Celia rushed over to him as he emerged. The two of them shared a warm embrace and a lengthy kiss. It was quite obvious they were happy to see each other.
“I missed you,” Greg told her as he touched the side of her face.
“I missed you too,” she said. She then whispered in his ear: “I told you Jake wouldn’t kill us.”
“That’s good to see,” he returned. “Still, I’m much happier knowing you’ll be flying back with me.”
“Fair enough,” she said with a shrug. She did not enjoy flying on a Lear any more than she enjoyed flying in Jake’s plane, or even a commercial jetliner. All of them scared the mierda out of her.
Jake waited until their embrace broke and then headed over himself.
“Good to see you, Greg,” he greeted, holding out his right hand.
“You too, Jake,” Greg returned, shaking with him.
“Nice suit. Do you always fly dressed like that?”
“Only when I’m to attend a business negotiation,” Greg said. He looked Jake up and down, taking in his casual pair of slacks and a button-up short sleeved shirt. “Is that what you’re wearing?”
“That is my plan,” Jake said. “I’m told that Mr. Blake isn’t much for putting on airs.”
Greg nodded thoughtfully. “Hopefully that information is correct,” he said.
“Hopefully,” Jake agreed. “How was the flight in?”
Greg gave a sour look. “A little bumpy and a little cramped. I’m not a big fan of private aviation. I’d much rather fly first class commercial, if given a choice. It’s cheaper, there is more room, and you can actually sit down in the toilets without breaking your kneecaps on the door.”
“I don’t know,” Jake said, thinking of some of the exploits he had enjoyed on private jets in his time. “There is a lot to be said for having the plane to yourself.”
Greg picked up what he was laying down. He nodded appreciably. “I do see where you’re coming from with that. You’ll have to tell me some stories about it over a drink or two.”
Jake laughed. “Deal.”
Greg looked around at his surroundings for a moment. “A quaint little place, I suppose,” he said. “The weather is certainly nice. Where is the limo? Is it running late?”
“There is no limo,” Jake told him. “This entire area only has twenty or thirty thousand people in it. It’s too small to support a limo service.”
“No limo service?” Greg said, shaking his head. “Barbarians. How are we going to get around then?”
“I rented a couple of cars for us.” He pointed over to the terminal parking area, where two 1991 Lexus 400s were parked. “You and Celia can have one, I’ll take Pauline and the Nerdlys in the other.”
“Cars,” Greg said, as if he had never seen such a thing. “I guess that’ll have to do.” He looked at Jake suspiciously. “What about the hotel? Do they have decent lodging in this place?”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Jake told him. “I booked us rooms at what is reputed to be the best place in town. It’s right on the bay.”
Greg gave a sigh. “I can’t wait to see it,” he said. There was little enthusiasm in his voice.
Jake thought the Ocean View Hotel and Resort was a pretty good place. Everyone had suites that did indeed enjoy a view of said ocean, and they were nice enough to let the group check in early. Greg, however, sniffed a little when he saw the Presidential Suite he and Celia were to share.
“I suppose it’s adequate,” he commented.
“Quit being such a snob,” Celia told him, slapping at his shoulder.
“I can’t help it,” he returned. “It’s in my makeup.”
They all gathered to have lunch in the hotel’s restaurant. Greg’s mood seemed to improve a bit when he and Celia were recognized by several of the other diners. Two of them even came over to ask for autographs. Neither mentioned his role in The Northern Jungle, which improved his mood even further.
“What are you doing here in Coos Bay?” one of the autograph seekers—a mid-thirties woman with tremendous breasts—asked him.
“Just a little trip to the coast with some friends of ours,” Greg answered, waving toward the friends in question. Jake and Bill went unrecognized.
“That’s cool,” she said, awe still showing in her eyes. “I hope you like our town.”
“It’s a beautiful place so far,” Celia told her.
She made her way back to her table, leaving them to themselves once again. Jake, now that Greg seemed happy, decided the time was right to broach the subject that needed to be broached.
“So ... Greg,” he started. “The rest of us all had a chance to talk about this on the plane coming over here, but maybe we should share some of our thoughts with you.”
“Thoughts about what?” Greg asked.
“About how we’re going to run this negotiation,” Jake said. “You see, this guy Oren owns what is perhaps the most advanced recording studio in the United States right now. It’s a completely digital, fully computerized facility capable of almost immaculate sound reproduction. It is truly state of the art, and we need him to agree to let us use it.”
Greg nodded thoughtfully. “That is my understanding,” he said. “And that is why I’m here. To help you negotiate the use of the facility.”
“Uh ... yeah,” Jake said. “And we appreciate that. I know you have lots of experience negotiating movie contracts and things like that, and that can be helpful to us.”
“Exactly,” he said confidently.
“The thing is, however,” Jake went on, “our information is that Blake will only provide studio time to those he signs to his record label, and even if he did want to sign rock and pop musicians to his label—something we’re inclined to believe he does not want to do—we are independents and plan to stay that way. He’s an obscenely rich man, so financial pressure is not the way to gain ground with him. We need to have a united front and a clear game plan when we go in there to talk to him.”
“Absolutely!” Greg said enthusiastically. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Jake took a deep breath and slowly let it out. “So ... with that in mind,” he said, “I need to point out that we are going in there as a team—a mutually supporting group of people all working for the same goal.”
“Right,” Greg said. “A team.”
“And every team,” Jake went on, “has to have a leader. The leader of our team is Pauline.”
Greg’s eyes flitted over to Pauline for a moment and then back to Jake. “Well ... naturally Pauline is the leader,” he said slowly. “She is the manager of both you and Celia.”
“Exactly,” Jake said. “That means we follow Pauline’s lead and we support her whether we agree with what she is doing or not. I just wanted to make sure we were all on the same page with that.”
Greg seemed to sour a bit, but he nodded. “I understand completely,” he said.
Oren Blake II was a large man, standing a full six feet six inches and weighing in at close to two hundred and fifty pounds. He was forty-four years old on the day he met Jake and Celia and their entourage and he looked exactly as he did on his album and CD covers. He sported a full beard and mustache, both of which were speckled with a subtle amount of gray hair. The dark brown hair on his head was long, falling almost down to his shoulders. He was dressed in a pair of faded blue jeans and a button-up flannel shirt. His jeans were secured by a belt that was closed with a fourteen-karat gold buckle in the shape of the state of Oregon, the beloved locale where he had been born and raised.
OB2, as he was called in the popular media, was to country music what Intemperance had been to rock music, which was to say he was wildly popular among fans of the genre, but more than a little controversial. His father, Oren Blake, had been a popular honky tonk singer back in the fifties and early sixties—a contemporary of Hank Williams, Bob Wills, and Ernest Tubb—who had died in an alcohol related automobile accident just when his career was really starting to take off. His son, who had only been twelve at the time, eventually picked up the reins of the family legacy and ran with them, achieving much more success than the father had ever imagined.