“Twenty-five to thirty would be my guess,” Pauline said. “And I would set the hard ceiling at thirty.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Jake agreed.
“Have you talked to Jim and Marcie and the rest of them lately?” Laura asked. “How are they doing?”
“This must be quite a ride for them,” Celia added.
“I haven’t talked to them in a few months,” Jake said, a bit of guilt flooding through him at this admission. “We’ve been so busy at the studio, and with tour prep, and all that. I’m sure they’re doing well. I signed their royalty checks for them the last two quarters. They won’t be hurting financially, that’s for sure.”
“Maybe you should give them a call soon,” Pauline suggested. “Just to check in with them. Start feeling them out about a setlist for the summer session.”
“I’ll do that,” Jake promised, fully intending to do so.
But the next morning, a phone call from Steve Crow of National Records (who was not supposed to have the Kingsley’s Oceano phone number, but somehow did), put that thought right out of his mind.
The show in Kansas City had just come to a close and Matt Tisdale was ready to get into some serious post-performance debauchery. He was in the dressing room, drinking a can of beer and smoking a cigarette. Once he was done with the smoke, he planned to take a few bonghits from the table and then start chowing down on some of the barbequed ribs that were the main course for tonight’s dinner. After that, it was shower and groupie time. God it was fun being a rock star.
He and the band were all still in their stage clothes. Austin was drinking a scotch on the rocks and gnawing on one of the ribs, sauce staining his face, fingers, and drink glass. Corban was fucking with his hair and drinking some kind of faggy red drink in a tall glass. Steve was already in the shower. He did not like sitting around in sweaty clothes. And Jim Ramos, his personal paramedic, was sitting in one of the easy chairs, drinking a vodka and tonic (undoubtedly not his first one—Jim had no four-hour moratorium to adhere to, as long as he remained coherent enough to act if needed), his football sitting on the floor within easy reach. So far, he had not had to open the football in the line of duty. Hopefully, that would remain the case.
Matt was just crushing out his cigarette when the door suddenly opened. It was Greg Gahn.
“Fuck me,” Matt groaned at the sight of him. Greg had standing orders to stay the fuck away from him during the after-show festivities unless there was some kind of emergency. If Jack had let him in the door, there must be some kind of fucking emergency. “What are you doing here?”
“Pardon the intrusion,” Gahn said politely. “I just have some news to pass on.”
“Did an angry mob of rich-ass white people start rioting in fucking Beverly Hills because of the OJ verdict?” Matt asked.
“Uh ... no,” Greg said. “At least, not as far as I know.”
“Then I don’t give a shit,” Matt said. “Whatever it is can wait until tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” said Austin. “It’s an extended travel day, Greg. We don’t get very many of those. That means we don’t have to leave for the airport at oh-fucking-dark-early. We get to sleep in and then spend all of tomorrow in KC. Why you wanna piss on our extended travel day?”
Greg’s grin faded. “Now listen, guys,” he admonished. “I am the manager of this tour, which means I am in charge of all aspects of it. I would appreciate being treated with the respect that such a position inherently bestows upon me.”
“Get the fuck out of here with that shit,” Matt spat at him. “You’re only the tour manager because I allow it. And I only allow it because you’re already broken in and beat down and I don’t want to have to go through all that shit with someone new. But you know and I know that if I say the word, your ass is history.”
“National would never fire me just because you told them so,” Greg said haughtily.
“Don’t think so?” Matt asked. “Want to try me?”
“Really, Matt, there is no reason for this anger,” Greg said, quickly redirecting the conversation. “I did not come in here by choice, but at the direction of Steve Crow himself.”
“What the fuck does Crow want now?” Matt asked.
“He wants you back in Los Angeles immediately,” Greg said. “I’ve already arranged for a business jet to pick you up at eleven o’clock at Wheeler Airport.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Matt demanded. “Fly back to LA tonight? Right now? What the fuck for?”
“Mr. Crow and Mr. Doolittle are requesting your presence at a meeting in the National Records building at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. They told me to spare no expense to get you there.”
Matt’s scowl deepened. “A meeting? Now? In the middle of the fucking tour? What is this shit about?”
“They did not inform me of the subject of the meeting,” Greg said. “They simply told me it was extremely important, and they insisted... insisted, that I make sure you are there for it.”
“Fuck me,” Matt muttered. He turned to look at Jim, who was sitting closest to him. “I bet this shit is about my new contract.”
“Your new contract?” Jim asked.
“The CD I just released was the last of my options,” he explained. “I’m no longer obligated to them. If they want me to make any more CDs for them, they’ll have to renegotiate another contract.”
“Why would they do that now?” Greg asked. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Matt said. “They want to get their fucking claws in me and get me to sign something before the numbers for the latest CD are fully in. They know this one is going to be my best seller. They fucking know that shit. They want me to sign my name now so they can screw me into a lower royalty rate. Well fuck that shit. I ain’t going! They can just wait until the tour is over and we know just how many CDs I sold.”
“I don’t think that is what the meeting is about,” Greg said. “And I’m afraid that refusing to go is not an option.”
“Oh really?” Matt asked dangerously.
“Yes,” Greg said. “You are still under contract for the duration of this tour, Matt. And, since you’re under contract, you are obligated to show up for meetings, as required, as long as National pays for transportation and lodging expenses. And we are doing so. If you fail to show up as required, you will be in breach of contract and subject to all of the penalties that entails.”
“You’re saying that National would sue me for breach if I refuse to get on that plane?” Matt asked through gritted teeth.
“I’m saying that they could,” Greg said. “Really, Matt. This is not an unreasonable request. We’ll have you back home just before one o’clock LA time, you’ll get a good night’s sleep in your own bed, go to the meeting at eleven and find out what this is all about, and then we’ll have you back to St. Louis in time for the autograph sessions on Wednesday.”
Matt’s instinct was to continue to refuse, maybe even to physically eject the grinning Mormon freak from the dressing room. But he suppressed it. After all, he was maturing now, right? He couldn’t go on behaving like the old Matt forever, could he? Besides, was the request really that unreasonable? Was he maybe just pissed off because he was in the mood to party right now and that party was going to be interrupted?
“All right,” he said. “I’ll go.”
Greg breathed a visible sigh of relief. “A wise decision, Matt. Thank you for being reasonable.”
“Fuck off,” Matt said. He then pointed at Jim. “And he’s going with me. You got a fuckin’ problem with that?”
“Uh ... no, Matt,” Greg said. “No problem at all.”
“Check my pulse, dude,” Matt directed Jim as they cruised forty-one thousand feet above Utah two hours later. He had just snorted four lines of premium cocaine, washing it down with a tall Jack and Coke from the bar.