They took it. Aristocrat was, after all, a greedy corporation that had to answer to its stockholders and whose primary motivation for anything was profit. They knew that both Jake and Celia’s second albums were going to sell well as long as they weren’t atrocious. Anything they could do to get an edge over the competition, they would do. The deal was put into writing and Coop was released from his contract.
“You told him he could stay with me?” Pauline yelled at Jake. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
They were in Pauline’s office in the studio, sitting at her desk below an impressive collection of gold and platinum records on the wall. The unnamed band was having its lunchbreak after working on some of Jake’s tunes. They now had only two more weeks to go before Phil, Lenny, and the rhythm section parted ways. Pauline had been working on the travel arrangements involved in getting Charlie to LA when it occurred to her that she did not know where he was going to stay.
“I told him it was a possibility,” Jake said. “It would certainly be a lot cheaper than renting him a hotel room, wouldn’t it?”
“Why can’t he stay with you?” she asked. “Your house is bigger than mine.”
“And I have Mom and Dad staying with me, remember?”
“So?” she asked. “You still have an extra bedroom, don’t you?”
“I do,” he agreed, “but I thought that having Charlie cohabitate with Mom and Dad might not be the best idea.”
“They’re going to have to cohabitate up in Oregon, aren’t they?” she countered. “Why not start now?”
“Because they need a little time to get to know him first,” Jake said. “You can’t just fully immerse yourself in Charlie, you have to get used to him, little by little. He’s kind of like swimming in a mountain lake full of snowmelt.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right about that.”
“At least you know he’s not going to hit on you, right?” Jake said.
“Not funny,” she told him. “And Obie’s going to be hitting the road for his tour next month. He won’t be around to kill Charlie if he gets too weird.”
“You’ll just have to do it yourself,” Jake said.
“All right,” she said. “We’ll give it a shot, but I’m going to have some serious rules. His boyfriend can visit him, but he is to invite no one else into my home. And he can wash his hands all he wants, but he will not disinfect any of my belongings or furniture. If he tries that shit, Gloria will cut his balls off herself.”
“I’ll give him a call,” Jake said. “And I’ll explain the rules to him.”
“Right,” she said.
“And don’t forget,” he reminded her. “You have to put that no one will throw articles of clothing at him while he’s in our employ into his contract. I promised.”
“Understood,” she said sourly, not even bothering to ask how that negotiation point had come up.
National Records Building
Hollywood, California
September 1, 1993
“Here it is,” master studio technician Bob Weller said as he held up a black CD case in his right hand. He was sitting at the recording station across from the sound board of Studio C in the basement of the building. “The first copy of the master of your new album.”
Matt Tisdale, who sat in a chair next to him, nodded and reached out to take the case in hand. It weighed just as much as any other CD in the world, yet it seemed heavier. Eight months of hard work, including selling out, had gone into this little circular piece of plastic. This was a special moment. It always had been in the past, but it seemed heavier with this one.
“All right,” Matt said. “Good fucking work, Bob. You and everyone in the crew.”
“You as well, Matt,” Bob told him. “We appreciate you working with us on this one. I think we got something to be proud of here.”
Matt nodded. As much as he hated to admit it, letting the sound guys and the engineers dictate overdubs and double tracks and the mixing had actually improved the sound of his music considerably over his last effort. The shit on this CD wasn’t raw like Next Phase had been, it was refined and filtered, shaped and polished, full of multiple guitars mixed into a crunching, hard rock masterpiece of sound. In addition, the tunes were shorter, with all coming in well under seven minutes and most in the five minute range. They were going to be radio friendly, both in length and composition.
“I’m keeping this copy for my display,” Matt said. “Can you burn me another one I can actually listen to?”
“Damn right,” Bob said. “It’ll take about five minutes. I have to burn one for the suits as well. I told them we would likely be done today and they’re waiting.”
“Burn me that one right now,” Matt said. “I’ll take it up to them personally. I want to see their fucking faces when they listen to it.”
“Fair enough,” Bob said, rewinding the master tape so he could do another high-speed dub.
Ten minutes later, Matt was stepping out of the elevator on the top floor of the building, CD case in hand. He walked into conference room without knocking and found Doolittle, Crow, and Bailey sitting in the chairs next to the boombox, their suit jackets off, their ties loosened, and a mirror with a razor blade and white powder residue smeared across it in front of them.
“Welcome, Matt!” Doolittle greeted with cocaine fueled good cheer. “I understand that congratulations are in order.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Matt said, walking over and sitting down. “I bring to you the second master copy of Hard Time, the second Matt Tisdale solo album.”
The three of them broke into applause that came off as more than a little cheesy. He chose to ignore it. “Shall we give the shit a listen?” he asked.
“By all means,” Bailey said. “We’ve been getting very favorable reports from the techies on this project.”
“That’s right,” said Crow. “I think we’re going to have a winner here.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Doolittle said. “Can we get you anything, Matt? We were just enjoying a little pick-me-up, as you can see.”
Matt shrugged. “Why the fuck not?” he asked. “Line me up.”
“Really?” Crow asked. “This is kind of a meeting, remember?”
“It ain’t an official meeting,” Matt said. “Besides, I just finished up the album. I need to celebrate. Can you get one of your bitches to bring me a Crown and Coke too?”
“Absolutely,” Crow said with a grin.
Doolittle pulled out a little silver case and opened it. He dumped some white powder onto the mirror and chopped it up with the razor for a few minutes before sweeping it into two healthy rails. He then picked up the mirror and handed it to Matt along with a rolled up one hundred dollar bill.
Matt took the mirror but not the bill. “No offense, Doolittle, but I have no idea what kind of orifices the three of you have been sticking your noses in. I’ll just use my own straw.”
“Suit yourself,” Doolittle said, unoffended.
Matt reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a sterling silver straw. He put it in his nose and made the two lines disappear. It was good shit, pure, uncut product from the finest illicit production facilities of Bolivia. His heart began to hammer in his chest and those familiar feelings of invulnerability and clarity washed over him.
“Thanks for the shit,” he told Doolittle.
“I’m happy to provide,” Doolittle said. “Your drink should be here momentarily.”
“Sounds good,” Matt said, pulling out a cigarette and sparking it up without asking for permission. He dropped the match into an empty glass on the table and took a healthy drag. He then dipped the ash into the same glass.
“Uh ... remember last month when you were telling me about that little project you and Kim had going with the porn distributor?” asked Crow.