Since he had a meeting to attend, and since he had a live performance to give after that—something he had been looking forward to for weeks—Jake grabbed a can of root beer instead of barley beer. Laura, who had no such concerns, opened a bottle of chardonnay and poured herself a healthy glassful. She then pulled a little baggie and a pipe out of her purse and began setting herself up a nice hit.
“Celebrate a little, why don’t you?” Jake said lightly, partly amused with his wife, partly jealous.
“I think I will,” she returned, flashing him a smile. “We’ve been going full-steam ahead on the CDs for the past two weeks. I’m going to enjoy my time away from the studio.”
Jake could have pointed out that, although she came to the studio with them most days, she wasn’t really doing much there. They were done with all of the actual recording, done with most of the mixing, and were working primarily on the mastering now. Though Laura’s trained musical ear did come in handy on occasion when a difference of opinion between Jake, Celia, and the Nerdlys needed a little extra input, and, she was, subsequently, starting to learn about the mixing and mastering process, it was not like she was a vital part of the operation. Jake had, however, learned discretion was the better part of valor and kept one firmly traveling down the road of marital harmony and continued sexual bliss since he had put his name on that little piece of paper, so he said nothing. And Laura would be fully immersed into blowing her horn again soon enough. As soon as they had masters in hand—hopefully in the next two or three weeks—it would be time to start putting together Celia’s tour. Laura had already agreed (without discussing it with Jake beforehand, and somewhat to Jake’s chagrin) to be Celia’s tour saxophonist on the North American legs.
Jake sipped from his root beer and then went into the living room and sat on the couch. On the end table was a cordless phone sitting in its charging socket. Next to this was a leather-bound address/phone book. Jake had still not made the leap to owning a cellular phone yet, though Gordon Paladay had. Jake picked up the phone and set it in his lap. He then opened up the phone book to the Gs and found G’s cell phone number hand written below his personal home number and his assistant’s number. He dialed it, listened for a moment as the Los Angeles region’s communication system thought the request over, and then, finally, a ringing sound began to issue in his ear.
It only rang three times before there was a click and G’s voice was there. “Jake!” G said happily. “My man!”
“How did you know it was me?” Jake asked.
“This phone of mine got that caller ID shit on it,” G told him. “Once I put in your number and assign a name to it, it tells me on the screen when you’re calling me. Lets me know who the fuck is there so I can decide whether or not to answer.”
Jake knew they had caller ID for landlines (if you paid for the service, which he did), but he had not known the technology extended to cellular phones. “That’s cool,” he said, honestly enough. “And you don’t even sound like shit like most cell phone calls. I guess the technology is improving?”
“Fuckin’ A,” G said. “Nerdly told me recently that in another ten or fifteen years, most people won’t even have a landline anymore. They’ll just use their cellphones.”
“Now that’s quite a stretch,” Jake said dubiously. Though he usually had faith in Nerdly’s technological predictions—especially since the appearance of free pornography on the internet, as prophesized—this one seemed quite unlikely. Why would someone give up their landline when cell phone conservations cost twenty-five to thirty cents per minute? And what about long distance? How would that work?
“I’ll put my money on Nerdly any day of the week,” Gordon said. “And I have, as a matter of fact. I got my broker investing a good chunk of my money in the cell phone industry. So far, it’s working out for me.”
“Hmm,” Jake said thoughtfully. “Maybe I’ll talk to Jill about all of this. Anyway, I’m in town. Laura and I just got in to the Granada Hills house.”
“I know,” Gordon said. “I have this number listed as ‘Jake’s Granada Hills crib’ in my phone. Tell me something I don’t know, motherfucker.”
Jake laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “I came in early today because the suits over at Aristocrat want to talk to me about something. I’m supposed to meet them at two-thirty in Hollywood.”
“Just you?” Gordon asked.
“Just me,” he confirmed.
“What about?” G wanted to know. “You’re still working on your masters, right?”
“That’s right,” Jake said. “And they didn’t say what it was about. Just: ‘since you’re in town for Bigg G’s shows anyway, how about you pop in and have a word with us?’ Apparently, it’s about something ‘mutually beneficial’.”
“Of course it is,” G said, chuckling. “Think they’re just trying to get a head start on the MD&P contracts for the next CDs?”
“Maybe,” Jake said with a shrug. “But they know we always have Celia and Greg and Pauline on hand when we’re meeting about that.”
“They might be trying the old divide and conquer routine,” Gordon suggested.
“My, but we’re cynical about their motives,” Jake said. “Did it ever occur to you that they might just be checking in with one of their most lucrative clients and that they might have some innocent topic to discuss with me that does not involve sticking an unlubed member up my proverbial ass?”
“No,” G said simply. “That never occurred to me.”
“Yeah,” Jake said with a sigh. “Me either. Anyway, I guess I’ll find out what’s it’s all about at two-thirty. And we have the soundcheck at five, right?”
“Right,” G said. “We’re on our way to the Tower of Power in Compton right now. After that, I have an interview at KSOL. We’ll roll into the Forum just before five.”
“Sounds good,” Jake said. “I’ll see you there.”
“Looking forward to it, brother,” G said. “We’re gonna turn some fuckin’ heads tonight.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Jake agreed.
The meeting took place on the top floor of the Sunset Vine Tower in Hollywood; the nineteen-floor building where Aristocrat Records kept their offices. Miles Crawford, head of the A&R department, was the only person present. He wore his typical custom-tailored Italian suit while Jake wore a pair of tattered blue jeans and a rapidly fading shirt from the Lighthouse Brewery in Coos Bay. They shook hands as if they were friends and Crawford made the obligatory offer of a drink or perhaps a line of cocaine, which Jake obligatorily declined.
“Okay, Miles,” Jake told the suit. “The ritual of the preliminaries has been performed. Now, tell me what this is all about.”
“Okay, right to the point,” Miles said as he sported his best used-car salesman smile. “I like that about you Jake. You keep the bullshit to a minimum.”
“Just trying to set an example,” Jake said. “So ... what’s the deal?”
“The deal is that I ... that is we at Aristocrat, think it’s about time we start talking about a Jake Kingsley tour once the new CD hits the shelves.”
“A Jake Kingsley tour?” Jake said, surprised; and more than a little suspicious. “Are you suggesting that KVA finance such a tour? Because we’ve told you before, we are not prepared to undertake an obligation like that. True, we could afford it now, especially after all the Brainwash income, but we don’t think it would increase sales of my CD enough to justify the expense.”