“Understood,” Josh said. “But if Jake is working on something and he insists on remaining independent, he is going to need a partnership with one of the labels in some form in order to get his project manufactured and distributed, not to mention promoted. Am I correct, or are you trying to imply that he raised enough capital to fund his own manufacturing facility as well?”
“I’m not trying to imply anything, Josh, but I would have to say that you’re correct, if Jake and Celia were working on such projects, they would need to partner with a label at some point.”
“Again, we don’t give a rat’s ass about Valdez,” he said. “But we would be very interested to hear what Jake is working on. A proper Jake Kingsley solo effort would bring in millions for our stockholders, even if we’re only getting royalties for the partnership instead of the sponsorship. If he wants to be independent, we can accept that, but we want in on the effort.”
“Assuming the tunes are something you approve of,” Pauline said.
“Well ... naturally we would want to evaluate the marketability of the project,” he said. “That’s why I’m asking you to let us have a little listen to what they’re doing. Have they made a demo tape yet?”
“There are no demo tapes,” Pauline said, truthfully even.
“Well, how about me and a couple of our artist development specialists go over to their studio and take a listen to them?” he suggested next.
“What makes you think there’s a studio?”
“Come now, Pauline,” he said, using the condescending tone that always infuriated her. “You, of all people, should know that information regarding limited liability companies such as KVA Records are matters of public record. There is a studio on Prospect Park Lane in Santa Clarita that is leased by KVA Records. The papers list the owners of KVA Records as Jake Kingsley, Pauline Kingsley, William and Sharon Archer, and Celia Valdez. You guys didn’t even bother setting up shell ownership to keep people off your trail.”
“You certainly seem to have a lot of information on KVA, Josh,” she said. “Could it be that this was perhaps not just a casual enquiry made at the end of a touching bases phone call?”
“It could be,” he said. “Are you still going to deny that you brother is working on something?”
“Officially, yes,” she said. “Unofficially, I’ll tell you a couple of tidbits that you’re going to need to mull over.”
“Do tell.”
“If Jake was working on something, any business deal he would make would be dependent on a few things. The first would be that you don’t get to pick and choose which project or which part of a project you decide to accept and promote. You would be paid a flat fee to manufacture and distribute whatever KVA wants you to manufacture and distribute, whether you think it worthy of the effort or not. You would then be offered a percentage of the royalties on the album for following through with promotion.”
“That is not how we do business with independents,” Josh said.
“Then I guess you wouldn’t be doing business with KVA Records,” she said. “The only way we would do business is if you agree to both Jake’s and Celia’s projects, at a royalty rate to be negotiated at the time of production, of course.”
“So, Jake is trying to drag Celia along on his coattails, huh?” Josh said. “What’s the deal there? Is he boning her?”
“He is not boning her,” Pauline assured him. They certainly did not want that rumor floating around. “He has confidence in her musical ability. You folks over here at Aristocrat have greatly underestimated her talent and capability, Josh. You’re sitting there talking about untapped resources and you passed up on a goddamn gold mine when you let her go.”
Josh scoffed at this. “You’re trying to tell me that some of the best and most experienced artist development talent in the nation are wrong about Valdez, but you and your brother are right?”
“That is exactly what I’m suggesting,” she said. “Like Jake always says, your so-called experts are completely out of touch with their target audience. You’re in the process of killing the music industry with your arrogance. You are dead wrong about Celia Valdez. As wrong as someone could be.”
Josh sighed into her ear. “Well ... I guess we could at least give her a listen as well. What could it hurt?”
“There will be no listening in the near future,” Pauline said. “If Jake and Celia are working on projects, they will not be heard by any record company representative until the tracks are all recorded and they have masters in hand. At that point, we’ll let someone hear them and then the negotiations may follow.”
“Again, Pauline, that is not how we do business.”
“I understand your position,” she told him. “That is, however, how we do business.”
The following Sunday, at precisely eight o’clock PM, a black stretch limousine pulled into Jake’s driveway and honked its horn. It was one of the limos from Buxfield, a family owned company that the members of Intemperance used to have an endorsement contract with. These days the contract was no more, since Intemperance was no more and Jake, their most photogenic advertising model, no longer wanted his picture floating about. All the same, he maintained a good relationship with the company and used them frequently at full price—particularly on Sunday nights.
“It sounds like my ride is here,” Jake told his parents, both of whom were sitting on the couch in the entertainment room, watching a movie on the VCR.
“Okay, honey,” his mother said. “Have fun.”
“I’m certainly going to try,” Jake replied.
“And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” said his father with a grin.
Jake returned the grin. “Can you give me a real quick list of what you wouldn’t do?” he asked him.
They shared a laugh at that and then Jake headed for the front door. He was dressed in his going out clothes—a pair of slacks, a button-up short sleeved shirt, and wing-tipped shoes that were polished to a high gleam. His hair was neatly combed and styled and his mustache was trimmed. He looked like a respectable businessman out for a night on the town.
“Have fun, Jake,” said Elsa, who was putting a few finishing touches on her nightly clean of the foyer. “And be careful.”
“I’m always careful, Elsa,” he told her. “You should know that.”
She smiled at him, then stepped close. “You have plenty of prophylactics, I trust.”
“A three-pack in my wallet,” he assured her.
“Excellent,” she said, her British accent particularly strong. “See that you use them, but throw the wrappers away, if you please.”
“I know the drill, Elsa,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, “yet I still find condom wrappers in your pants at least every other Monday morning.”
He gave her a one armed hug. “Why do you put up with me?” he asked her.
“Because you pay extremely well,” she said. “No other reason.”
He opened the door and stepped out into the late July twilight. The driver of the limo was Zeke, one of the longer termed employees of the service. He was standing near the rear door, holding it open.
“Good evening, Mr. Kingsley,” Zeke told him.
“That’s not my name, Zeke, remember,” he scolded. “On Sunday nights, I’m JD King. You can call me JD.”
Zeke flushed a little. “My apologies ... JD,” he said.
“That’s the way to say it,” Jake said, sitting down in the seat. JD King was the name he went by on Sundays when he went out on the town. It was the name that National Records had wanted to hang on him back when they had first signed, thinking Jake Kingsley was boring and not as marketable. Now, he embraced the name as his alter-celebrity persona. The challenge: to get laid on Sundays without revealing who he really was. Since many of the trysts in question ended up occurring in the limo itself, having the cooperation of the driver was necessary.