"Uh... well... yeah, that's right," Jake said.
"Maybe I could help you guys set one up," Smithson said. "I have a lot of experience in that area."
Jake looked at him in disbelief for a moment and then all four of the prisoners started cracking up.
"Holy fucking shit, Smitty," Matt said, clapping him on the back. "That was a good one. Did you see the look on Jake's face when you said that shit?"
"Hey," said Smithson. "Who says I was kidding?"
This caused another round of laughter. This time, Jake reluctantly joined in.
"Let me finish kicking Smitty's ass here and then I'll show you my cell," Matt said.
"Sure," Jake said.
They were playing eightball and Matt already had most of the stripes in while Smitty had five of his solids still on the table. Matt quickly and efficiently sank his last two but didn't have a shot on the eightball. Smitty managed to sink one solid but then flubbed his next shot, causing the cue ball to drop into a corner pocket.
"That's your ass, boy," Matt told him as he retrieved the ball and placed it on the table. "Corner pocket," he said, pointing with his cue stick. Smitty nodded, resigned to his fate.
Matt lined up almost carelessly and shot the cue into the eight. It struck with an authoritative clack and the eight shot across the table where it dropped into the pocket dead center.
"Damn," Smitty said, shaking his head good naturedly.
"That's two grand you owe me now," Matt told him.
"Will you take a check?" Smitty asked, causing another round of laughter to erupt.
"All right then," Matt said, putting his cue back in a rack next to the table. "I'll catch you corrupt motherfuckers later."
All three of them told Jake they were glad to meet him and then began racking up a new game.
"Come on, Jake," Matt said. "Let me show you the misery I have to live in."
"Is it okay for me to go to your cell?" Jake asked.
"Hell yeah," Matt said. "I'm paying eighteen grand a week for this fuckin' place. They'd better let me have visitors. Follow me."
Jake followed him. They went to one of the side doors where one of the suited counselors was manning a check-in booth.
"Back up to your room, Mr. Tisdale?" he asked.
"Fuckin' aye," Matt said.
"Very good, sir," the counselor told him. He opened the door, revealing yet another hallway.
"It looks like they're treating you well," Jake observed as they walked.
"Yeah," Matt said with a shrug. "It beats the shit out of the Orange County jail, or the Texarkana jail. If you gotta do time, this is the way to do it."
"Do all of the guards wear suits here?"
"They don't like to be called 'guards'," Matt warned. "They're rehabilitating us, remember? They like it if you refer to them as counselors."
"I see," Jake said.
They reached an elevator and Matt pushed the call button. When it arrived, they stepped inside and he pushed the button for the sixth floor. The car rose smoothly and quickly upward. When it reached six, the doors slid open and they were standing before another "counselor" before another computer terminal. This one was vaguely Asian looking and only in his late twenties.
"Gene, my man!" Matt said, stepping out and holding out his right hand.
"What's up, Matt?" Gene replied, slapping his hand into Matt's. They gripped each other in several different ways and then slammed their fists together.
"My dick, like always," Matt replied. He turned to Jake. "This is Gene. He's the day shift counselor for this floor. He's the one that makes sure we hardened criminals stay in our cages."
"We have to beat Matt sometimes to keep him in line," Gene said. He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, Jake. I'm a big fan of Intemperance. Matt's been teaching me some stuff on the guitar."
"Well... uh, he's the one to learn from," Jake said.
"That ain't no shit," Gene agreed.
"Can you unlock my door for me, Gene?" Matt asked.
Gene reached down and pushed a button on his control panel. "Done," he said.
"Thanks, Gene," Matt said. "C'mon, Jake. Let's go check out my pad."
They walked down another carpeted hallway lined with oil paintings. Doors were spaced every thirty feet or so. They did not look like prison cell doors. There were no bars, no slots, no locking mechanisms. Instead, each one looked like a standard, everyday hotel door.
"This is F wing," Matt told him. "It's a little nicer than D and C wing, but not as nice as G and H wing."
"Who decides what wing you get to stay in?" Jake asked.
Matt rubbed his thumb and middle finger together — the universal sign for money. "That's what determines it," he said. "You get what you pay for."
"I see," Jake said.
They stopped at a door labeled 647. M. TISDALE was printed on a plaque below the door number. Matt reached down turned the doorknob, opening the door and leading Jake into his cell.
"Jesus Christ, Matt," Jake said as he got a look around. "This is a jail cell?"
"That's what they tell me," Matt said.
The room was nothing more nor less than a standard hotel suite, not as nice as the ones the band typically stayed in on tour, but much nicer than a standard room. There was at least twelve hundred square feet of living area. The door opened up onto a sitting room complete with a large screen television, stereo system, refrigerator, and leather furniture. A large window at the front of the room provided a view of the facility's front lawn, Highway 1 passing beyond it, and the Pacific Ocean beyond that.
"There's no kitchen in here," Matt said apologetically. "Cooking is not allowed in the rooms. Some fuckin' state law or something. But check out this bedroom."
He led Jake down a short hallway and into an impressive master suite. There was a king size, adjustable bed, another television set hanging from the wall, and a walk-in closet (which was full of nothing but khaki pants and GGCI polo shirts). Another doorway opened to a spacious bathroom complete with oversized tub and a glass walled shower.
"What do you think?" Matt asked when the tour was done and they went back into the sitting room.
"Let's just say that I'm appalled by the cruel and inhuman conditions you have to put up with in here. Should I start planning your escape?"
"Yeah," Matt said with a grin. "I'm not sure I can take much more of this." He walked over to the refrigerator. "You want a drink?"
"What do you got?" Jake asked.
"All the usual stuff. I got some Coronas, some Steinlager, some of those fruity fuckin' drinks that Kim likes."
"They let you have beer in here?" Jake said, astonished.
"Sure," he said. "There ain't no law against having booze in a penal institution. It's just the most of them don't let you have it. I also have rum, vodka, tequila, and some Jack up here in the liquor cabinet, plus all the standard mixers." He pointed to a set of closed doors above the refrigerator. "There's an icemaker in the fridge, so you can have it on the rocks if you want."
Jake was now beyond being surprised. "Sure," he said. "I'll have a Corona. I assume you have limes for it?"
"But of course," Matt said, opening the refrigerator and pulling out two bottles and a bowl of lime slices. He opened them with an opener stuck to the side of the refrigerator by a magnet, dropped in the limes, and then carried them over to the leather furniture.
Jake took one of the beers and sank down into a surprisingly comfortable armchair. "Well," he told Matt after taking a sip of his beer, "I certainly hope you're learning your lesson about violating the law."
"Yeah," Matt said with a chuckle. "I'm learning my lesson well in here. Hey, you hungry?"
"Uh... a little, I guess."
"They got some premo chow in this place. Let me get some up here." He picked up the phone next to the couch and dialed a number. "Gene? Matt. Hey, dude, how about having them send up an order of those buffalo chicken wings and some ranch dressing? And maybe an order of them deep fried calamari strips too." He listened for a moment. "Thanks, dude. Have 'em put a rush on it, will you? We're fuckin' starvin' up here." Another pause. "You the man, Gene." He hung up the phone.