"Eight thousand dollars for Jake," Jill said before Pauline could. "And the Rockline payment?"
"That's twenty-five thousand for the band," Pauline said.
"So that's another four thousand," Jill said. "Anything else?"
"Two more record store signings before the end of the year," Jake said. "Those are a flat five hundred bucks apiece."
"And two hundred of that goes to Pauline?" Jill asked.
"Yes," Pauline confirmed.
"So another eight hundred then," Jill said. "That means Jake is expecting another twelve thousand, eight hundred dollars before the end of the tax year?"
"Right," Pauline said.
"Okay," she said, consulting some notes she'd made while going through Pauline's neatly arranged files on Jake's income back in her office. "Last year, Jake pulled in one point three million dollars, upon which you paid $455,000 in federal taxes and $33,000 in state taxes?"
"Right," Jake said sourly. "They fuckin' raped me."
Jill and her father both blinked, shocked at his language.
"Sorry," he said, embarrassed. "Hollywood sometimes brings out the crudity in me."
"To each their own," Jill said. "So in any case, this year, you've made roughly $820,000 in royalties and other forms of contractual compensation, not including the twelve thousand, eight hundred we were just talking about."
"That sounds about right," Jake said.
Jill looked at him strangely. As an accountant it was inconceivable to her that someone making as much money as Jake didn't know the amount down to the penny at any given point in the year. "Okay then," she said. "We have a starting point to work with. Now, my understanding is that you do not own this condo we're sitting in?"
"No," he said. "I'm renting it from a real estate company."
"So nothing that you've paid in housing costs over the year is tax deductible," she said.
"Right," he said sourly. That had come up last year as well.
"And all of your travel expenses are paid for by National?"
"Well... either National or someone else. NBC is paying for our flight down to New York this weekend. There is one exception though."
"Oh?"
"When the tour was over I paid nine grand for a chartered flight home from Seattle so I wouldn't have to ride the bus. Isn't that tax deductible?"
"No," she said. "Not if your employer had a way to get you home and you simply paid out of pocket for something nicer. That would be the same as a business traveler upgrading from the coach seating his employer gives him to first class out of his own pocket and then wanting to deduct it. It doesn't work."
"That's a rip," Jake said.
"A rip?" Jill asked.
"Uh... unfair," Jake said.
"Unfair or not, it's the law. This office we're sitting in. When did you furnish it?"
"Last year," Jake said. "I already deducted everything that's in here then."
"I see," she said. "Well... Pauline mentioned that you've kept all of your receipts and cancelled checks for all of your purchases this year in a file?"
"Yes," Jake said. "Well... most of them anyway."
"Most of them?"
"I might've misplaced one or two here and there."
"I see. Well how about we look through the file and see what, if anything, we can deduct."
"Sounds like a plan," Jake said. "Before we start that, I could really go for a beer. Anybody else want one?"
Pauline thought that sounded like a good idea but Jill and her father both declined.
"I rarely drink," John said. "And I never drink while working."
"I've only had one bottle of beer in my entire life," Jill said, somewhat proudly.
"No shit?" Jake asked, trying to comprehend that.
"No shit," Nell said. "Why don't you show me where your file is and I'll start going through it while you get your beer?"
"Okay," Jake said. "Why don't you sit down at the desk there and I'll go get it for you?"
"Thank you," Jill said. She sat in his six hundred dollar chair while Jake went across the room to the closet. She watched as he opened it and removed a cardboard box that had once contained a case of Corona. Written on the side of it in black magic marker were the words: RECEIPTS AND SHIT. He carried it over and upended it over the desk. Approximately ten pounds of paper scraps, receipts, cancelled checks, junk mail, and a few bottle caps and cigarette butts came pouring out.
Jill was appalled. Her mouth dropped open. "This," she said, "is your file?"
"Well... I'll admit it's a little disorganized," he said, "but everything is there. Well... most of it's there."
The two accountants stared at the heap of papers and debris that represented the worst sort of blasphemy to their profession.
"Maybe I'll take that beer after all," John said.
"Yeah," Jill agreed. "Me too."
December 12, 1986
10:00 AM, Pacific Standard Time
The NBC-owned Lear Jet roared down runway 16R of the Van Nuys Airport, lifted off the asphalt surface, and soared into the overcast sky above the San Fernando Valley. It turned left to a heading of 086 and climbed to a cruising altitude of 43,000 feet. Projected flight time to Teterboro Airport in New Jersey — a general aviation facility just twelve miles from midtown Manhattan — was five hours and twelve minutes, which would make it just after 6:00 PM Eastern time when they landed. The plane was not even out of California yet when the first round of drinks — served by Roberto, the cabin steward — was nothing but a bunch of empty glasses and bottles on the way to the trash and/or dirty dish storage drawer.
"Yo, fruit fly!" Matt barked at the obviously homosexual Roberto. "Get another round going here, huh? You ain't earning your tip!"
"Right away, sir," Roberto replied, seemingly nonplussed by Matt's slur.
"And hey," Matt said, pulling a large joint out of his shirt pocket and waving it around. "Is it cool if we burn in here?"
"Well... technically that's against the rules," Roberto said. "But I'm sure I wouldn't notice anything if you were to light that up. After all, we fruit flies are pretty unobservant about tiny little cylinders like that."
Matt laughed. "You're all right, Roberto," he said. "If I was a faggot I'd let you suck my dick for me."
"Give me a call if you ever decide to switch teams," Roberto said. "Will you be requiring a light?"
"Naw, just start working on them drinks. I'll use Jake's smoke. Hand that thing over, Jake."
Jake took a drag off his cigarette, tapped the ash into the ashtray and started to hand it over. Before Matt could grab it, however, Pauline, who was sitting near the door to the service area, suddenly spoke up.
"Uh... before you burn that thing," she said, "maybe we could have a little meeting first? I have a few things I need to go over with you guys and I'd prefer you keep your heads semi-straight for it."
Matt sighed dramatically. "I suppose," he said. "And there is that other matter we have to take care of too, isn't there?"
"Yes," Pauline said. "There's that too."
"What other matter?" asked Darren, who was reclining in the seat next to Coop on the right side of the plane.
"We'll get to it," Jake said, putting his smoke back in his mouth. "Go ahead, Pauline. Do your manager shit."
"Thank you," she said, pulling a notebook out of her purse and looking through it. "First thing is Crow and Doolittle. They're calling me every day and asking when you guys are going to hit the warehouse and start putting together some music for your next album. They seem particularly fond of reminding me of your submission deadline, which is March 15, and then reminding me that that is only the deadline. They'd like something sooner."
"What the fuck for?" asked Matt. "They're not gonna release anything until Balance starts heading down the album chart and it don't look like that's gonna happen anytime soon. Can't we enjoy a little vacation time?"
"They still want the album in production on schedule," Pauline said, "whether they plan to release it by next September or not. I hate to nag, guys, but if you don't have something for them by mid-March you are technically in breach of contract. I might remind you that any breach is grounds for reversion to the old contract, and none of us want that."