"Yeah," the bodyguard said. "Let me get someone down here to escort you." He spoke a few words into his radio and then listened for a reply. "All right. Manny is gonna meet you at stage left. Just hop on up there and go in."
"Thanks," Jake said. "And... uh... could you make sure my people there don't get in any trouble?"
"You got it," the bodyguard said. "Although your boy there..." He pointed at Gerald. "... has a joint on him. I saw his friend pass it when they came in."
Jake simply shrugged. "When in Rome," he said. "Go ahead and let 'em burn. I'm not their dad."
"You got it," the bodyguard said with a smile.
Jake hopped up onto the stage with the action of one who has performed the maneuver a thousand times before. Put your arms on the edge, use them to raise yourself up, and then swing your ass over so it's sitting on the stage. From there, get to your feet. Though many of the fans made note of the longhaired freak hopping onto the stage from the roped-off section, Jake's hat and sunglasses worked their magic and kept anyone from recognizing him. Before anyone could speculate too much on who he was and why he'd been allowed on the stage, he was walking through the stage left door.
He felt a powerful sense of nostalgia as he looked at the frantic activity taking place just beyond the door. Roadies were scampering everywhere, one set moving things off of the stage, another moving things onto the stage. Other than the fact that all of the roadies were black instead of white, it looked exactly like the between set rush at an Intemperance concert. Jake wondered when he would ever experience such a thing again. The way things were going with contract negotiations, probably no time soon.
Another large bodyguard type — this one Samoan in appearance — met Jake just inside the doorway. "I'm Manny," he said, his voice gruff and businesslike. "Gordon told me to escort you back to the dressing room."
"Lead the way," Jake told him.
Manny led the way. They went out the back of the backstage area, through a doorway, down a flight of stairs, and into an access tunnel that led beneath the arena floor. Jake could clearly hear the stomping of thousands of feet being transmitted from above his head. They went up another stairway at the end of the tunnel and emerged into a hallway. A short trip down two corridors led to a door labeled Dressing Room C. Two armed guards were standing in front of the door.
"This is Jake Kingsley," Manny told them. "G is expecting him."
"Right," said the first. He used a key to open the door. After thanking Manny for escorting him, Jake went inside and the door was shut behind him.
Once again, Jake found a familiar scene, made only the slightest bit unfamiliar by the fact that all of the humans inside were black instead of white. There were the tables full of catered food, the ice chests full of beer, the bar stocked with hard alcohol and mixers, the smell of pot smoke thick in the air, and the band sitting around in chairs, eating, drinking, and smoking.
Gordon was sitting in a recliner, his medallion, earring, rings, and shirt now missing. He had a plate of enchiladas on his lap and a mixed drink sitting on a table next to him. He put the plate aside when he saw Jake enter.
"Jake, my man," he said, standing and walking over to him. "Glad you could make it back."
They exchanged a triple-grip handshake. "Thanks for inviting me," Jake said.
"You remember the guys, right?" Gordon asked.
Jake did. He had been introduced to them only two hours before. "I do," he said. "Good show, guys. I liked it a lot."
They all muttered various versions of "thank you" to him and then went back to their drinking, smoking, and eating. Gordon led Jake over to a chair next to his.
"Have a seat," he said. "You want some grub? We got plenty."
"I'm cool on the chow," Jake said. "I will take a drink though."
"Help yourself," Gordon said. "My spread is your spread."
Jake quickly mixed himself a double rum and coke, drank half of it in one swallow, and then freshened it back up. He lit a cigarette and sat down in the chair next to Gordon.
"Want some smoke, Jake?" asked James, the lead bass player, as he held out a silver tray with a bong and large pile of greenbud on it.
"I won't insult you by saying no," Jake said, taking the tray. He loaded up a healthy hit and sucked it down. He then did the same for a second hit. By the time he exhaled that one, he was feeling pretty good indeed. "Good shit," he commented.
"We demands the best," James told him with a grin. "You want some blow too? We got some of that over there if Rickie ain't snorted it all."
"I'm cool on the blow," Jake said. "It makes me feel a little too good, if you know what I mean."
"Ain't no such thing," said Rickie, the DJ, as he snorted up a fat line.
"So how you been, Jake?" Gordon asked after putting away the last of his enchiladas and rice. "I ain't had a chance to talk to you since before that shitstorm you went through. You hangin' in there?"
"I'm trying," Jake said. "I've been talking to people from National, Columbia, Capital, and Aristocrat about a solo album now that Intemperance is broken up. So far, we ain't even close to seeing common ground."
"No shit?" Gordon asked. "What's up with that? I woulda thought you'd be hot commodity."
"I would be if I was planning to do Intemperance sound-alike tunes," Jake said. "But as soon as I told them that I wanted to move my music in a different direction, they started to balk."
"Yeah," Gordon said. "That's just like them motherfuckers, ain't it? They don't wanna give up the control."
"No, they certainly don't," Jake said with a shrug. "I'm not too worried though. Eventually we'll work something out. Hell, maybe I'll talk to Cedric and see about signing on with C-Block Records for an album or two."
Gordon and every member of his band cracked up at the thought of a white rock singer signing a record deal with C-Block. Rickie laughed so hard that he actually blew about thirty dollars worth of Bolivian cocaine off the mirror.
"You a funny motherfucker, Jake," said James, shaking his head.
"Yeah, sometimes I even crack myself up," Jake agreed.
"So what about the rest of your peeps?" Gordon asked. "I heard your guitar player already signed himself another deal."
"Yeah, that's what I hear too," Jake said. "He decided to go without a manager and strike out on his own. He signed a two-option deal with National. And since it was with them, they've already released him from our contract. I hear he's putting his band together and getting ready to start putting a demo together by the end of the year."
"Who's gonna sing for him?" Gordon asked.
"He's gonna do it himself," Jake said.
"No shit? Can he sing?"
Jake nodded. "His voice is pretty good. He's a baritone, like you are. Doesn't have the range to get into the tenor or the bass though."
"He's not as good as you, I take it?"
"No," Jake said objectively, "but he's not bad either. If he can avoid the comparison game I think he'll do well."
"I don't think he's gonna be able to avoid the comparison game," Gordon opined. "He's got a pretty tough act to follow."
Jake shrugged and took another drink of his rum and coke. "Time will tell," he said. "I hope he finds what he's looking for."
"Really?" asked Gordon. "No hard feelings for him?"
"There are a few," Jake admitted. "He's been a royal pain in the ass these past six months or so, I'll be the first to agree. But, at the same time, we've been through a lot of shit these past eleven years. Hell, we got thrown in jail in Texarkana together once."
"Texarkana?" Gordon said with horror.
"Oh man," said James. "I heard some shit about doin' time down south."
"It's a good thing ya'll is white," said Rickie. "Otherwise you'd still be there."
"Yeah, now that you mention it, that did not seem to be a brother-friendly environment," Jake said. "Anyway, he might hate my guts now, but I still wish him the best."