“Yes,” he said simply. “And I’m going to miss the finale if you don’t get dicknose on the line for me.”
“Right,” she said. “Putting you through.”
There was a brief period of on-hold music—the Muzak version of Motley Crue’s Home Sweet Home—and then the phone clicked. “Matt?” said Hopple’s voice. “Is that you?”
“It’s me, Hopple,” Matt said. “Kim said you have some shit you need to talk to me about?”
“Yes, yes I do,” he said. “Where are you at tonight?”
“In fucking England,” Matt said. “Birmingham, as a matter of fact. It’s eleven-fucking-thirty at night here, we just got back from the show, and I got a couple of English groupies munching each other’s muff on the couch of my suite. Now please tell me what is more important than that.”
“English groupies?” Hopple asked, his voice envious. “What do they look like?”
“Like fucking groupies!” Matt barked. “Why do you need to talk to me, Hopple? What kind of shit is hitting the fan back there?”
“Oh ... well ... it’s not really a big deal, actually, and I don’t want you to worry too much about this, but ... well ... uh...” He faded out.
“What?” Mat shouted, loud enough to drown out the sounds of the partying. “Spit it out, dude! Tell me what you don’t want me to fucking worry about!”
“Well ... it’s just that I got a notice that your taxes from 1995 are being audited.”
“Audited?” Matt asked, suddenly forgetting about the groupies outside. That was a terrifying word.
“Yeah, audited,” Hopple said, “but don’t worry. First of all, it’s not the IRS who is auditing you, it’s just the California Franchise Tax Board.”
“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” he asked. “An audit is an audit, right?”
“Well ... kind of,” Hopple said. “But this shouldn’t be bad at all. They’ve already told me what the issue is.”
“What is the issue?”
“It’s the one-hundred- and eighteen-thousand-dollar medical deduction you took for that heart surgery you had back in December. You remember? The one you paid out of pocket for?”
“Yes, Hopple,” Matt said, shaking his head. “I do seem to remember them burning away parts of my fucking heart and me paying a hundred and eighteen big for it. What is the issue? You said that out-of-pocket medical expenses are deductible.”
“They are,” Hopple said. “That’s why I don’t want you to worry about this. There is no question whatsoever that your heart surgery was a legitimate medical expense that was uncompensated by your medical insurance carrier.”
“Then why are they questioning it?”
“The amount you paid triggered an alarm,” Hopple said. “You see, paying that much out of pocket in medical expenses is far above the normal amount that the average taxpayer pays—even taxpayers at your income level. They just want to see documentation of the procedure, the financial transaction, and why the insurance company did not reimburse you. It’ll be nothing. Like I said, there is nothing the least bit questionable about the legitimacy of this deduction.”
“Are you sure about this?” Matt asked.
“Absolutely sure,” Hopple assured him. “I just need you to fax me a written authorization to represent you at the audit. Under the assumption that you did not want to fly all the way back home to appear in person for this minor matter, I’ve already taken the liberty of scheduling it for May 25th at the Los Angeles branch office.”
“Uh ... well ... yeah, I guess I don’t want to come all the way back to LA for this shit. We’ll be in France then, I think. Do I just write this up on a piece of paper?”
“That’s right,” Hopple said. “A handwritten authorization is fine. Just say that you authorize the firm of Hopple and Hopple to represent you before the California Franchise Tax Board, date it, and then sign it. Let me give you our fax number.” He rattled the number off and Matt wrote it down.
“Does this shit have to be done tonight?” Matt asked.
“No, just do it in the next twenty-four hours,” Hopple said.
“All right,” Matt said. “I’ll do it in the morning, before we go out to do the meet and greets.”
“That will work,” Hopple said. “And, like I told you, don’t worry too much about this. It should be nothing.”
“Yeah,” Matt said bitterly. “A nothing tax audit. That happens all the time, right?”
“Actually, you’d be surprised,” the accountant reassured him.
“Uh huh,” Matt said. “I’m gonna go back to my groupies now.”
“Any chance you could snap some pictures?” Hopple asked.
“I already have,” Matt told him, “but you’re sure as shit not going to see any of them.”
“That’s too bad,” Hopple said, genuine regret in his tone. “Oh ... and one more thing before you go. I just wanted to say how happy I am about you and Jake Kingsley.”
Matt wrinkled his face in confusion. “What about me and Jake Kingsley?” he asked.
“It’s all over the entertainment news here in LA,” Hopple said. “About this Tsunami Sound Festival and about how you and Jake are going to share the stage for it.”
“What?!” Matt barked.
“You and Jake,” Hopple said, a little confusion in his tone now. “He’s going to be the act before yours on both nights of the festival. Didn’t you know that?”
“No, I did not fucking know that!” Matt nearly screamed. “Are you sure about this shit?”
“Very sure,” Hopple said. “Music Alive released their press release two days ago about the TSF. It listed the bands that will be playing on each night. Jake is there right before you on both of them. You can see it on their website if you have internet access there.”
“And the entertainment media are talking about this?” Matt asked next.
“They’re making a big deal out of it,” Hopple said. “They’re calling it the ‘first step toward a possible Intemperance reunion’. Is that true, Matt? Do you really think this might lead to that?”
“No, it’s not true,” Matt said through gritted teeth. “There is not going to be an Intemperance reunion—never! In fact, there’s not even going to be a ‘this’, as you put it. I will not share a stage with Jake fucking Kingsley. Either he is going to go, or I am.”
“Oh,” Hopple said slowly. “That’s too bad as well. I was kind of looking forward to it.”
“I gotta go, Hopple,” Matt told him. “You’ll have that fax tomorrow. For now, I got a few more phone calls to make.”
He hung up the phone without waiting for Hopple’s reply. He then got the hotel operator and then the international operator back. He had her ring the main line for his home in San Juan Capistrano, where he assumed Kim would be staying (she rarely went to her own house, even when Matt was away). It was an assumption that proved to be correct. She picked it up on the second ring and agreed to accept the international charge from the United Kingdom.
“Hey, Mattie,” she greeted once the operator clicked off the line. “Did you talk to Hopple?”
“I did,” he said. “It turns out I’m being audited by the state.”
“Oh,” she said, worry in her voice. “That could be bad.”
“He says it’s nothing,” he told her dismissively. “They just want documentation on my heart surgery and why I deducted it.”
“That should be okay then,” she said. “As long as that’s the only issue they look at.”
“I didn’t call about the audit,” he told her. “I called about the TSF.”
“The festival in September?” she asked. “What about it?”
“Have you heard anything about the lineup?” he asked. “Hopple told me the entertainment fucks are all talking about it.”
“I haven’t heard a thing,” she said, “but I don’t watch those entertainment shows. You know that.”