“That’s fucked up!” Matt said angrily.
“Indeed,” said Crow, “but I think maybe we’re worrying about this unnecessarily. I don’t think that Jake is trying to put Intemp back together. By all indications it looks like he and Valdez just needed some musicians to put their solo albums together. The rhythm section they used for the last album went and formed their own band. My guess is they chose not to go into the studio because of that obligation. Coop and Charlie are known factors that Jake knows can produce good music.”
“It still ain’t right,” Matt said, downing the last bit of his drink.
“True,” Crow said. “But lots of things in life that ain’t right happen anyway, don’t they?”
“Yeah,” Matt said sourly. “I guess so.”
Chapter 16: Playing the Star Again
Canyon, Texas
October 2, 1993
The campus of West Texas A&M was located in the Amarillo suburb of Canyon, Texas, about fifteen miles south of the main city proper. The taxi that was carrying Jake and his baggage from Amarillo International Airport entered the campus and drove through the tree lined streets, which were quiet and sedate since it was a Saturday, and pulled into the spacious parking lot surrounding the twelve thousand seat arena where the college’s Division II basketball team—the Buffalos, or, the Buffs, if you were a fan—played their matches. The arena parking lot was almost completely empty, but in the loading area in the rear were two tractor trailer rigs and two large commercial transport buses.
“This is where you want to be dropped?” the cabbie asked Jake in confusion. He was Hispanic and in his late sixties. He did not recognize his passenger.
“This looks like the place,” Jake told him. “Just pull up over there by the loading door.”
“As you wish,” the cabbie said. “There is no game tonight, however. Basketball season doesn’t start until November.”
“There’s a concert here tonight,” Jake said. “Bobby Z.”
“Bobby Z?” the man asked. “Is he one of those rap people?”
“No,” Jake said with a chuckle. “Smooth jazz. My girlfriend is his sax player.”
“Ahhh, I see,” the cabbie said, though it was quite clear that he did not. “Very well. That will be thirty-one dollars, my friend.”
“Fair enough,” Jake said, pulling out his wallet. He pulled two twenties out and handed them over. “Keep the change.”
“Thank you, sir,” the cabbie said, his voice more friendly now. “Let me help you with your things.”
“I got them,” Jake said. “Just pop the trunk for me.”
“Very good.”
Jake stepped out and went around to the rear of the cab. He pulled out the battered old suitcase that had accompanied him through every Intemperance tour he had ever been on and set it down on the ground. He then pulled out a guitar case that contained his Brogan acoustic-electric and another case that contained the soprano saxophone he had bought for Laura in the Portland Music Store that one fateful day. She had had no use for it on the Bobby Z tour up to this point, but she was going to need it now—perhaps.
Jake slammed down the trunk and waved goodbye to the cabbie. The cabbie waved back and then drove away, heading on to other fares. Jake picked up all of his baggage and walked through the muggy autumn air to a set of stairs that led up to a man-door next to the loading docks. He pounded on the door for a few moments before the sound of footsteps on the other side reached him.
“Yeah, yeah,” a voice called out. “Hold your fuckin’ horses!”
“Holding them!” Jake answered back.
There were a few clicks as the locks disengaged and then then door swung open, revealing a large bear of a man with tattooed arms and long hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked like the kind of man that rode a Harley-Davidson chopper, the kind of man who enjoyed a good fight and was particularly good at carrying one out. Hanging around his neck was a backstage pass. Jake had seen enough of such things in his career to recognize that this one was an all-access pass, which allowed the wearer go anywhere in the arena at any time. His eyes looked Jake up and down for a moment before recognition flared in them.
“Mr. Kingsley,” he said, his voice still gruff but a little more polite now. “Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”
“Call me Jake,” Jake told him. “I guess I’m in the right place?”
“Indeed you are,” the man said. “I’m Ron Adopolis, head of security for the tour. Come on in. Can I give you a hand with some of your things?”
“Sure,” Jake said, handing over the guitar case. “I see the buses are here. Is the band on site?”
“They just got here a few minutes ago,” Ron said. “The roadies just finished putting up the set and they’re getting ready for the first sound check. Z was hoping you’d get here in time to try to put your part together.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” Jake said doubtfully. He wasn’t too sure of the feasibility of what Z wanted from him, though it did sound like fun if they could pull it off. When he had talked to Bobby Z a week ago to ask if he could come visit the tour for a week of shows, Z (as he insisted Jake call him) had been delighted. But his permission came with a price.
“I’d like you to join me on stage for a couple of numbers,” Z told him.
“Excuse me?” Jake had replied, sure he had misunderstood.
He had not misunderstood. “You’ll be a special guest,” Z said, excited at the thought. “I’d like to have you and Laura do South Island Blur about mid-show and then have you sing one of my numbers you’re familiar with. How does that sound?”
“It sounds like you’ve been watching too many movies,” Jake replied.
“How’s that?”
“You know? The Hollywood jam sessions where musicians who don’t know each other and haven’t played together just step up on stage and pull off a masterpiece? Like Michael J. Fox in Back to the Future? Real life doesn’t work like that, Z. You have to rehearse up a tune to pull it off live.”
“I know that,” Z said. “I wasn’t suggesting you just step up on stage and start playing. We’ll rehearse our numbers during the sound check. If we can’t dial them in, we can’t dial them in, but we’re all familiar with South Island Blur and Teach says you’ve been listening a lot to some of my earlier work.”
“Who is Teach?” Jake asked.
“That’s Laura’s nickname,” he said.
“Ahh, I see,” he said. “Fitting.”
“We thought so. Anyway, let’s at least give it a shot, huh? How badass would it be to have Jake fucking Kingsley stepping out on the stage with us?”
And so, Jake had agreed to at least try. In truth, he really wanted a chance to step back up on a stage in front of an audience. That had always been his favorite thing about being a musician. At the same time, however, he was not going to put himself in a position where he was unprepared for a performance. I will not go up there and look like some fucking hacker, he vowed as Ron led him into the loading area of the arena.
They walked by empty boxes, empty crates stacked atop one another, spare pieces of scaffolding, and a variety of equipment that was used for moving all of this stuff around. From there they walked up a set of steps and into the locker room area, passing down a hallway lined with pipes that had doors every few feet. At the end of this hallway was a wooden wall—not part of the arena construction—that formed the rear of the backstage area. A door cut into the wall led them inside the stage left portion. Here was another haphazard collection of crates, boxes, instrument cases, and spools of wire. Several roadies were moving about, stepping over wires that were strewn across the floor.