Standing On Top

Chapter 12a

Newport Beach, California

May 22, 1989, 11:00 AM

Jake had finally made the decision to get rid of the Corvette that Mindy Snow had bought him years before. It had been an agonizing decision. Though the relationship with Mindy was a semi-painful, semi-lurid memory, he had truly loved that car. But, after almost six years and ninety thousand miles of being driven hard and well, the car was starting to fall apart. The interior was trashed and worn, the paint was fading and chipped, and some major component in the engine would fail every two thousand miles or so, requiring costly and time-consuming repairs. And so, with a heavy heart, he had let it go, selling it for an absurdly large amount of money — more than three times the Kelly Blue Book for that model, year, and mileage — to a collector who wanted to own a genuine Jake Kingsley vehicle.

He had debated buying another Corvette to replace it but had reluctantly decided that another maintenance intensive sports car was not something he wanted to deal with at this stage of his life. After considerable deliberation over different makes, models, and styles of automobile, he finally decided he wanted a high-end luxury car, something that would haul ass if he wanted it to, but that would also have a reliable, low-maintenance engine, comfortable seating, and all the bells and whistles that someone with his income would expect from a motor vehicle.

He was behind the wheel of his choice now. It was a royal blue, 1989 BMW 750 iL. It was the top of the line model for BMW and it was loaded with virtually every accessory available. The sticker price, which Jake had paid in cash, had been sixty-four thousand dollars. It featured leather seats that were electrically adjustable and heated, a $2000 Blaupunkt sound system complete with twelve-CD changer and six speakers, and a twelve cylinder, five liter engine that produced three hundred horsepower and was capable of propelling the car to speeds of one hundred and seventy miles per hour. Not quite as fast as Matt's Maserati, but pretty damn close. He had picked the car up just two days before. The odometer was now showing ninety-three miles on it, more than half of which had been put on during this trip to Newport Beach. As Jake felt the smooth handling of the car, as he felt the barely restrained power of its engine, as he listened to the virtual absence of outside noise that the sound insulation gave him, he thought that maybe he could fall just as much in love with this car as with the Corvette.

He was a little nervous about the trip itself, however. He was on his way to the Gallahad Gardens Correctional Institute to visit Matt, who had been incarcerated there for a week now. Three days after returning home from their international tour, Matt had had his sentencing hearing before Judge Waters and officially received his punishment for the little incident back in November. He had gone in on May 15 and, assuming he did not get into any trouble (something that was doubtful, considering it was Matt they were talking about here), he would accrue one "good time day" for each actual day he served and be released on June 29. And though the GGCI, as it was known, was a privately run jail facility that was reputed to be worlds apart from the county facility Matt could have ended up in if not for the plea bargain, it was still a jail. Jake had been in jail three times in his life — once in Texarkana, once in New York City, and once in Cincinnati — and his memories were of orange suits, horrible food, bars on the doors and windows, guards who liked to thump on people with telephone books, and absolutely no privacy of any kind. He knew that Matt had to be miserable in there and Jake himself was not looking forward to entering such a stifling environment, even as a visitor.

He was on Highway 1, just outside of Newport Beach and just west of Costa Mesa. This part of the coast was very hilly and rugged. As the highway crested one of the hills, giving a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean, Jake found himself driving alongside an ornate wrought iron fence surrounded with shrubbery. The fence was about ten feet high and small signs every fifty feet or so proclaimed that there was no trespassing as this was private property. Since the turn-off to the entrance of the GGCI was supposed to be less than half a mile in front of him, Jake was forced to conclude that he was looking at the security fence for the facility. He found it strange that there was no razor wire atop the fence, no chain link beyond it. If someone wanted to escape from the facility it would be child's play to scale the fence.

Exactly half a mile from the first sighting of the fence, a paved access road led off to the northeast from Highway 1. A simple sign with an arrow proclaimed that this was the Gallahad Gardens Correctional Institute and that you should turn right if you wanted to go there. Jake turned right onto the road, which was lined with date palms on both sides. Another sign told him there was a guard booth ahead and that all visitors much check in and were subjected to search. His nervousness ramped up a few notches. He was entering a goddamn prison.

The first surprise of the day came when he stopped at the guard booth. It was a simple glass and steel booth with two men inside of it. They were not wearing the uniforms of prison guards, but were instead dressed in suits and ties. They carried no weapons upon them. Their faces were neatly groomed and their expressions were subservient instead of interrogating.

"Good morning, sir," one of them greeted Jake as he stopped and rolled down his window. "Are you here to visit one of our guests?"

"Your guests?" Jake asked.

"Yes, sir," the guard said. "If you'll forgive my impertinence, I do recognize you, sir. You are Jake Kingsley, correct?"

"Uh... yeah," Jake said. "I am."

"Then you would be here to visit Mr. Tisdale?"

"Yeah, that's right," Jake said.

"Very good," the guard said, tapping a few things on a computer screen. "I have you registered as a visitor today. You may proceed to the visitor parking area. Just follow this road and there will be signs in front of the main entrance."

"Uh... okay," Jake said.

The guard pushed a button and the gate slid open, allowing him access. Jake was puzzled. Weren't they going to look under his car with a mirror on a pole? Weren't they going to check his identification? Weren't they going to look through his trunk?

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Kingsley?" the guard asked.

"Uh... no," he said. "I guess not."

He dropped the BMW into first gear and pulled forward. The access road wound through a small grove of trees and then came out into the open ground on the other side of it. Now Jake was able to see the prison grounds for the first time. It looked absolutely nothing like a penal institution. The main building was a sprawling, eight-story complex of classic Spanish architecture. There were lots of windows on the building. It looked more like a luxury hotel than anything else. Surrounding the main building were acres of meticulously groomed lawns, gardens, tree groves, and even a putting green and a row of tennis courts. There were no gun towers anywhere that he could see, no guards roaming around with rifles.

The access road led him to a large circular driveway in front of the main entrance. A sign here read VISITORS AND NEWLY ARRIVING GUESTS, PLEASE WAIT HERE FOR VALET SERVICE.

"Freakin' valet service?" Jake muttered. "You gotta be shittin' me."

They weren't shitting him. The moment he stopped his car, two men dressed in the same style of suit as the gate guard emerged from a small booth beside the building. They walked over and opened Jake's door for him.

"Welcome to GGCI, Mr. Kingsley," the first man said politely. "I am Richard. The admission booth let us know you were on the way up."

"Uh... thanks," Jake said, slowly stepping out.

Richard handed him a claim ticket. "I'll park your car in the visitor lot for you," he said. "Daniel here will escort you inside to the visitor check-in desk."

"Sure," Jake said. "Sounds good."

"Nice car, Mr. Kingsley," Daniel said with obvious sincerity. "It appears to be new?"

"Yes, I just picked it up the other day."

"You have excellent taste in automobiles," Richard told him. "And don't worry. I'll take great care of it."

"Thanks," Jake said.

Richard climbed behind the wheel and drove off with Jake's car. When he was gone, Daniel said, "If you'll follow me, Mr. Kingsley."

Jake followed him. They went through a set of doors and entered a spacious lobby. Once again, the impression was that this was a luxury hotel instead of a jail. There were no bars on any of the windows, no security cameras anywhere, no one in a uniform of any kind. All of the male staff members in view wore suits and all of the female staff members wore business dresses. Jake was led past a marble fountain to a desk labeled VISITOR CHECK-IN. PLEASE HAVE PICTURE IDENTIFICATION READY. The desk was staffed by a young, attractive woman in her late twenties. She gave Jake a friendly, professional smile as he approached.

"I'll leave you here, Mr. Kingsley," Daniel said.

"Okay, thanks," Jake said.

Daniel gave a polite little nod and then retreated back the way he'd come. Jake looked back at the woman.

"Good morning, sir," she greeted. "Are you here to visit one of our guests?"

"Yes I am," Jake said. "I'm here to see Matt Tisdale."

"Of course," she said politely. "You're Mr. Kingsley. I thought I recognized you. May I see your identification please?"

He pulled out his wallet and removed his driver's license from it. He handed it across to her and she quickly typed his name into the computer before her desk. She handed it back and then typed something else. After peering at her screen for a moment she said, "Mr. Tisdale is currently in Lounge C. I'll have one of our counselors escort you to him."

"You mean... I'm going inside?" Jake asked. "Isn't there like a visiting area where we talk to each other through glass and all that?"

She chuckled a little. "No, sir," she said. "We don't have anything like that here. We have an open visitation policy for our guests." She punched a button on her phone, waited a few seconds, and then picked it up. "John," she said into it. "I have Mr. Kingsley here to visit Mr. Tisdale, who is currently in Lounge C. Would you escort him over there? Okay, thanks." She hung up the phone.

Jake was now feeling considerable anxiety. They wanted him to go inside the prison? To be in the same proximity as the convicts? Was that safe?

A mid-thirties Hispanic man suddenly appeared beside him. He was dressed in the requisite three-piece suit. He had a polite smile on his face. "Mr. Kingsley?" he said.

"Yes," Jake affirmed.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," John told him. "I've enjoyed your music for years."

"Thank you," Jake said.

"I'll take you to Mr. Tisdale. If you'll just follow me?"

"Sure," Jake said slowly.

John led him past the fountain again and to a doorway that was guarded by another suited counselor and a metal detection frame. Jake expected that they would make him empty his pockets out and then they would search him. They did no such thing. They simply had him walk through the metal detector and, when that triggered no alarm, John opened the door and led him into a lushly carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings.

"This is just too weird," Jake said as he followed behind.

They passed a bank of elevators, several offices, and several doors marked as storage or break room or things like that. Finally they came to a sliding glass door marked LOUNGE C. They walked through and Jake found himself looking at circular room about the size of a skating rink. Several pool tables, pinball machines, shuffleboard courts, and dart boards took up one side of the room. A bandstand, currently empty, stood on the other side. In the middle were wooden card tables of all shapes and sizes. There were thirty or so men that Jake was finally able to identify as prisoners in the room. They did not wear standard prison garb like orange jumpsuits or denim pants and shirts. Instead, they wore fashionable khaki slacks, tennis shoes, and handsome white polo shirts with GGCI stenciled on the breast. Many of the prisoners had visitors with them — dressed in standard street clothes like Jake — including women. Two or three of the suited staff skirted around the edge of the room, looking very subservient and non-threatening.

"This is a prison, right?" Jake had to ask John.

"It's a private correctional institute," John corrected. "We find the word 'prison' to be very offensive here."

"I see," Jake said, still tying to process it all.

John looked around for a few moments and finally spotted Matt near the far end of the room. He led Jake over to where his friend was playing a game of pool with three other men.

"I'll leave you now, Mr. Kingsley," John told him. "When you're ready to leave just have Mr. Tisdale lead you back to the door you came in through."

"Right," Jake said. "Thanks."

"Jake!" Matt said gladly, setting his cue stick down and walking over to greet him. "It's good to see you, brother! How the hell are you?"

"I'm good," Jake said, shaking with him. "How are you doing? It looks like you're doing some hard time here."

"Yeah," Matt said. "This place is something else, ain't it? Thank God I'm a rich motherfucker."

"Amen to that," one of fellow pool players said. The other two chuckled.

"Let me introduce you to the guys," Matt said, leading him over to the table. He pointed to a middle-aged man with graying hair. "Jake, this is Ernest Willington. He's a real estate developer here in Orange County."

"Nice to meet you," Jake said. "You look familiar to me."

Willington gave a chuckle. "You probably saw me on the news last year. It's nice to meet you, Jake."

"Ernie's the guy that got popped by the grand jury for bribing one of the county supervisors to get him to change a zoning law," Matt said.

"I told you, Matt," Ernest said with a humorous whisper and a slight jab of his elbow into Matt's side. "That was a campaign contribution. Fred just forgot to report it."

"I got them to change that zoning for you though, didn't I?" asked one of the other players, this one in his late thirties. He and Ernest both had a friendly laugh over this.

"And this," Matt said, indicating the man who had just spoken, "is Fred Basil, the county supervisor in question. He's doing some time for taking the bribe."

"Campaign contribution," Fred said with a grin. He turned to Jake. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm not much of a rock music fan, but your friend here is a breath of fresh air in this place."

"He does have a way of livening a place up, doesn't he?" Jake said.

Matt then pointed to a tall, skinny man in his early forties. "And this geeky looking motherfucker here," he said, "is none other than Bobby Smithson. Remember him from last year?"

"Oh yeah," Jake said, recognizing him now that he was looking at him. "I remember." Smithson had been the CEO of a major Orange County manufacturing corporation. The previous year he had been caught siphoning money from his company's pension fund into a private account in the Grand Caymans. In all, it was estimated that he had screwed his employees out of almost sixteen million dollars. He had pled guilty to grand theft and wire fraud and had been sentenced to a year in jail. And here he was, doing his time in this miserable place.

"It's nice to meet you, Jake," Smithson told him, shaking his hand. "Matt was telling me that you musicians don't have any sort of retirement fund."

"Uh... well... yeah, that's right," Jake said.

"Maybe I could help you guys set one up," Smithson said. "I have a lot of experience in that area."

Jake looked at him in disbelief for a moment and then all four of the prisoners started cracking up.

"Holy fucking shit, Smitty," Matt said, clapping him on the back. "That was a good one. Did you see the look on Jake's face when you said that shit?"

"Hey," said Smithson. "Who says I was kidding?"

This caused another round of laughter. This time, Jake reluctantly joined in.

"Let me finish kicking Smitty's ass here and then I'll show you my cell," Matt said.

"Sure," Jake said.

They were playing eightball and Matt already had most of the stripes in while Smitty had five of his solids still on the table. Matt quickly and efficiently sank his last two but didn't have a shot on the eightball. Smitty managed to sink one solid but then flubbed his next shot, causing the cue ball to drop into a corner pocket.

"That's your ass, boy," Matt told him as he retrieved the ball and placed it on the table. "Corner pocket," he said, pointing with his cue stick. Smitty nodded, resigned to his fate.

Matt lined up almost carelessly and shot the cue into the eight. It struck with an authoritative clack and the eight shot across the table where it dropped into the pocket dead center.

"Damn," Smitty said, shaking his head good naturedly.

"That's two grand you owe me now," Matt told him.

"Will you take a check?" Smitty asked, causing another round of laughter to erupt.

"All right then," Matt said, putting his cue back in a rack next to the table. "I'll catch you corrupt motherfuckers later."

All three of them told Jake they were glad to meet him and then began racking up a new game.

"Come on, Jake," Matt said. "Let me show you the misery I have to live in."

"Is it okay for me to go to your cell?" Jake asked.

"Hell yeah," Matt said. "I'm paying eighteen grand a week for this fuckin' place. They'd better let me have visitors. Follow me."

Jake followed him. They went to one of the side doors where one of the suited counselors was manning a check-in booth.

"Back up to your room, Mr. Tisdale?" he asked.

"Fuckin' aye," Matt said.

"Very good, sir," the counselor told him. He opened the door, revealing yet another hallway.

"It looks like they're treating you well," Jake observed as they walked.

"Yeah," Matt said with a shrug. "It beats the shit out of the Orange County jail, or the Texarkana jail. If you gotta do time, this is the way to do it."

"Do all of the guards wear suits here?"

"They don't like to be called 'guards'," Matt warned. "They're rehabilitating us, remember? They like it if you refer to them as counselors."

"I see," Jake said.

They reached an elevator and Matt pushed the call button. When it arrived, they stepped inside and he pushed the button for the sixth floor. The car rose smoothly and quickly upward. When it reached six, the doors slid open and they were standing before another "counselor" before another computer terminal. This one was vaguely Asian looking and only in his late twenties.

"Gene, my man!" Matt said, stepping out and holding out his right hand.

"What's up, Matt?" Gene replied, slapping his hand into Matt's. They gripped each other in several different ways and then slammed their fists together.

"My dick, like always," Matt replied. He turned to Jake. "This is Gene. He's the day shift counselor for this floor. He's the one that makes sure we hardened criminals stay in our cages."

"We have to beat Matt sometimes to keep him in line," Gene said. He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm a big fan of Intemperance. Matt's been teaching me some stuff on the guitar."

"Well... uh, he's the one to learn from," Jake said.

"That ain't no shit," Gene agreed.

"Can you unlock my door for me, Gene?" Matt asked.

Gene reached down and pushed a button on his control panel. "Done," he said.

"Thanks, Gene," Matt said. "C'mon, Jake. Let's go check out my pad."

They walked down another carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings. Doors were spaced every thirty feet or so. They did not look like prison cell doors. There were no bars, no slots, no locking mechanisms. Instead, each one looked like a standard, everyday hotel door.

"This is F wing," Matt told him. "It's a little nicer than D and C wing, but not as nice as G and H wing."

"Who decides what wing you get to stay in?" Jake asked.

Matt rubbed his thumb and middle finger together — the universal sign for money. "That's what determines it," he said. "You get what you pay for."

"I see," Jake said.

They stopped at a door labeled 647. M. TISDALE was printed on a plaque below the door number. Matt reached down turned the doorknob, opening the door and leading Jake into his cell.

"Jesus Christ, Matt," Jake said as he got a look around. "This is a jail cell?"

"That's what they tell me," Matt said.

The room was nothing more nor less than a standard hotel suite, not as nice as the ones the band typically stayed in on tour, but much nicer than a standard room. There was at least twelve hundred square feet of living area. The door opened up onto a sitting room complete with a large screen television, stereo system, refrigerator, and leather furniture. A large window at the front of the room provided a view of the facility's front lawn, Highway 1 passing beyond it, and the Pacific Ocean beyond that.

"There's no kitchen in here," Matt said apologetically. "Cooking is not allowed in the rooms. Some fuckin' state law or something. But check out this bedroom."

He led Jake down a short hallway and into an impressive master suite. There was a king size, adjustable bed, another television set hanging from the wall, and a walk-in closet (which was full of nothing but khaki pants and GGCI polo shirts). Another doorway opened to a spacious bathroom complete with oversized tub and a glass walled shower.

"What do you think?" Matt asked when the tour was done and they went back into the sitting room.

"Let's just say that I'm appalled by the cruel and inhuman conditions you have to put up with in here. Should I start planning your escape?"

"Yeah," Matt said with a grin. "I'm not sure I can take much more of this." He walked over to the refrigerator. "You want a drink?"

"What do you got?" Jake asked.

"All the usual stuff. I got some Coronas, some Steinlager, some of those fruity fuckin' drinks that Kim likes."

"They let you have beer in here?" Jake said, astonished.

"Sure," he said. "There ain't no law against having booze in a penal institution. It's just the most of them don't let you have it. I also have rum, vodka, tequila, and some Jack up here in the liquor cabinet, plus all the standard mixers." He pointed to a set of closed doors above the refrigerator. "There's an icemaker in the fridge, so you can have it on the rocks if you want."

Jake was now beyond being surprised. "Sure," he said. "I'll have a Corona. I assume you have limes for it?"

"But of course," Matt said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out two bottles and a bowl of lime slices. He opened them with an opener stuck to the side of the refrigerator by a magnet, dropped in the limes, and then carried them over to the leather furniture.

Jake took one of the beers and sank down into a surprisingly comfortable armchair. "Well," he told Matt after taking a sip of his beer, "I certainly hope you're learning your lesson about violating the law."

"Yeah," Matt said with a chuckle. "I'm learning my lesson well in here. Hey, you hungry?"

"Uh... a little, I guess."

"They got some premo chow in this place. Let me get some up here." He picked up the phone next to the couch and dialed a number. "Gene? Matt. Hey, dude, how about having them send up an order of those buffalo chicken wings and some ranch dressing? And maybe an order of them deep fried calamari strips too." He listened for a moment. "Thanks, dude. Have 'em put a rush on it, will you? We're fuckin' starvin' up here." Another pause. "You the man, Gene." He hung up the phone.

"You have room service?" Jake said blandly.

"For eighteen grand a week? You bet your ass I got fuckin' room service."

Jake simply shook his head, pondering the American system of justice. While his father was fighting to keep common state prisoners from being treated like cattle or medical experiments, those with money were living in luxury prisons with room service and full service bars.

"So how are things on the outside?" Matt asked. "I saw on that Celebrity Insight show the other night that Nerdly is still engaged to that snatch he's been pounding. You haven't been able to talk him out of it yet?"

"It's not my place to talk Nerdly out of marrying anyone," Jake said. "He says he's in love, that he's found his soulmate. And now he wants to spend the rest of his life with her in a state of legally sanctioned cohabitation."

"Fuckin' love," Matt said with a shake of his head. "He's setting himself up to ruin his whole goddamn life, and probably a few future lives to boot."

Jake simply shrugged. "That's his right, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Matt said.

In fact, Jake had questioned Nerdly rather thoroughly about his engagement to Sharon. This had taken place while they'd still been out on the tour of Europe, on the flight from Paris to Marseille. It was during this conversation that Nerdly — his oldest friend — had convinced him that he wasn't feeling mere infatuation for Sharon, that he was in actual love with her, that he really did want to marry her, that he wanted nothing more out of life than to breed with her. His plan had been to fly to Las Vegas immediately upon their return to the United States and legalize their nuptials in the first chapel they came upon.

"At least I was able to talk him out of that quick wedding he was going for," Jake said to Matt.

"That was a stroke of genius on your part," Matt agreed, taking a long pull of his beer. "Telling him that his bitch would always resent him for the quick wedding."

"Well," Jake admitted, "part of that was to slow him down a little — that is true — but mostly I was being honest with him there. We all know that chicks live for the wedding, and if he were to give her the thirty dollar special in some sleazy chapel on the strip when he was a multi-millionaire who could afford her dream wedding, eventually Sharon would end up resenting him for it."

Matt shrugged this off as if it were unimportant, which, to him, it was. "Whatever your reasoning, you did good. Hopefully the extra time will let him have a few second thoughts before he destroys his life."

"He hasn't had them yet," Jake said. "The wedding is set for October 31 in the McAndrew's Park rose garden in downtown Heritage. I'm gonna be the best man. You, Coop, Darren, and Charlie are gonna be the groomsmen."

"Really?" Matt said, seemingly touched that the man he'd derided and teased ever since the first day he'd met him actually wanted him to be a groomsman.

"Really," Jake said. "And did I tell you that Nerdly is planning to convert to Judaism?"

Matt blinked. "Nerdly wants to become a Jew?" he said slowly.

"That's what he tells me," Jake confirmed. "He's been studying up on it ever since we came back from tour. He stopped eating pork, started reading the Torah, and he even got himself a yarmulke."

"What in the fuck is up with that shit?" Matt demanded. "Nerdly's a fuckin' atheist! He's told us ten thousand times that logic does not support the existence of an omnipotent deity!"

"Yes, he did say that," Jake agreed. "But apparently Sharon's parents are opposed to her marrying a man who is not Jewish."

"So he's gonna practice a religion he doesn't believe in just to marry this bitch?"

"I think it started out that way," Jake said. "But as he's studied up on the religion and everything associated with it, I think he started to get into it. He'll go on and on for hours about it when you talk to him now. I think he likes everything about it except for the part about there being a God. That's kind of where his worlds collide."

"He's a fuckin' nutcase," Matt said, shaking his head in wonder. "He's the one that should be locked up, not me."

"And I haven't even told you about their plans for the wedding yet," Jake said.

Matt looked at him suspiciously. "What do you mean?"

Jake took a long drink of his beer and then lit a cigarette. He blew the smoke slowly across Matt's cell. "The ceremony," he said, "is going to be a combination of traditional Jewish wedding, with a few Christian influences, and..." Jake trailed off, unsure how to say this last part.

"And what?" Matt demanded.

"And... uh... Star Trek," he finally spit out.

Matt looked at him in disbelief. "Star Trek?"

"The Next Generation, to be exact. Apparently both he and Sharon are quite taken with that show. He's even planning to invite Patrick Stewart and LeVar Burton to the wedding."

"I'm afraid to ask," Matt said, "but what exactly takes place at a Star Trek, The Next Generation wedding?"

"It's pretty much the normal Jewish ceremony except for... uh... the way the wedding party dresses."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll be dressed as Star Trek characters," Jake told him. "Nerdly will be Captain Picard. Sharon will be Dr. Crusher. I'll be Commander Riker."

"He wants us to dress up as Star Trek characters?" Matt said in disbelief. "Is he fucking high? There is no way in hell I would ever do something like that."

"You'll do it," Jake said. "You know you will."

"I will not!" Matt said. "I'll be burned at the fuckin' stake before I dress up in some fucking science fiction outfit and pretend to be some asshole from a stupid ass show! That's humiliating!"

"You'll do it," Jake said. "Because if you don't, Nerdly will tell you that you don't have a hair on your ass for the rest of your life. And... he'll be right."

Matt was gritting his teeth now. "That motherfucker," he said. "He would do that, wouldn't he?"

"You know it."

Matt sighed in resignation. "Who will I have to dress as?"

"You get to be Worf," Jake told him.

This seemed to mollify Matt a little bit. "Well... at least I get to play the baddest ass motherfucker on the show."

"He thought you'd be pleased with his selection," Jake said.

"I'm not putting on any makeup though," Matt warned. "That is absolutely where I draw the fuckin' line."

"You won't have to wear the makeup," Jake assured him.

"All right," Matt said. "I'll tell him I'm in the next time I see him."

"There is one thing I'm a little worried about though," Jake said.

"What's that?"

"He's not planning on having her sign a prenup."

Matt looked at him as if he were joking. "No prenup? What is he? A fucking moron? He's not really stupid enough to marry some bitch without making her sign a prenup, is he?

"He is," Jake said. "He told me that since he and Sharon are 'compatible on the sub-atomic level', there is no need to worry about what might happen if they part ways. In his view, he and Sharon divorcing is 'as likely as general relativity being proven an unsound hypothesis'."

"That means unlikely, right?"

"Right."

"I think he's being naïve," Matt said. "How does he know this Sharon bitch ain't getting set up to hose him? I mean, that Mindy Snow bitch fooled you, didn't she?"

"Yeah," Jake said sourly. "She did. For a while anyway."

"And you knew a thing or two about women when that happened. Nerdly don't know shit. He's bagged his share of bitches, of course, but only since he started playing in the band with us. He was a fuckin' virgin before we did that first gig at D Street West, remember?"

"I remember," Jake said. "He'd never even gotten his hand on a tit before that."

"Exactly," Matt said. "He's never earned a bitch on his own merits before. I don't think he knows the underhandedness and deceit your average bitch is capable of when it comes to latching onto a man with money and fame."

"I don't know," Jake said. "Helen and I spent a lot of time with Nerdly and Sharon when we were out on tour. It's not my impression that she's trying to put one over on him. I really think she loves him."

Matt rolled his eyes upward. "And you proclaim to love Helen, don't you?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "I do."

"And you're pretty sure she loves you? That she's not just acting the way you want her to because you're Jake Kingsley?"

"I know she's not," Jake said.

"And for what it's worth, I think you're right. I was around you two enough on tour to see that something clicked between you and her. But even with all that, if you were going to marry her, wouldn't you make her sign a prenup first?"

"Yes," Jake said without hesitation. "I wouldn't dream of tying the knot with her, or with any woman, without one."

"And that's my point," Matt said. "Nerdly's a fool if he goes without the prenup. No matter what they feel for each other now, what's gonna happen in two years, or in five years, if they end of falling out of love and splitting up?"

"She'll get half of his shit," Jake said. "That's what will happen."

There was a discreet knock at the door. Matt looked over at it and yelled, "Bring it on!"

The door opened and a young woman of about twenty entered the room carrying a large serving platter with a stainless steel cover over it. She was an unnatural blonde, very cute and well built. She wore a cocktail waitress outfit that showed off both her cleavage, and a gorgeous set of legs clad in fishnet stockings.

"Wassup, Laurie?" Matt hailed. "You're looking good enough to eat, as usual."

"Thanks, Matty," she said with a sexy smile. "How many more days?"

"Thirty-seven," he told her.

"Mmmm, I can't wait."

"Me either, baby," Matt said. "Me either. "You got some grub for us?"

"I sure do," she said brightly. "Where do you want it?"

"Right here is fine," he said, indicating the glass coffee table before them.

She set the tray down on the table and then glanced at Jake, her eyes moving appreciably up and down his body. She gave a polite little cough in Matt's direction.

"Oh... right," Matt said. "Sorry. Laurie, this is Jake Kingsley. Jake, Laurie Jenkins. She not a counselor. She's on the kitchen staff. She delivers the room service orders and waits the tables at lunch and dinner."

"Nice to meet you, Jake," she said in a sultry voice. "I love your music."

"Thanks," Jake said. "And it's nice to meet you as well."

"Are you gonna be at Matt's getting out party?" she asked him.

Jake shrugged. As of yet, he had not been invited to such a party. "I'm sure I will," he said.

"Mmmm, perfect," she said. "Now I really can't wait."

"Uh... well, actually," Matt said. "Jake will be there, but he won't be involved in that part of the party."

"He won't?" she said, disappointed.

"No," Matt said. "He's one of those freaks who are into monogamy."

"Oh..." she said, as if she didn't quite believe that. "I see. Well, keep it in mind though, huh Jake?"

"Sure," Jake said. "I'll do that."

"Well, I'd better get going, guys. Enjoy your appetizers."

They said their goodbyes to her and she went out the door.

"What was that all about?" Jake asked. "Are you fucking one of the staff members while you're in jail?"

"No, you can't fuck 'em while you're in," Matt told him. "It's against the rules."

"So there are some rules here?"

"A few," Matt said. "You can't leave, you can't fight, you can't do any drugs, and you can't have sex with any of the staff members. Those are the big ones. You get caught doing any of that shit and they kick your ass out and you end up in the county jail system."

"I guess that would be a good motivation," Jake had to admit. "So you're setting up a date with her for when you get out?"

"Yeah," he said, lifting the cover from the serving tray. A fragrant cloud of steam billowed up, revealing a tray of miniature chicken wings smothered in potent red sauce and another tray of deep fried calamari strips. He set the cover aside and picked up a wing, which he dipped in a bowl of ranch dressing. "She's got the major hots for me and she also wants to try it with another chick. So I'm setting up a threesome between me, her, and Kim for when I get out."

"Does Kim know about this?" Jake asked.

"Sure," Matt said. "Laurie was in here the other day when Kim and I were fucking on the couch. We let her watch."

"She... watched you and Kim have sex? Here in your cell?"

"Yeah," Matt said. "It got her really hot too. She pulled up her little skirt and stuck her hand down the front of those fishnet stockings and just played with her pussy the whole time. She fuckin' came right there next to the coffee table. After we were done, Kim licked her fingers for her and then tongue kissed her for a couple of minutes." He shrugged and took a big bite out of his chicken wing. "It was pretty cool," he said around a mouthful of spicy chicken meat.

Jake shook his head. "Like I said before, Matt," he said. "The absolute hell you must be enduring in here."

"Yeah," Matt said, taking a swig of beer to wash his food down. "Prison truly sucks, man. Watch what you do out there. You don't want to end up in a place like this."

Jake left the GGCI shortly after one o'clock. He drove home, parked his BMW in the garage, and then went inside where he took off his clothes and slept off the four beers he'd consumed in Matt's jail cell. Elsa woke him up at four thirty. He took a quick shower, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, and then a mixed a drink in his upstairs bar. He carried it out to his deck to enjoy it with a cigarette.

When he walked out onto the deck to light up he saw that Gerald and Delilah, Elsa's two grandchildren, were frolicking happily in his swimming pool. Now that the warm weather of approaching summer was upon the Los Angeles basin, the two of them were frequent visitors to his home. Jake didn't mind. They were both good kids, intelligent and full of spunk. He loved to listen to them talk as they both used a vocabulary full of American inner-city slang spoken with a distinct British accent. He descended the stairs down to the pool and set his drink down on one of the tables. Gerald, who had been trying to stand up on one of the pool's rafts, was the first to see him.

"Jake!" he greeted. "What time is it with you, my man?"

"Time for a drink, like always," Jake told him.

"I heard you went to go visit your homey in the joint," Gerald said.

"Yep," Jake agreed. "It was a horrible place. You should see the conditions he's forced to live in."

"Did you tell him not to drop the soap in the shower?" Gerald asked.

"Gerald," the seventeen-year-old Delilah cut in, "if Nana be hearin' you say that, she'd be upside your head hard enough to slap them nappies right out of it."

"She would not!" the fifteen-year-old Gerald disagreed. "Everyone be knowin' what goes on in the joint."

"A lot more than that goes on in there, Gerald," Jake warned. "Trust me when I say you don't ever wanna find out."

"I ain't never goin' in the joint, homey," Gerald proclaimed. "Ain't no way they're ever gonna take me down!"

"What they gonna take you down for?" Delilah asked him. "You a nerd! You all in the computer club and on the soccer team. They gonna get you for not rewinding your movies before you take 'em back?"

"Shut up, Delilah!" Gerald shouted angrily. He, like any fifteen-year-old male, did not like having his street cred questioned.

Delilah didn't push the issue. She knew she'd slam dunked that one. "Watch this, Jake," she said, getting out of the pool and mounting the diving board. She took three steps, bounced once on the end, and executed a pretty respectable one and a half somersault dive, leaving very little splash as she entered the water. Her brown body glided along the bottom of the pool before breaking the surface near the shallow end.

"Nice dive," Jake told her, marginally impressed. The first time she'd come over to his house to swim she'd been afraid to even jump off the diving board.

"I'm thinking about joining the dive team when I get to college next year," she said.

"I'd go for it if I were you," Jake said. "You got what it takes, hon."

Delilah grinned, pleased with his praise.

"Hey, Jake," Gerald said. "You run into Bigg-G down at the record company yet?"

Bigg-G was a rapper that National Records had signed three years ago. His first album had gone mostly unnoticed, selling just enough for the A&R department to authorize a second album. The second album was currently the best selling rap album of the past five years, selling huge numbers across multiple demographics. Blacks, whites, and Mexicans from grammar school age to college age were snapping the album up in droves. Jake had never met Bigg-G, did not even know what he looked like (he wasn't even sure what ethnicity the rapper was), and had never heard a single one of his tunes, as he did not consider rap to be actual music. He had, however, promised Gerald and Delilah that he would make an attempt to score a couple of autographed photos of Bigg-G for them if he had occasion to run into him.

"I haven't been down to the National Building since I got back from tour," Jake told him.

"Aww man," Gerald cried. "Well when you gonna be goin' down there?"

"Probably soon," Jake said, finishing up his smoke and crushing it out in an ashtray. "In fact, I'm having a meeting with my accountant and my manager in about ten minutes, so maybe they'll give me a reason to go there."

"That'd be badass if you could score that for us, Jake," Gerald said.

"Totally badass," Delilah agreed, unable to hide her excitement at the very thought.

"I'll see what I can do," he promised again. "Meanwhile, I guess I'd better go make myself presentable for my meeting."