do it. I do want to look into it though."

"She?" Pauline asked. "A female accountant?"

Jake raised his eyebrows. "Are you saying a female couldn't possibly be a good accountant?" he asked. "Pauline, I'm shocked at you."

"Shut the fuck up," she said. "You know that's not what I meant. Is this a woman you used to fuck?"

"I've never fucked her," he said. "I wanted to once, but that was back in sixth grade."

"Sixth grade?" she asked. "Who is this woman?"

"Jill Yamashito," he said. "My twin."

"Your... twin?"

Jake smiled, draining the remainder of his beer. "Yep."

Heritage, California

November 26, 1986

It was Wednesday afternoon, the day before Thanksgiving, when Jake pulled his father's Chrysler LeBaron to the curb at 29^th and N Streets in Heritage's semi-fashionable mid-town section. A small, non-descript office building stood on this corner. The sign out front read: YAMASHITO, YAMASHITO, and YAMASHITO. CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANTS.

Jake got out. He was dressed in a conservative pair of dress slacks and a long-sleeved, button-up shirt. His dark glasses were upon his face despite the overcast sky. A few pedestrians were walking by but none seemed to notice that the longhaired freak they were crossing the street to avoid was Heritage's most famous personality. Pauline stepped out of the passenger seat. She was adorned in one of the business dresses she used to wear when she had worked for Heritage's biggest corporate law firm. The two of them — along with Nerdly, who was at his parent's house — had flown into their hometown six hours before in order to share the Thanksgiving holiday with their families.

"So this is where your twin works, huh?" Pauline asked, looking the building up and down.

"This is the place," Jake said. "Her parents have run their business out of here since before Jill and I were born."

"And now she has her name on the sign too. How fifties of them."

"Yes," Jake agreed. "It's kind of quaint, ain't it?"

Jill Yamashito was a girl Jake had known since kindergarten. They had attended the same elementary school, the same junior high school, and the same high school. They had been jokingly called twins in their elementary school days because they shared the exact same birthday — March 7, 1960. The two of them had been reasonably close friends through eighth grade as they shared a birthday and a similar intellect. Both were always the ones who seemed to know the answers when called upon but both had always been painfully shy. Jake had never been as good of a student as Jill. He was more the classic underachiever while she had been brought up to revere education and excel. They had drifted apart in high school as Jake discovered the joys of marijuana, cutting school, and hanging with his stoner friends while Jill had buried herself in academia, striving for that coveted academic scholarship to the Stanford University School of Business and her eventual place in the family CPA business. Still they had continued to share several of the college prep classes in their junior and senior years and had kept on nodding acquaintance with each other. The last time he'd seen her was the night of high school graduation when they'd hugged briefly after the ceremony. When Pauline told him he needed an accountant, Jill's face had popped immediately into his head, the first time he'd thought of her in years.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Pauline asked him now as they headed toward the small building.

"You checked her out, didn't you?" Jake asked. "You tell me."

Pauline still maintained close contact with Steve Marshall, the head of Investigative Services at Standforth and Breckman, the corporate law firm she used to work for before dedication herself full time to Intemperance. He had done a background check on the Yamashitos, utilizing all of the resources of the S&B empire — which were considerable (and some of questionable legality) — to see if they were worthy of counting beans for Jake Kingsley. He had turned up a wealth of information on them.

John and Laura Yamashito, Jill's parents, had both done time in a Japanese internment camp as children, having been placed there by the American government in early 1942 along with their parents. Though they had been in the same camp they had never known each other back then. Both managed to rise from the poverty they'd been a part of after World War II and attend the University of California at Heritage's School of Business on academic scholarships. This was where they'd met — two of only eight Japanese-Americans in their graduating class of 1955. They married shortly after both had passed the California CPA exam and, the victims of blatant prejudice by all firms corporate and family owned, had instead opened their own small bookkeeping business in downtown Heritage in 1958. There they'd been ever since, slowly developing a reputation as honest, hardworking, and, most of all, resourceful accountants who specialized in small businesses.

Jill, after graduating high school in 1978, fourth in a class of 308 (Jake was 220 in the class with his 2.13 GPA) had gone on to Stanford University on a full academic scholarship and had graduated seventh in her class in 1982 with a bachelor's degree. After passing the CPA exam and receiving her card she could have been hired at any number of corporate auditing or accounting firms but she'd instead joined the family business and had been there ever since, handling an increasing amount of their accounts as her parents groomed her to take over once they retired.

She had one brother, born in 1962, now twenty-four years old. He had shunned the family business, dropped out of college in his junior year, and was now a rookie officer with the Heritage County Sheriff's Department where he was putting in his time working in the county jail.

The firm itself was moderately successful, it's clients mostly small businesses of less than twenty employees — the majority of them businesses with five to ten employees. There had never been a single complaint lodged against them with any government agency at the local, state, or federal level, accusing them of any malfeasance.

The elder Yamashitos — despite a net worth of nearly three quarters of a million dollars — still lived in the house they'd bought back in 1959 — a house that was just around the corner from where Jake and Pauline's parents lived. Jill — who was unmarried and, as far as could be determined, unattached in any way — lived alone in a modest 1700 square foot house in an area of Heritage known as "The Pocket", which was nestled in a bend of the Sacramento River.

"They seem to be as honest as the day is long," Pauline said. "But they've also never dealt with money in the amounts we're going to be presenting them with. Their most successful client is Ralph Polesco, the guy who owns those high-class restaurants downtown. His annual revenue is a little over a million dollars or so. They have no experience with the amounts we're going to be pulling in and no experience with entertainment revenue."

"They're accountants," Jake said. "They'll figure it out. They're honest and hard working. That's what I remember most about Jill. If they agree to accept me as a client, I feel confident they'll do the best they can for me."

Jill sighed. She still thought her brother was being impulsive. "I suppose," she said. "Shall we?"

"We shall," he said.

They stepped up to the door and opened it, walking into a small lobby with a few chairs and magazines. Behind a partition, working at a desk with an IBM computer atop it, was a woman Jake instantly recognized as Jill. She was dressed in a black business suit, her hair tied tightly into a bun. She was not exactly a pretty woman — she never had been — but she was not ugly either. Plain looking was perhaps the best way to describe her. She looked up at the sound of the bell on the door and her breath seemed to catch in her throat for a minute.

"Hey, Jill," Jake greeted her, smiling. "How you doing these days?"

"Jake?" she asked, her eyes widening in surprise. "Jake Kingsley?"

"That's me," he confirmed. "This is my sister, Pauline. How are you doing? Haven't seen you since graduation."

"Oh my God," she cried, actually blushing a little. "I'm... I'm... well, I'm fine. It's good to see you."

"It's good to see you too," he said. "I suppose you've heard I'm a musician now?"

"Uh... yes, of course," she said. "Everyone knows that. My God. What are you doing here?"

"Well," he said, "I have a little business proposition for you."

"A business proposition?"

"Yep. I need an accountant. I hear you're quite a good one."

"An accountant?" she said, as if she'd never heard the word before.

"That's right," he confirmed. "Are you accepting new clients?"

It turned out the firm of Yamashito, Yamashito, and Yamashito were accepting new clients, but they were a bit trepidatious about what Jake's intentions were. After spending a few minutes catching up with each other's lives since high school — Jill already knew about Jake's life, of course, including the infamous sniffing coke out of a girl's ass-crack incident and his three arrests, and Jake already knew about Jill's life, since Pauline had backgrounded them — she brought her parents out to meet the famous rock star and his sister. John and Laura were very polite and excellent hosts to the business meeting. They brewed coffee and served it with fresh pastries from the bakery next door. They sat them down at a conference table in the back and listened politely to Jake's proposition. That was when the trepidation began to appear.

"Mr. Kingsley," John said, looking at him carefully. He was dressed in slacks and a collared shirt and wore a conservative tie. Despite his heavily Japanese features his voice carried not a trace of an accent. "I'm a bit confused as to why you came to us with this business proposition. Surely there are hundreds of accounting firms in Los Angeles who are more familiar with handling large amounts of money from an entertainment personality?"

"I'm sure there are," Jake said. "But I don't know any of those people. I do know Jill. I've known her since we were both in kindergarten. Do you remember when I used to come over to your house to play when we were kids?"

"I do remember," John said. "That was back in the second and third grade, as I recall. You've certainly changed a lot since then and so has Jill."

"I knew Jill all through school," Jake said. "We weren't really close friends anymore after sixth grade or so, but I still knew her. She was always one of the smartest girls in class, always dedicated to whatever it was she was doing, and it is my belief, based on what I knew of her and her upbringing back then, that she is a fine accountant. I prefer to go with people I know rather than people I don't know. If there's one thing I've learned in my time in Hollywood is that everyone is trying to take some sort of advantage of everyone else. I don't want a Hollywood accountant. I don't want a large firm. I want someone with some humanity."

"Jill is indeed a fine accountant," John said. "But again, we're not used to dealing with the amounts of money you're talking about, nor are we the least bit familiar with taxation of entertainment revenue. We keep books for small businesses here — restaurants, hardware stores, bakeries, that sort of thing."

"Accounting is accounting, isn't it?" Jake asked. "And tax laws are something that people like you are supposed to be good at looking into, right?"

"Well... yes," John agreed. "But... well..."

"Look," Jake said, "in the first place, the amount of money we're talking about is probably not nearly as much as you seem to think it is — at least not now. I have a million and a half in the bank and Pauline is about to deposit another hundred and eighty grand in tour profits. My next royalty check should be coming in sometime in January and it will be somewhere around a hundred and fifty grand, depending on how many albums we sell. I'm not a Rockefeller or anything."

"Is that all?" Laura, Jill's mother asked, surprised. "You've sold millions of albums."

"It's a long story," Jake said. "The people making most of the money from those albums are the kind folks at National Records. A good chunk of my income came from an endorsement contract I have with Fender Guitars."

"Interesting," said Jill, who had been mostly silent to this point.

"So what exactly do you want us to do?" John asked. "If you're looking for us to engage in any sort of 'creative' accounting or to help shield you from taxation, I should let you know right now, we do not condone or participate in that sort of thing. We play completely straight with our clients. We are honest people and we do not help others engage in dishonesty."

"That is exactly what I'm looking for, Mr. Yamashito," Jake said. "I want an accountant who will keep me out of trouble, who will keep the IRS from ever being able to say I'm not paying my taxes and who will keep me from spending more money than I should be. I want advice on how to distribute my money, how to invest it. I will be a pain in the ass at times, I have no doubt about that. I like to spend money frivolously. For instance, I spent nine thousand dollars to pay for a ride home from Seattle in a Lear Jet just so I wouldn't have to sit on the bus another day. I like to live in nice accommodations, drink the finest wines, smoke the finest cigars, and go on spur-of-the-moment trips to exotic locations. When I'm involved with a woman I want to spend outrageously on her. I don't want lectures on how to best conserve my money and make it grow, but I want an accountant who will tell me when I'm starting to go overboard and head toward debt. That is what I'm looking for. And I want Jill to be that accountant. Do you think she can handle it?"

"I know she can handle it," John said. "The problem is that I don't think this firm is prepared to handle you. I'm sorry, but I must respectfully decline your offer. If you'd like, I can give you the name of several Heritage firms where I know the accountants to be above board."

"You haven't even heard how much I'm willing to pay for your services," Jake said.

"It doesn't matter," Laura said. "My husband is right, Mr. Kingsley. We are a small business oriented firm and representing a rock and roll musician is just beyond our capabilities."

"Uh... Dad," Jill suddenly spoke up. "Could we maybe talk about this a little?"

"There's nothing to talk about, Jill," John said gently. "Your mother and I have made our decision."

"I think you made a poor decision," she said.

Her parents looked shocked at her words. "Jill," John said firmly, "I've said no to Mr. Kingsley. That is the end of the discussion."

"No," she said, "it's not. I think Jake is offering us a unique opportunity to expand into new areas here. I think we would be unwise to dismiss him without at least a sober consideration of his offer."

"Jill," Laura said, "this is not..."

"I want to do this," Jill said stubbornly. "This is something different than the restaurants and the hardware stores that are barely in the black. I can do this and I want to do this."

John and Laura were obviously quite upset and embarrassed by the failure of their daughter to provide a united family front. "Jill," Laura said through clenched teeth, "we can discuss this later. For now, the answer is still no."

"I think we should talk about this now," Jill said. "I think it's time you stopped treating me like an apprentice and started treating me like what I'm supposed to be here — a partner in this firm. I want to take Jake as a client. I think it will be good for the firm in many ways beyond the money he would be paying us. I will take responsibility for his account and I will do all the necessary research on entertainment income."

"What about our other clients?" John asked. "It sounds like Mr. Kingsley's account would take up a considerable amount of time. Our core clients cannot be made to suffer because of this."

"They won't suffer," Jill said. "I'll work whatever hours need to be worked in order to get everything done on time. You should know that."

John reluctantly nodded. "Yes," he said. "I guess I do know that."

"So what's the word?" asked Jake, who had watched the entire discussion the way one watches a tennis match, his head looking from one to the other.

John and Laura looked at each other, having a silent conversation in a way that only long-married couples can. Finally they seemed to reach some sort of consensus. "Okay," John said. "We'll give it a try, Mr. Kingsley."

Jake smiled. "Very good," he said. "I take it that Jill does not rebel against you too terribly often?"

John laughed. "This is the first time," he admitted. "I wasn't quite sure how to handle it."

"I'm sorry, Dad," Jill said, blushing, looking down at the ground, her bravado now safely buried again. "I didn't mean to... I mean I shouldn't have... I mean..."

"It's okay, Jill," John said. "It's obvious you feel strongly about this so we'll let you run with it." He looked sharply over at Jake. "Of course I'll be supervising what occurs to make sure no funny business is being suggested to her."

"Of course," Jake said, nodding. "And, of course, Pauline here will be providing oversight for everything. All of the money comes through her first. You will keep Pauline honest and she will keep you honest and I will go about the lifestyle my talent has graciously provided me with. Shall we talk terms now?"

"We can talk about setting up a date to talk about terms," John said. "Jill and I need to look into just what we're going to be doing and how much work it will entail before we are able to quote a bid for you."

"No need to quote any bids," Jake said. "Let me just tell you what I'm willing to pay and you can take it or leave it."

"Uh... that's not really how we do business, Jake," Jill said shyly. "You see, there's a process we have to go through in which..."

Jake named off a figure to them. It was a figure he had arrived at by polling several of the Los Angeles area CPA firms and getting estimates for their services. He had taken the highest bid, increased it by fifty percent, and that was the number he gave to Jill and her parents. It was an amount that was more than four times what their current biggest client — restaurateur Ralph Polesco — was paying. Their mouths dropped open as they heard it.

"You heard him correctly," Pauline said with a slight frown. "Of course I tried to talk him into offering considerably less but he insisted on that amount."

"What... what exactly is it that you want us to do for that sort of money, Mr. Kingsley?" John asked.

"Just keep track of my finances to the best of your abilities," Jake said. "And most of all, keep honest, both with me and with the IRS."

"And you're willing to pay that much?" Jill asked. "That's what we would have done anyway."

"I know that," Jake said. "Or at least I suspect that, otherwise I wouldn't have come to you in the first place. I'm not a stingy man and I doubt I ever will be. I'm young and I'm kind of new to this whole business of being rich, but my philosophy on the matter is that I should make those who work for me in any way happy with how I'm compensating them. Happy people stay loyal and on the straight and narrow. As Pauline has pointed out to me on several occasions, we're talking about a lot of money here. I want you to be happy that you take care of it for me, to know that I'm paying you very well for what you do. I also don't want you to be tempted to start playing games with me. I don't like games. I can afford to be screwed out of a thousand dollars here and there and, in truth, I probably wouldn't even miss it, but if I ever find out that someone is screwing me in any way — even a little bit — my relationship with that person will end right there forever."

"So you're buying our loyalty?" Laura asked.

Jake shrugged. "If you want to put it that way," he said.

"And you don't plan on asking Jill or us to do anything illegal?" John asked.

"I would never do that," Jake said. "My greatest wish is to never have problems with the IRS as long as I live."

"In that case," John said, "I think we have a deal. Of course our contract will specify that it can be terminated by either party?"

"Of course," Jake said. He held out his hand and there were handshakes all around.

"I'll get a copy of a contract to you by the end of the next business week," Pauline said. "Once it comes back signed and proper, Jake will make arrangements for Jill — and one of you if you so desire — to fly to Los Angeles and start making some sense out of the mess he calls his finances."

Malibu, California

December 6, 1986

The house that Matt Tisdale — lead guitarist for Intemperance — was renting for $6000 per month sat right on a bluff overlooking the beach. It was a 3200 square foot, two-story complete with wraparound redwood decking and situated on an acre of prime, beachfront land in one of the most expensive zip codes in the United States. Matt staffed his house with an elderly Italian cook, an even more elderly Mexican housekeeper, and an elderly Englishman who served as butler.

"Why," Jake asked him once before going out on the Balance Of Power tour, "did you hire nothing but people over sixty to staff your house for you?"

"Well in the first place," he'd replied, "they're all career servants. Louisa has been cooking for rich pricks since she was twenty. Carmen has been cleaning up rich pricks' houses since she was fifteen, and Charles has been opening doors and laying out clothes for rich pricks since he was twenty-five. They know what the fuck they're doing."

"Uh huh," Jake replied. "But what's the real reason?"

Matt had chuckled. "The real reason is I don't want no fuckin' sex going on with my servants. I don't ever wanna get drunk and be horny some night and decide to stick my salami into the fuckin' housekeeper or the cook. If they're old bitches I won't be tempted. And I don't want them fucking each other either. I want nice, sedate, post-menopausal geezers working for me so I won't have no fuckin' soap opera drama going on to detract from my own sex life."

And so far, that was exactly what he'd gotten. Louisa, Carmen, and Charles were the epitome of efficiency and service — even if they were a bit scandalized on a regular basis by some of Matt's wilder exploits — and so far Matt had not fucked any of them, or even tried, and they had not fucked each other.

On the first Saturday of December, three weeks after the end of the tour, Matt threw a party at his house for all of the roadies, sound techs, and security force that had worked the tour and made it the overwhelming and profitable success it had been. Using sixteen thousand dollars of the tour profits Pauline had wired into his account, he had financed an extravaganza complete with open, unlimited bar, valet parking, bartenders, and cocktail waitresses. The side dishes were all provided by one of the most expensive catering services in Los Angeles County but the main dish — barbequed ocean fish — was being supplied by Matt himself. He had shipped to his house over three hundred pounds of frozen marlin and rock cod filets from fish he had caught on his vacation in Cabo San Lucas.

Each of the seventy-eight road crew members (this did not include Greg Gahn, the hypocritical Mormon road manager that National sent with them, nor did it include anyone else who worked directly for National management) had been given two private invitations to the gathering and as of 6:00 PM, there were 143 people in Matt's house, or on the deck, or out on the beach behind the house. They were all drinking Matt's booze, smoking Matt's marijuana, and snorting Matt's cocaine. The stereo system was blaring loudly with Master Of Puppets the latest album by Metallica and the first to achieve something like commercial success. Matt was out on the deck standing before a huge barbeque and flipping the marinated fish fillets at precisely timed intervals. He was working on his eighth beer of the night and smoking his twenty-fourth cigarette of the day when the title cut of the album began to play.

"Yes!" Matt said, dropping the smoke and making a guitar out of his spatula as the main riff began to pound out. "I love these guys! Listen to that fuckin' guitar, Jake! Just when I thought that we were the only ones making any progress in the shitheap that is modern music, a ray of fucking hope comes along. I want to do some heavy palm-muted shit on our next album. I fuckin' love it!"

Jake was standing next to him, sipping from a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette of his own. He was pleasantly drunk and slightly stoned, although he had managed to stay away from the cocaine. "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "You think we could pull something like that off?"

Matt looked insulted at the suggestion. "Can we pull it off?" he asked. "Are you fucking high?"

"Actually, I am," Jake said.

"Oh... yeah, but what are you trying to say? Kirk Hammett is a bad-ass guitarist but I can blow his ass away with one hand tied behind my back and my guitar pick taped to my cock."

"I know that," Jake said, and this was true in all respects, "but will our fans like it if we start doing heavy palm muted shit? I mean we've done basic palm muting on Thrill and Service Me, but nothing like Hammett's. Won't they think we're trying to imitate Metallica?"

"I don't imitate anyone," Matt said self-righteously. "I'm talking about improving on it, making it my own sound. I've been practicing the last few days. When we get together to jam I'll show you some of the riffs I came up with. They're fuckin' tight, dude."

Jake was still doubtful but he nodded, conceding for now. "I'm looking forward to it," he said. "I got two tunes I've been working on too. We still up for a session next week?"

"We'd fuckin' better be," Matt said. "If Darren tries to flake out of it like he did this party I'm gonna kick his ass."

"We're going to have problems with him," Jake said.

"Going to? We already have problems with that asshole. He barely said a word to any of us during the whole fuckin' tour, just moped around, drinking and smoking and eating. He stopped moving around on stage, his voice on harmony sounded like shit, and when he did talk it was just to whine about something."

"Usually his damn ear," Jake said. Near the end of the Thrill Of Doing Business tour in 1984 a pyrotechnic explosion onstage injured Darren, who had been drunk and stoned at the time. He had suffered second-degree burns over a good portion of his body and his right eardrum had been massively ruptured. It was the burns that got Darren started on the injectible narcotic painkiller Demerol but it was the chronic ear pain that remained after the burns had healed that had eventually led him down the road to heroin use and a hefty addiction that had included Coop — their drummer — as well. It was only after the new contract had taken effect that Jake, Matt, and Bill had been able to force the two of them into rehab at the Betty Ford Clinic by threatening to kick them out of the band. Both had been off the heroin ever since and Coop seemed to have recovered nicely and was now back to his old self. Darren, on the other hand, had been nothing but resentful ever since and still, to this day, had yet to admit that he'd even had a problem with the drug.

"Yeah," Matt said, "his fuckin' ear. I'd like to stick a screwdriver in that goddamn ear and show him what pain is really all about."

"He's hardly left his condo since we've been back," Jake said. "He's still got that same spy for National Records working as his manservant and he's still going into debt because he's living outside his means."

"I think we need to sit his ass down and have a talk with him," Matt suggested. "All of us, maybe Pauline too. He needs to get his shit together and start being a member of this band like he used to be or his ass is out of here. There's a million bass players out there who'd love to take his place."

"How about on the flight to New York next Friday?" Jake suggested.

"We're going private, right?" Matt asked.

"Hell yeah," Jake said. "NBC is paying for it too. That was part of the deal Pauline worked for us to appear on Saturday Night Live. Fifty grand for the band, deluxe accommodations at the Plaza Hotel, and private air travel to and from."

"That sister of yours is all fucking right. Remember last time we were on SNL? They fuckin' flew us down on a flight that had to make two connections because National wanted us to get mobbed in four airports and then they put us up in some fleabag place in Queens."

"And we didn't get a fuckin' dime for any of it," Jake said. "I remember."

"National sure got paid well for that gig though," Matt said. "Are they getting a cut of this one too?"

"Of course they are. They own the rights to the songs. They don't do anything for free."

"How much are they getting?"

"We're not privy to that," Jake said. "It's a private matter between NBC and National is what they told Pauline."

"Fuckin' scumbags," Matt said. "I bet they're pullin' in a hundred grand for doing absolutely nothing."

"That's the way they like to make money," Jake agreed. "So anyway, we should have enough alone time with Darren to have a talk with him. Hopefully he'll listen this time."

"Yeah, hopefully," Matt said. "I wouldn't count on it though. My guess is we'll be looking for a new bass player soon. If he keeps acting the way he's been acting while we're trying to put together the next album, I'll sure as shit vote to send his ass packing."

"Me too," Jake agreed. "But I think he's still salvageable. He tends to change his act when he knows we're serious about kicking him out."

Matt shrugged and flipped a few more of his fish fillets. "Time will tell," he said. "Time will fuckin' tell."

Later that night, while Matt was enthusiastically fucking the girlfriend of one of the sound technicians while the tech was passed out in a lounge chair on the beach, and while and outrageously drunk Jake was playing a game of quarters with six other people at Matt's dining room table, Darren Appleman was in the Flamingo Club in Hollywood, talking to a skinny, wanna-be actress he'd just met.

This was Darren's first outing since returning from the tour. All of the other evenings he'd spent sitting on his living room couch, smoking marijuana and cigarettes, drinking booze, and occasionally snorting up a few lines of high-grade cocaine. The drugs and the booze helped a little with the black depression he'd been in for the past twelve months but not nearly enough. He knew what he needed to lift the depression but he'd never quite had the nerve to go get it. On this night, however, the depression had lifted a little of its own accord, just enough for him to realize that he was fucking horny. He hadn't been laid since their last concert in Seattle three weeks before.

The Flamingo Club was one of the places that the band had always frequented in the past. It was full of hot women who were always willing to go home with someone from the band Intemperance — even the least important member of the group: Darren. His plan was to scope out the available prospects and make his move quickly, getting the bitch back to his place so he could fuck her and then send her on her way. At that point he could go back to smoking his weed and playing his video games, just like he did every night.

The skinny, wanna-be actress was named Allison and she had fawned all over Darren from the moment he'd asked her to dance. She had been inseparable from him ever since, enjoying six drinks at Darren's expense and four lines of coke from his supply.

"So whadaya think?" Darren asked her as he drained the last of his Chivas and Coke. "Feel like heading over to my place for a little bit?"

Allison smiled. "I thought you'd never ask," she said. "But... well, there's one thing we could maybe do before we leave. If you don't mind, that is?"

"Anything, baby," he told her, stroking her thigh under the hem of her micro-mini.

"I could use a little blackball, you know what I mean? You think maybe you can get us some to... you know... put us in the mood?"

"Blackball?" Darren asked. He had never heard that particular term before.

"Yeah," she said. "Black tar? Haven't you ever done any?"

Darren licked his lips a little. "Isn't that... you know... like heroin?"

"Well... it's kind of like heroin, but not really," she said. "You don't have to shoot it up."

"You don't?"

"No," she said. "I don't shoot it at all. It's hard to get acting jobs when you have track marks on your arms. I just smoke it."

"Smoke it?" He had never heard of such a thing.

"Hell yeah," she said. "You just put it in a bong like it was some bud and burn it. It's a bitchin' rush. You just gotta try it, Darren. I'm telling you, it's the shit."

Darren's mind went through a brief struggle as the rational part — which was being suppressed by alcohol — tried to tell him that black tar was heroin and that even if he didn't inject it, heroin was heroin. The irrational part — the part that controlled his penis among other things — immediately countered this with two very compelling arguments. In the first place, black tar was not really heroin, right? The heroin he used to do was white powder that he'd liquefied with a candle and a spoon and then injected into his veins. This was black tar she was talking about. In the second place, she wasn't talking about injecting it, she was talking about smoking it. If you smoked it, it really couldn't be the same thing as heroin, could it? He wouldn't really be violating the agreement he'd made with the band, would he? Besides, even if he was, what right did those fuckheads Jake and Matt and Bill have to dictate what he could and couldn't do on his days off. They really had no fucking right at all, did they?

"You know someone who's got some?" he asked.

"Damn right," she said. "You see Johnny over there? The guy I was talking to a little earlier?"

Darren looked and saw a tall, well-dressed man with neatly cropped hair and watching eyes. "Yeah," he said. "I see him."

"He's a dealer. You give me a hundred bucks and I'll get enough blackball to keep us feeling good all fucking night."

The hundred dollar bill was out of his wallet in seconds. Allison carried it over to Johnny and spoke a few words with him. They disappeared off into a corner of the club, out of Darren's sight. A few minutes later, Allison returned, smiling happily.

"I got it," she said. "You ready to leave?"

"Bet your ass," he said.

They rode in Darren's limo back to his condo just outside of Hollywood. Cedric, his manservant, was already in bed when they entered. Darren took just enough time to show Allison his luxury condo — which she predictably oohed and ahhed over — and then they retired to his bedroom. Darren pulled out his trusty water bong and a lighter and they sat on the edge of his bed.

Allison opened up the baggie and pulled out a small, sticky ball of black, tarry stuff that smelled like vinegar. She put it in the bowl of the bong for him and told him to fire up.

"You'll have to hit a little harder than you do with pot," she advised. "It's kind of like smoking hash."

"Cool," Darren said, feeling a little better about this when she compared it to hashish, which he'd smoked many times in his life. He flicked his Bic and put it to the small ball in the bowl, sucking hard. The ball burned with a crackling noise. The pungent smoke went up the neck and into his lungs. He held it in. Almost immediately he felt the nostalgic sensation of warmth spreading through his body — it wasn't exactly the same as when he'd shot China White into his veins, not quite as intense — but it was close.

"You like it?" Allison asked, already rolling up another little ball for herself.

"Fuck yeah," he said, smiling, feeling the depression starting to lift from his being.

In all they took three hits apiece. Instead of fucking they both just laid on the bed for hours, staring at the ceiling and basking in the sensation of opiate intoxication. Darren was already thinking that he'd have to go to the Flamingo a little more often and get to know Johnny better.