Jake got out and looked at the eleven-story building he was currently calling his place of residence (not his home). It was of classic sixties architecture, the colors pale earth tones, the windows large. It was one of the first residential buildings in Los Angeles to feature a rooftop swimming pool. Eduardo Guerra — one of the doormen — saw Jake get out and came rushing over to him.
"Welcome home, Jake," he greeted, holding out his hand for a shake.
"Thanks, Eddy," Jake said, shaking with him. Though he was universally disdained by the other residents of the building — most of whom were doctors, lawyers, business types, and moderately successful real estate moguls — he was very popular with most of the staff who worked in the building, the majority of whom were Mexican nationals who had a decent command of English. "I got my bags."
"Are you sure?" Eduardo asked. "It ain't no thing for me to haul them upstairs for you."
"I'm sure," he said, hefting the two bags onto his shoulders. "I've carried these two bags all over the damn continent. I guess I can carry them for another five minutes."
"Whatever you want, Jake," Eduardo said. He looked around, seeing that Mark was the closest person. He lowered his voice a little. "How you fixed for buds?" he asked. "I got a line on some premo greenbud from Humboldt County. The shit's so sticky you can take it out of the bag with one finger."
"Yeah?" Jake said, interested. "How much is it going for?"
"Forty an eighth," Eduardo told him. "Pricey, but worth it."
Jake considered for a moment. He knew Eduardo wasn't over-stating the price because Jake was rich. Those on the staff who offered illicit or semi-illicit services to him had long since learned not to screw with Jake Kingsley on the price if they wanted to keep doing business with him. Jake could afford to be screwed but he greatly disliked having it done to him. The pot and cocaine dealers of Hollyridge Condominiums were not the first to have had that lesson imparted to them. "Sounds good," he said, pulling out his wallet. He fished out a C-note of his own and handed it to the doorman. "Get me a quarter," he told him. "Take a couple nice buds out of it for yourself and keep the change."
"Thanks, Jake," Eduardo said, pleased. "I'll have it up to your condo in an hour."
"Sounds like a plan."
Jake said his goodbyes to Mark and then turned and walked into the lobby of the building. Several of the residents were milling around — mostly the wives who had attached themselves to the young urban professionals since, it being mid-afternoon on a weekday, the young urban professionals themselves were all at work. They made a point to shoot disapproving looks at him. He ignored them and simply pushed the elevator call button. When it arrived, he pushed the button for floor number eleven — all the way to the top.
The condo Jake lived in was 2800 square feet — the largest in the building. It featured a huge master suite and two smaller, though still considerable secondary bedrooms. It had an office, a large living room, an even larger entertainment room, a fully equipped kitchen, and a spacious balcony that ran the length of the top floor on his side of the building. Jake did not own the condo. He rented it from a real estate development agency his sister Pauline had established contact with shortly after taking over management of the band. The rent was four thousand dollars a month, plus utilities. It was money Jake paid gladly. He had developed a taste for luxury living over the past two years.
Jake dug his key ring out from the bottom of his bag and fished through the keys for a few moments until finding the one that opened his door. He went inside, the entryway leading to a spacious living room that was filled with the post-modern furniture he'd purchased shortly after moving in. The condo was empty but clean, dusted, and sweet smelling. This was the work of the maid service he'd hired to come in once a week during his absence. Now that he was home, they would come in three times a week — maybe more if he threw a party.
He tossed his bags down on the foot of his bed, making a vow that at some point he would actually unpack them and put the clothes in the laundry hamper. He opened the blinds on the large window to let some of the sunlight in and took a moment to stare out at the view that had become so familiar to him. He could see Griffith Park, the Hollywood Hills, and Mount Hollywood itself. It was a nice view but it was full of reminders that he was in Los Angeles, a city he loathed with every fiber of his being. He kicked off his shoes, socks and all of his clothes and left them near the foot of the bed, next to his bag. He walked into the master bathroom, which featured a large, glass-walled shower, a sunken Jacuzzi tub large enough to hold three people (and which had held three people on several occasions) and marble countertops. As with the rest of the house, everything in here was sparkling clean. He turned on the shower to as hot as he could stand and spent the next fifteen minutes just luxuriating under the spray. When he got out, he dried off, dropping the towel to the floor.
He pulled a white terrycloth robe from his closet and put it over his body. He then walked through the house to the largest room — the entertainment room. This part of the house was stocked with the majority of the expensive items Jake had purchased during the wild spending spree he'd engaged in upon becoming a new millionaire. There was a pinball machine, a regulation sized pool table, a shuffleboard table, a grand piano, a large screen television set complete with laser disc player, VCR, and stereo speakers. The audio system was first rate, containing a six hundred dollar turntable, a twelve-disc CD player, dual cassette players, a high-fidelity receiver, and the best speakers commercially available. Racks next to the audio components contained over six hundred records and one hundred compact discs. The walls were decorated not with artwork but with many of Jake's collection of musical instruments — several electric guitars, several acoustic guitars, a violin, a mandolin, a saxophone, a banjo (a recent acquisition that he was teaching himself to play), and, the centerpiece, a Les Paul guitar signed by Les Paul himself. This last, which was kept in a glass case, was a gift from Gibson Guitars, whom Jake held an endorsement contract with. Two instruments were conspicuously absent from the collection. They were the Les Paul Jake played on stage — which was currently in a truck being shipped back from Seattle — and the battered old Fender Grand Concert acoustic that he'd had since he was seventeen years old, the guitar he still composed much of his music on. Both of these instruments held a place of honor in his office.
Jake glanced around a little, smiling in satisfaction at his decorating scheme and all of his toys. He then walked over to the most important feature of the entertainment room: the bar. It was of genuine oak and ran the length of one wall. Stocked with every kind of liquor imaginable, it also had a large refrigerator complete with an automatic icemaker that could produce an almost unlimited supply of either cubes or crushed ice. He opened up the fridge and saw, with satisfaction, that it had been stocked according to the specific directions he'd given the maid service. There was a case or so of various sodas — coke, 7-up, and ginger ale mostly — and a case of his favorite beer, an import from Mexico called Corona. There was also a bowl full of fresh limes. He took out one of the limes and cut it into six slices, which he put in a small bowl. He then grabbed a bucket from a shelf behind the bar and dropped six of the bottles of Corona into it. He filled the remainder of the bucket with ice and then dropped a bottle opener in. He pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from another shelf and carried his acquisitions across the room to the balcony door.
The hot tub that Jake had originally wanted to put out here was one that held twelve people and more than fifteen hundred gallons of water. Unfortunately the building's engineer had nixed the idea on the grounds that the structure of the balcony could not handle that much weight. So instead he'd been forced to go with the California Hot Spas model 27x, which only held nine hundred gallons of water and could only fit eight adults in comfort (and it had done that on one occasion just prior to leaving on the tour — an occasion that had ended with the arrival of the LAPD who had been called by his rather jealous downstairs neighbor). Jake flipped the cover up on it now revealing the one hundred degree water that was lightly scented with chlorine. He set his bucket and his smokes down on a special shelf designed just for that purpose and then grabbed an ashtray from one of the redwood lounge chairs. He took off his robe, unmindful that anyone out in the western edge of Griffith Park who might be equipped with a telephoto lens (as some of the more aggressive paparazzi were prone to doing) would have a clear shot of him. It wasn't as if they hadn't taken pictures of his penis before. He dropped the robe on the lounge chair and then climbed the steps into the Jacuzzi.