Standing On Top

Chapter 19b

The tour went on. After the third show in Long Beach, the band went to their own homes for the last time. The next morning, limousines took them to a truck stop on Interstate 5 just outside the Los Angeles city limits. Here, the tour caravan had formed up and they climbed onto the dreaded tour bus for the first time in almost two years. The first trip was relatively short. They went to San Diego and did two shows there. The following trip was considerably longer — from San Diego to San Jose, where they were doing another two shows. From San Jose they went to Oakland. From Oakland, they went to Sacramento. From there, they went to Heritage to do their obligatory two shows for their hometown.

By the time they left Heritage, heading for the next date in Portland (and their first extended travel day off), a routine had been established. It was a routine much different from that of previous tours, but a routine nonetheless.

There was not much talking on the tour bus. When they left their respective hotels in the morning, everyone found their own little portion of the bus, usually near their assigned bunk, and they stayed there for the entire trip. Jake and Nerdly sometimes talked to each other, and all of them sometimes had necessary conversations with Greg or one of the bus drivers, but apart from that, it was mostly silence as they rolled down the highways and byways to their next show.

Nothing that could be described as partying occurred on the bus. There was lots of drinking, particularly with Jake, Coop, and Matt, but they drank alone, timing their trips to the bar or the refrigerator so they wouldn't run into each other there. Nerdly and Charlie didn't drink much, although Nerdly liked to smoke marijuana on the bus and whine to Jake about how he didn't think Sharon should have to ride on the roadie bus with the other female technicians (Sharon was officially on the payroll for this tour as the head of concert sound). Charlie generally didn't do anything at all. He laid in his bunk and slept as much as he could.

Once in the city they were playing at, the band would filter off the bus and check into their hotel rooms. Except on the extended travel days, they would usually go immediately to the various radio stations and record stores in order to give interviews, record sound clips, and sign autographs. When at these events, the band looked at it the same way as if they were on stage and pretended to like each other, to be a team. They would lightly josh each other and proclaim that the rumors about their infighting were being wildly exaggerated. They would stand next to each other and pose for pictures, smiling all the while. And then, once they climbed back on the bus, they would resume their normal stances.

When they got to the evening's venue, they would perform the sound check under the direction of Nerdly and Sharon without complaining and without any unnecessary conversation. The only exception to this was when either Jake or Matt (by unspoken rule, they tended to rotate this duty) were forced to tell Mr. and Mrs. Nerdly that the sound was as good as it was going to get and it was time to mark the dials and knobs and call it good.

After the sound check, the band would go to their dressing room and lounge around in their separate corners until it was time to get dressed for the show. The four-hour moratorium on intoxicant use was still in effect but Matt did not need to rigorously enforce it or even mention it. Everyone drank water or tea or Gatorade instead of booze and Jake stopped smoking cigarettes two hours prior to each show to save his voice. When it was time to go backstage and meet the radio contest winners, the radio station personnel, the local media, and all the other people who had, by hook or crook, managed to get their greasy little hands on backstage passes, the band put back on their public faces and pretended to be happy and full of teamwork once again. When that was done, they came back to the dressing room and waited until their opening band — a thrash-metal group National had just signed eight months ago called The Goobers — finished their set.

At 8:30 each night, the band went onstage and did their hour and a half set. They did it well and they left each crowd wanting more when each show was over. They then left the stage and retreated back to the dressing room for more apathy and animosity.

The groupies were still brought back after the band had eaten and showered, but Matt and Coop were the only two who engaged in their services on a nightly basis. They would accept blowjobs in the dressing room and then pick out one or two apiece to accompany them back to their hotel suite. Charlie would usually let one blow him every night (always with two rubbers on his unit and latex gloves on his hands) and, maybe once a week would take one back to the hotel with him. Jake would politely decline any sexual attention from the groupies for two or three days in a row and then, when he started to really crave sex, he would pick one out early and keep her with him for the night, talking to her, asking her about her life, even asking her what her name was. He would then take her back to his hotel and spend the night with her. Try as he might, however, he could never remember their names the next day when he climbed on the bus. Only Nerdly shunned the groupies entirely. He had his wife out on the tour with him and she would always meet him back at his hotel room where they would sleep together and take care of each other's sexual urges. Nerdly was propositioned by the best of them, but he never even came close to giving into the temptation.

For Jake, the only thing that didn't change about the after-show festivities was his drinking. He still made a point of getting hammered every night after every show. It would start in the dressing room as soon as they left the stage. He would drink enough Gatorade to rehydrate himself from the hour and a half of performing under the hot lights and then he would crack open that first beer. Generally it took two or three beers to carry him through his after-show meal and then another five or six while the groupies circulated after the band showered. Once back at the hotel room, whether he had a groupie with him or not, he would hit the mini-bar and drink rum and cokes until one or two in the morning, at which point he would fall drunkenly into bed. On most days, he would be awakened at six-thirty to start the next day. He would order his breakfast with two bloody Marys and would climb onto the bus by eight o'clock, buzzed and tired. He would sleep for two or three more hours on the bus and then start the whole routine over.

On the extended travel days, when they would wake up later and leave later, but had the night off, Jake would climb onto the bus, sleep his two or three hours, and then start hitting the hard stuff while the bus rolled down the road. Usually he was smashed by the time they reached their destination city. A few times, he had to be physically helped off the bus and into his hotel room by Nerdly or one of the bus drivers.

Such was life on the road for the Intemperance tour of 1990.

A break in the routine occurred on February 21, just after the second of two shows in Dallas, Texas. The band ignored each other as usual in the dressing room after the show. Coop and Matt both had their blowjobs and picked out their groupies for the night, as usual. Nerdly went back to his own hotel room without engaging in any sort of flirtation, as usual. Charlie let a skanky redheaded groupie give him a blowjob, as usual, and then, deciding it was one of those nights, he took her back to his room and engaged in a lengthy session of anal sex with her. And Jake, deciding it was not one of those nights, turned down all requests for "getting to know him better" by the groupies. He had his seven or eight beers and then climbed on the bus. That was usual as well. What was unusual was that once at his hotel room, Jake only had two rum and cokes before retiring. He dropped into bed in a condition that could almost be called sobriety for him. The reason for this was that he had to get up at six o'clock the next morning in order to catch a 7:45 AM flight out of DFW going to Los Angeles. Tomorrow was the 32^nd Annual Grammy Awards and, once more, Intemperance was in the running and needed a representative at the ceremony.

Intemperance was only up for one award this time around and it was not for anything off their latest album, Lines On The Map. Since Lines had not been released until late December, nothing on it qualified for this year's Grammy Awards. Instead, the award Intemperance had been nominated for was Best Rock Song By A Duet Or Group for This Life We Live, the ballad about the life of a celebrity that had been one of the hits from their live album of the previous year. Ordinarily, songs from live albums did not qualify for nomination since they were generally re-recorded tunes from previous albums. In the case of This Life, however, it was an original tune that appeared nowhere else and, though never released as a single, it was still receiving extensive airplay from coast to coast.

Of course, the tune didn't have a chance in hell of actually winning the award, not against the likes of The Traveling Wilburys, U2, and, most formidable, the mighty Rolling Stones, but someone had to be there just in case, and, since it was Jake's tune, that someone was Jake — again.

At 7:20 AM, Jake was sitting in the first class departure lounge at DFW. He was dressed in his standard traveling outfit of jeans, baseball cap, and dark sunglasses, and smoking a cigarette. He was debating whether or not to have a bloody Mary before boarding or to wait until he actually got on the plane. He finally decided to go for broke and have the first one now. He could drink all the way home and then catch a nap in his own house before getting up to dress for the ceremony. Sure, he might be a little tired and hung over, but what the hell? You only lived once, right? And this was a mini-vacation away from the tour, wasn't it? Why not enjoy it to the fullest?

Jake walked up to the bar and sat at one of the stools. The bartender was busy mixing up a Bombay martini for a middle-aged businessman in a three-piece suit, so Jake looked up at the television mounted above his head. It was tuned to CNN and the newscaster was giving an update on Manuel Noriega's upcoming preliminary hearing on drug trafficking charges.

"I think you're well and truly fucked, Manny," Jake said to the image of the former Panamanian dictator when it appeared on the screen. "You shouldn't have messed around with the Bush-man."

The Noriega story wrapped up and the newscaster moved onto something else. To Jake's surprise, Mindy Snow's face suddenly appeared on the graphic over her left shoulder.

"In other news today," the newscaster said. "Actress Mindy Snow has filed for divorce from her husband of two years, world renowned movie director Scott Adams Winslow. The papers were filed in Los Angeles late yesterday and cited irreconcilable differences as the grounds. The news of this filing took many Hollywood insiders by surprise as the marriage of these two celebrities always seemed to be one of the more rock-solid pairings in the industry."

"Holy shit," Jake said, his mouth dropping open, his drink forgotten. Mindy had filed for divorce? What did that mean? Did he have anything to do with it?

"Mindy Snow's long-time manager and publicist, Georgette Minden, told CNN that Mindy and Winslow's parting is amicable and mutually agreed-to and that the two will remain friends. Joseph Campbell, Winslow's spokesperson, said very much the same thing, telling CNN that Winslow will always hold a fond place in his heart for Mindy, but that they just can't go on living as man and wife.

"Meanwhile, speculation runs rampant about the possible involvement of Jake Kingsley, lead singer for the death-metal band, Intemperance, in the equation. Jake and Mindy once carried on a turbulent six-month affair that ended among accusations of violence and abuse. Mindy has admitted meeting up with Kingsley in Fiji last year and told the Los Angeles Times that she invited Jake to a New Year's Eve party at the couple's mansion. Just a few weeks ago Mindy attended the opening night of Intemperance's latest concert tour where she was seen cheering him on and locking eyes with him up on the stage while Winslow sat quietly in his seat. When asked about Jake Kingsley's involvement in the divorce filing, both Mindy and Winslow's publicists proclaimed the very idea ridiculous speculation."

"Can I help you, sir?" the bartender asked, distracting Jake from further perusal of the news report.

"Yes," he said. "A bloody Mary. Make it a pale one, my friend."

"You got it," the bartender said. He looked at Jake carefully for a moment, his eyes slowly showing recognition. "Hey," he said. "You're Jake Kingsley, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Jake said, resigned. "I guess I am."

"Son of a bitch," the bartender said. "I'm one of your biggest fans! I was at the show last night! I'm still hungover from it."

"Sorry to hear that," Jake told him.

"No problem, dude. It was a great show. One of your best. Tell me something..."

The bartender asked his requisite questions and Jake gave him the requisite answers. He then signed a piece of paper for the bartender and endured a few more inane questions. By the time the bartender left to go make his drink, the CNN newscaster had moved onto something else — just some little story about Chinese denials of the casualty count in last year's Tiananmen Square massacre.

Fifteen minutes later, Jake boarded his plane, already feeling a decent buzz from the two bloody Marys. The entire flight he wondered about just why Mindy Snow had filed for divorce and whether or not it had anything to do with him.

The awards ceremony actually turned out to be something of a good time. Though Intemperance did not win — the Traveling Wilburys took the category they were nominated for — Jake did have a chance to visit with some of his heroes and major influences in music. Tom Petty, George Harrison, Jeff Lynne, and Bob Dylan were all there as part of the Wilburys. Mick Jagger and Keith Richardson were there as part of the Stones. They all greeted and conversed with Jake as an equal among them, sharing anecdotes.

Jake — along with most of the other musicians in his category — consumed a pretty good amount of alcohol during the long, boring, drawn-out ceremony. After saying goodbye to those he'd met in the limo staging area, he headed home, planning on having a few more drinks and then passing out. His flight to San Antonio left at noon the next day and he had a show to do in that city the day after.

Tommy Stoner — the driver of his limo — dropped him off in front of his house at 11:30 that night.

"Have a good night, Jake," he said as Jake climbed out of the door Tommy held open for him. "Sorry you didn't win."

"I'm used to it, Tommy," Jake said, shaking his hand and slipping a fifty dollar bill into his palm. "At least it got me home for the day."

"There is that," Tommy agreed. "Can I help you into your house?" He had picked up that Jake was half a dozen sheets to the wind.

"Naw," Jake said dismissively. "I'm cool."

"All right then," Tommy said. He went back around to the driver's seat and stepped inside. A moment later, he was gone.

Jake tossed the cigarette he was smoking into the row of bushes against his driveway and then headed for the front door. The porch light was on but the rest of the house was dark. Elsa had undoubtedly gone to bed by now. He stumbled a few times as he went up the marble steps and was fumbling with his keys when he suddenly had the overwhelming sense that someone was coming up on him fast from behind.

Adrenaline flooded through his body and he spun around, dropping his keys to the ground and bringing his fists up. The alcohol had dulled his senses just enough that he was too late on the turn. He caught a brief glimpse of a familiar looking person rapidly closing on him, a fist cocked back for action.

"You motherfucker!" he heard the person bark, and then that fist connected with his face, just below his left eye.

Stars exploded before Jake's vision and he staggered backwards, slamming into his front door. Before he could recover, the man's other fist swung from the other direction, catching him in the side of the head. The blow hurt Jake, but apparently not as bad as it hurt his assailant.

"Owww! Goddammit!" the man whined, shaking his fist in pain.

Jake shook his head to clear the fuzziness and then instinctively counter-attacked. He didn't know who this person was or why he was attacking, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. He stepped forward and jabbed three times with his left, hitting the man in the nose, the cheek, and the eye. He then swung a roundhouse with his right, connecting solidly with the man's chin.

The last punch did the trick. His assailant dropped like a bag of bricks, thumping to the concrete of Jake's porch, where he lay there, moaning in pain and... was that crying? Yes, to Jake, it sounded like the man was actually crying!

Jake kneeled down and grabbed the man by the back of his hair. He lifted up on his head and stared at his face. He found himself looking at a bleary-eyed Scott Adams Winslow, who was now blubbering in pain and fear. The odor of alcohol was radiating off of him in reeking waves.

"I'm sorry!" Winslow whined. "I don't now what I was doing! Please don't hurt me anymore!"

"Winslow?" Jake asked, his dazed mind still trying to come to some sort of comprehension about what had just happened. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry," Winslow whimpered. He was now trembling all over. "I shouldn't have tried this. I'm not a fighter. Please don't hit me anymore, Jake."

Jake let go of the man's hair and stood up. "I'm not gonna hit you anymore," he said. "At least not if you don't try to hit me."

Winslow looked up slowly, large tears running down his cheeks. "Really?" he said.

"Really," Jake said. "Why don't you stand up?"

Winslow hesitated, as if he thought Jake was going to attack him when he stood. Finally, after a few more reassurances, he put his feet beneath him and rose up. He swayed a few times and looked like he was going to fall, but somehow managed to keep his equilibrium.

"You okay?" Jake asked, seeing a trickle of blood coming from Winslow's left nostril and the beginnings of swelling under his left eye.

Winslow sniffed a few times. "Not really," he said. "But I'll live."

Jake nodded, touching the swelling under his own eye. He was going to have a shiner tomorrow. He could already tell. "What's going on here, Winslow?" Jake asked. "Why are you attacking me on my front porch? How did you even get here?"

"I followed you from the Grammy Awards," Winslow said. "I've been drinking all night and when I saw your face on TV on a newscast... well... I guess I acted kind of impulsively. Before I knew what was happening, I was parked down the street with a pair of binoculars and a bottle of scotch. When I saw you come out after the ceremony I just followed your limo home."

"You drove like this?" Jake asked, astounded. The man was obviously smashed to the gills. Even Matt didn't drive this drunk.

Winslow nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Not a good idea, I know. But then this whole stupid thing was a bad idea. Jesus, I can't believe I thought I could take you in a fight."

"Well... I'm glad you didn't bring a gun," Jake said. "You caught me by surprise."

"I don't own a gun," Winslow said, "or I might've."

Jake felt a chill go down his spine. "What's this all about?" he asked, although he already had a pretty good idea. Somehow, Winslow had found out that Jake had been fucking Mindy. Was that why they were getting divorced? But it was Mindy who had filed the papers, wasn't it?

"It's a long story," Winslow said. "One I don't really care to share with anyone. I think I'll just go home."

"Now wait a minute," Jake said. "I think I have a right to know why a man is trying to kick my ass. And you're way too drunk to be driving. Why don't you come inside and have a cup of coffee and we'll talk about this?"

A few more tears rolled down Winslow's face and he blubbered once more. "Okay," he finally squeaked. "Some coffee would be... be... nice."

Jake picked up his keys (keeping a wary eye on Winslow as he did so, just in case the man decided to attack again) and opened the front door. Elsa was standing there, dressed in her nightgown, the cordless phone in one hand, a concerned expression on her face.

"Mr. Kingsley?" she asked carefully. "I heard a commotion and came to see what was happening. Is everything all right?"

"Everything's all right, Elsa," Jake said. "You didn't call the cops, did you?"

"No," she said. "I was waiting to see what transpired." She cast an unfriendly eye at Winslow. "Should I call them?"

"I don't think that will be necessary," Jake told her. "Do you think you could make us a pot of coffee though?"

"Of course," she said, standing aside and letting the two men enter. "And it looks like you could both use an icepack?"

"Absolutely," Jake said.

They went inside. Jake directed Winslow to sit on the first piece of furniture they encountered, which was the little-used antique couch that sat in the formal living room. Winslow sat down humbly, still weeping softly. Elsa gave him a box of tissues and a wastebasket.

"Blow your nose," she told him. "And drop the tissues in the basket, if you will."

"Of course," Winslow blubbered. "I'm really sorry about all this. I don't usually..."

"You don't need to apologize to me," Elsa said. "I just work here."

"I'm sorry," Winslow said again, putting the first tissue to his nose.

"Jake, could you come get the ice packs?" Elsa asked.

"Sure," Jake said. He followed her into the kitchen.

"Isn't that Scott Adams Winslow?" Elsa asked now that they were out of earshot.

"Yeah," Jake said. "That's him."

"He's Mindy Snow's husband?"

"Well... I hear she just filed for divorce, but yes."

Elsa shook her head in consternation as she opened a drawer and removed a box of quart sized zipper bags. "I would assume that he found out that you and Mindy have been spending some time together lately?" she asked.

Jake looked at her in surprise for a moment and then sighed. Had he really thought that Elsa hadn't known who his "new friend" really was? Yes, he had really thought that. "It's starting to look like he might have," he said.

"It would seem he's a bit upset about this discovery," Elsa commented as she opened the freezer. She began to fill two bags with cubes from the automatic icemaker tray.

"That's a bit of an understatement," Jake said.

"All you all right?"

"Quite," Jake said. "As the man said, he's not much of a fighter."

"Hmmph," Elsa said, closing the freezer and zipping the two bags shut. "You do manage to get yourself into some interesting situations, Jake. Working here is never boring."

"I don't suppose it is," Jake agreed.

Elsa pulled two kitchen towels out of another drawer and wrapped the ice bags with them. She then handed them to Jake. "Put these on your faces," she said. "I'll bring the coffee out when it's done. If he decides to attack you again, don't beat him. Just restrain him and yell for me and I'll call the police."

"Yes, Elsa," Jake said. "And thanks."

"Never boring," she said, heading toward the coffee making supplies.

Jake found Winslow pretty much as he'd left him: snorting and bleeding into the tissues while he blubbered.

"Here you go, Winslow," Jake said, handing him one of the icepacks. "Put it on your face. If you spread it out a little it'll cover your eye and your nose."

Winslow simply nodded and did as he was told. Jake sat down in the antique rocking chair directly across from him and put his own icepack on. The two men sat there for almost fifteen minutes, holding ice to their injuries and not talking. Gradually, Winslow's sobs went away. Elsa came in with a carafe of freshly-brewed Jamaican Blue Mountain, two cups, two saucers, and an ashtray. She set them all down on the antique table between the two men and, with a brief affectionate look at Jake, she retreated.

Jake put his icepack down and poured each of them a cup of coffee. He pulled out his cigarette pack — which was a bit rumpled after the fracas — and shook one out. He put it between his lips and then offered the pack to Winslow.

"No thanks," Winslow told him. "I don't smoke."

"Seems like this might be a good time to start," Jake said.

Winslow looked at him blankly. "You like to rub things in, don't you?" he asked.

"No, not really," Jake said, sparking up and taking a deep drag. "I think I was just trying to ease the tension a little. It looks like I failed at that."

Winslow had no response for that. He picked up his coffee cup and took a small sip. His eyes widened a little and he nodded appreciably. "Jamaican Blue," he said. "You do have good taste in coffee."

"Elsa introduced me to it," Jake said. "I used to drink the stuff that came in the big red can."

"My God," Winslow said, looking at Jake fearfully, as if he'd just realized that he really was dealing with a barbarian.

"Yeah," Jake said. "It's sad but true. I used to drink Black Velvet and coke too. These days, I like nothing better than a good thirty-year-old scotch. I do insist it be on the rocks though. Some of my barbarism remains, I'm afraid."

Winslow took another sip of his coffee — a larger one this time. He had nothing else to say on that particular subject.

"So," Jake said, "I guess we should maybe talk about why you followed me home and launched an ill-advised attack on me on my front porch. I'm pretty sure I know the reason, but... well... I'd rather hear it out of your lips before I go admitting to anything."

Winslow cast his eyes downward in shame. "You've been having an affair with my wife," he said. It was not a question. It was a stated fact.

"Yes," Jake said. "I guess I have. Sorry about that."

Winslow looked up at him, aghast. "Sorry about that?" he said, his voice coming up a few decibels. "I find out you've been fucking my wife for the past five months, that you've fucked her in my bed at a party that I hosted, and that I was then enticed to... to... put my mouth on her... her... you know... after you fucked her, and all you have to say is 'sorry about that'?"

Jake tapped his ashes into the ashtray and took another drag. He blew it out slowly. "What do you want from me, Winslow?" he asked. "You tried to kick my ass for it and you couldn't. I didn't beat you to a pulp afterward. I didn't call the cops on you and have you arrested for assault. I invite you into my house so your dumb ass doesn't get a DUI or end up dead in a car crash. I give you a cup of the best coffee on Earth. I tell you I'm sorry for doing what I did. In my book, that's about as far as I'm willing to go in return for the remorse I'm feeling for this particular transgression. You've treated me like nothing but a piece of shit ever since the first time I met you. You're condescending, elitist, and one of the biggest fucking snobs I've ever met. Did I start fucking your wife because of that? No, I didn't. I started fucking your wife because she's a hot piece of ass and she wanted me and I didn't have the willpower to resist her. I'm sorry it worked out bad for you. That's that, my man. If you're expecting any tearful groveling from me, you ain't gonna get it."

Winslow looked at him with anger for a moment and then dropped his eyes again. He took another sip of coffee. "Touché," he said. "I guess I deserved that."

"I guess you did," Jake agreed. "So tell me, since we're all warm and fuzzy and pouring out our hearts to each other here; how did you find out?"

"You mean you don't know?" Winslow asked.

"I've been out on the road for the past month," Jake said. "I don't know shit. I haven't even talked to Mindy since the night you two came to our opening gig."

Winslow looked surprised. "Are you saying that you're not a part of all this?"

"A part of all what?" Jake asked. "I'm not a part of anything as far as I know."

Winslow's mouth was now open wide enough to insert a tennis ball.

"Give it up, Winslow," Jake said. "Tell me what's going on here."

"She was using you," Winslow said. "She was using you to blackmail me."

This struck a nerve with Jake. As one who had been used by Mindy before, he had always, in the back of his mind, wondered just what her deal was during this affair. "What do you mean?" Jake said. "Start talking and tell me what's going on here."

Winslow actually smiled a little. "Well now," he said. "It seems she struck a little blow on you as well."

"Tell me," Jake said, refusing to be baited.

"She came to me early last week and said we needed to talk," Winslow told him. "She had two envelopes with her. She put them down on the table but didn't open them at first, she just kept them in front of her. She told me she wanted a divorce." He flushed a little. "She told me lots of other things — mean, hateful things about my skills in bed and the size of my... you know... but I see now those were just lies designed to hurt me."

"Of course," Jake said. "Go on."

"I'm worth almost three hundred million dollars," Winslow said. "When Mindy and I got married, we, of course, signed a prenuptial agreement that limited the amount of money and assets I would have to give her in the event of a divorce. Mindy is not poor, you understand. She is worth a good sixty million dollars on her own. So when she signed the agreement it was pretty much forgotten. It was just a standard part of a Hollywood marriage, right?"

"I suppose," Jake said.

"Well, when she told me she wanted to divorce me, she also told me that I would forget that the prenup existed and abide by standard California state divorce laws in the dissolution of our marriage. I, of course, told her that she was out of her mind. She... well... she then opened the first envelope."

"What was in it?" Jake asked, although he was already starting to suspect.

"Pictures," Winslow said. "More than a hundred pictures of you and Mindy engaging in various acts of sexuality. That's when she told me that she'd been fucking you for months, that you were the best lover she'd ever had, that she took it up the... you know... for you. She had pictures to back all of this up."

"Pictures," Jake said, feeling a little ill. He had certainly never agreed to be in any of these pictures. "Where... where were they taken? When? By who?"

"Apparently she's been fucking some paparazzi photographer by the name of Paul Peterson for the past ten years."

"Paul Peterson," Jake hissed, feeling a surge of hatred go blasting into him. Peterson was the man who had shot him and Mindy on the beach and naked on the boat during their first affair. He was also the man who had shot Jake with the redheaded groupie in Cabo — the shots that had ended his relationship with Rachel.

"Yes," Winslow nodded. "I can see you didn't know about it either. According to Mindy, she and Peterson have been on again off again lovers ever since her days on The Slow Lane. She used him to take those shots of you and her that led to her career making the jump from child actress doing cutesy roles to full-fledged adult actress willing to play a slut and show her tits on the silver screen. He took some very clear, very high resolution shots of the two of you during your latest escapades. She had him sequestered in the closet of her mountain house when you fucked her there. She had him in the closet of our very bedroom when you fucked her on our bed. And... she had him..." He took a deep breath. "She had him in Darla's closet when you... when you and Darla and Mindy got together."

"You know about Darla too?" Jake asked.

"I do," he said shamefully. "She included several audio recordings of conversations between herself and Darla regarding me. It would seem that Darla doesn't have the greatest respect for me either."

"Jesus, Winslow," Jake said, almost forgetting the fact that he didn't like this man. How much more could Mindy emasculate the poor slob?

"So you see why I was driven toward violence?" Winslow asked.

"I'm starting to see," Jake said. "How is she blackmailing you though? I would think these photographs would be the perfect proof of her infidelity and would guarantee you a good divorce settlement."

Winslow shook his head. "That may be the case in the short term," he said. "But it's the long term that Mindy was looking at here. She basically spelled it out for me. Go with standard California divorce law and give her half of what I own, half of all my assets, or enforce the prenup and she releases the pictures and the entire story of her infidelities. If she were to do that, I would become the biggest laughing stock in Hollywood. No one would ever take me seriously anymore. I would never direct another picture because no one would want to go see a picture directed by a man who was cuckolded and humiliated publicly."

"Wow," Jake said, knowing instinctively that Winslow was right. "I don't really know what to say."

"There's nothing to say," Winslow said, taking another big slug of his coffee. "Mindy opened her second envelope at this point in the discussion. It was a legal form stating that I waived all the rights I had under the prenuptial agreement. She asked me if I would sign it. I said I would. She then pulled out another legal document. This one was an agreement to set up a trust fund for Darla in the amount of eighteen million dollars."

"Damn," Jake said.

"Damn is right," Winslow said. "When I told her I would sign, she got on her cellular phone and, within three minutes, there was a notary in the house, stamp in hand, ready to witness my signing."

"And you signed?"

"I signed," Winslow said. "She took possession of the documents and then gave me all the negatives from the pictures."

"How do you know they're all the negatives?" Jake asked.

Winslow simply shrugged. "I don't," he said. "But what else could I do?"

"What else indeed?" Jake said.

Winslow stayed another hour, long enough to drink half the carafe of Jamaican Blue and sober up the tiniest bit. He then left, staggering a little on the porch but otherwise walking a straight line.

Jake closed the door behind him and then walked back to the kitchen. Elsa was still in there, playing a game of solitaire on the table.

"You heard the jist of what's going on?" Jake asked her.

She nodded. "It seems your friend Mindy is quite the manipulator."

"Yes," he said. "It seems so."

"Are you okay, Jake?" she asked, motherly concern on her face.

"I don't know yet," he said truthfully. "She used me like a condom, like a pawn in chess."

"Yes, she did," Elsa agreed.

"She's still the same as the first time I met her. Exactly the same."

"It would seem so."

Jake sighed. He walked over and gave Elsa a hug. "Thanks for taking care of me tonight," he said. "Thanks for taking care of me every night."

"It's what I do, Jake," she said. "It's what I do."

"Yeah," he said, standing up and heading for the swinging door that led back into the living room.

"What are you going to do about Mindy?" she asked.

"I don't know," Jake said. "If my guess is correct, I won't have to do anything about her. Now that she got what she needs from me, she has no further use for me."

"Let's hope so," Elsa said. "What time do you need to leave the house tomorrow?"

"Eight-thirty," Jake said.

"I'll get you up at seven-thirty," she said, "and I'll have breakfast on the table when you come down from your shower."

Jake smiled. "Thanks, Elsa. You're the best."

He went upstairs, took off his clothes, and went to bed. He didn't sleep at all that night. His thoughts were filled with Mindy Snow, with her raw sexuality, her stunning beauty, and her poisonous soul.

Jake, once again without a gramophone in his possession, went back to Texas to resume the tour. As he suspected he would, he was sporting a pretty respectable black eye the next day. Delores was forced to cover it with make-up before any public performance.

When Matt saw the shiner, he uttered his first unsolicited statement to Jake in more than two months. "What's the other guy look like?" he asked.

"I fell down while I was drunk," Jake told him.

"Uh huh," Matt said, obviously not believing him. "I hope the other guy fell down harder."

The only other person to make comment about his injury was Nerdly. "Was it Mindy's husband?" he asked.

Jake looked at him, shocked. "How did you know?" he asked.

Nerdly rolled his eyes. "Give me some credit for formulating a basic hypothesis, Jake," he said. "You didn't really think that no one knew about you and Mindy, did you?"

"Jesus," Jake said. "Who else knows?"

Nerdly shrugged. "Just the guys in the band and Pauline and Sharon — maybe a few of the roadies and the limo drivers too. Don't worry. No one is going to tell."

"That's good to know," Jake said. "Why didn't anyone tell me anything?"

"Why would they?" Nerdly asked. "Do you have something to hide?"

The black eye healed and the tour went on with much the same routine as before. The entertainment news was full of stories about the divorce of Scott Adams Winslow and Mindy Snow. There were stories about how the settlement she was to receive would be undisclosed. There were stories that included speculation about what had caused the divorce. None of these stories ever mentioned Jake Kingsley or Darla. It seemed that Mindy had kept up her end of the bargain. And, as Jake had figured, he did not hear from Mindy in any form of medium. It seemed she was done with him. Jake, hurt and angered about being used in such a manner, was pretty sure he was done with her. He did the best he could to get over it and move on with his life. It was something he was very good at.

April 1 — April Fools Day — found the band in Atlanta, Georgia, for the third of three sold-out shows. They played their hearts out up on the stage, wowing sixteen thousand fans and making them scream for more when the last note of the final encore was played. After the show, the band went backstage and to their dressing room, as they usually did. Before they had a chance to separate into their individual corners, however, Greg suddenly appeared, his face solemn and worried.

"What the fuck's the matter with you?" Matt asked him. "You look like someone just told you Heavenly Father was a dick-smoking coffee addict who bought Marlboros by the carton in a 7-11."

Greg didn't even bother to chide Matt for his blasphemy. "I'm afraid I've got some bad news," he said. "Mr. Crow called me about thirty minutes ago from Los Angeles."

Everyone seemed to sense that what he was about to say was genuine bad news. They all quieted and looked at him.

"What is it?" Jake asked.

Greg licked his lips a few times. "Well... there's really no way to say this gently, so I guess I'll just say it."

"Say what?" Matt demanded. "What the fuck's wrong?"

"Darren Appleman was found dead in his condo about two hours ago by the LAPD. They think it was a heroin overdose."

Everyone was silent for the better part of a minute as they let that sink in. Darren dead? Of a heroin overdose? That was absurd, wasn't it? Darren was off the horse, wasn't he?

It was Matt who spoke first. His eyes were full of anger. He pointed an accusatory finger at Jake. "This is your fault," he spat. "You fuckin' killed him, Jake! How the fuck does it feel to have real blood on your hands this time?"