“Uh ... well ... it’s just that they have some questions about the actual amount of your taxable income.”
“What about the amount?”
“Well ... do you remember how I explained to you that your income from your solo contracts and your recent tours is not subject to California or United States taxation?”
“Yes, I remember that shit,” Matt told him. “You told me that because I have a house in Mexico I can claim to be a resident there even though I’m really not.”
“Exactly!” Hopple said. “And that is a perfectly legal loophole, of course.”
“That is what you told me,” Matt said, his voice edging into the danger zone.
“And I am correct in that,” Hopple assured him. “Have no fear about that. But ... well ... since that income is not subject to California or United States taxation, I did not bother reporting it to them. I mean, what’s the point? Letting them know about it would just lead to them trying to find a way to get their hands on some of it. It behooves neither of us to open that particular can of worms, right?”
“Was it something that you were supposed to report?” Matt asked him.
“Well ... in a strictly by-the-book way ... uh ... yes, technically I was supposed to. But there was really no reason to do it. They’re not entitled to any of that money, and I was under the impression that there was no way for them to even know that it existed in the first place. I mean, your Intemperance income is subject to taxation and everything about that was fully disclosed and taxed at the proper rate.”
“So, what the fuck happened then?”
“This is really kind of amusing, really,” Hopple told him.
“Nothing about this fucking conversation is amusing me right now, Hopple. Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“As it turns out, the agent who was the lead on your audit is a music fan, particularly of Intemperance and your solo albums. He knows that you have just put out two back-to-back solo albums that sold multi-platinum and had two back-to-back tours that were profitable. He even went to the show in Los Angeles when you passed through the last time.”
“I’ll sign a fuckin’ shirt for him,” Matt barked. “What happens now? Do you just have to amend the fuckin’ tax forms or what?”
“Uh ... no. I don’t have to amend anything. You see, he’s going to ... uh ... get his own documentation on those figures.”
“His own documentation? What does that mean?”
“Well ... it sounds worse than it is, so don’t freak out on me or anything here.”
“What sounds worse than it is?” Matt asked through gritted teeth. “Tell me what you’re talking about!”
“He’s going to have a judge issue a subpoena for your income records from National Records’ revenue distribution department.”
“A subpoena?!” he nearly screamed. “Will a judge do that?”
“Yes, in all likelihood he or she will,” Hopple said. “These government agencies are all in cahoots with each other to some degree.”
“And then what happens? Will National give that information to them?”
“They would have to,” Hopple said. “But you don’t have to worry about it, Matt. Truly you don’t. The underlying principle still applies. That money is not subject to California taxation because you do not reside in California. All that will happen is that a small, technical oversight on my part will be rectified by updating your recent income. Life will go on and everything else will be fine. And I’ll be sure to include that information on next year’s return.”
“You’re sure about this shit?” Matt asked.
“Absolutely sure,” Hopple assured him. “Nothing else will happen. We’re just correcting some paperwork here.”
Matt felt a little better with this reassurance. A little. “Okay,” he said. “I guess you know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” he said. “Remember, my name is on those returns as well.”
“All right,” Matt said. “I want you to keep me updated on this shit. Call Kim whenever you have news to share.”
“I will,” Hopple told him. “Oh ... there is one other thing, just a precaution.”
“What’s that?”
“I think it might be a good idea if you retained a good taxation attorney to help me represent you.”
“A taxation attorney?! What the fuck for? You just said I don’t have anything to worry about!”
“As I said, just a precaution,” Hopple said. “I’m a CPA and I know the California and federal tax codes up and down. But I am not an expert in the law or the legal proceedings as they relate to taxation. I believe it would behoove both of us to have such a person on retainer from here on out to represent your interests from a legal standpoint.”
“I don’t know any fuckin’ tax lawyers!”
“I know a few,” Hopple said. “If you like, I could...”
“No, fuck that shit,” Matt interrupted. “You’ve already done enough. I’ll find my own goddamned tax lawyer.”
“How are you going to do that from Europe?”
“I’ll find a way,” Matt said, a plan already formulating in his brain. It was not a plan he was enthusiastic about since it would necessitate the swallowing of a considerable amount of pride, but in a situation like this, you had to do what you had to do.
KVA Records’ main studio in Santa Clarita was a busy place today and would continue to be busy for the next several weeks. During the day from 9:00 AM until roughly 4:30 PM, Jake was using the studio to start putting together his set for the upcoming TSF. As it was the very first day of rehearsal, most of it had been spent with Jake and the members of Lighthouse—Phil, Ben, Ted, and Lenny Harris—just getting their equipment set up and sound checked under the supervision of the Nerdlys and then Jake showing the boys—particularly Lenny—the basic melodies of some of his songs. At 4:30, the members of Lighthouse went home for the evening and, now that it was just past 5:00 PM, the members of Brainwash were here for their first full evening of workups and demonstrations of the tunes they wanted considered for the next album. They would work until at least 9:00 PM, maybe later if the groove was particularly groovy. Jake and the Nerdlys had both stayed behind for this. Pauline, on the other hand, was just about to walk out the door. She had spent much of the day making travel arrangements for when Brainwash headed up to Oregon on June 15th to start their sessions at Blake Studios and issuing ‘no comment’ statements to the media reps who were still calling endlessly about the Celia Valdez/Laura Kingsley lesbian sex scandal.
Just before Pauline made it to the door between the reception area and the parking lot, the phone began to ring on the receptionist’s desk. Melissa, the latest KVA receptionist (the previous one had quit two months ago after getting knocked up by her boyfriend) had already gone home for the day. Pauline pondered just letting the voicemail system field the call—after all, it was undoubtedly just another reporter fishing for lesbian sex details—but in the end, her work ethic and sense of professionalism just wouldn’t let her. She diverted her path and walked over to the desk.
“KVA Records,” she said into the phone. “How can I help you?”
A voice with a heavy, odd-sounding accent began to speak in her ear. “This is the international operator from Rotterdam, Nederland calling for a person to person call from Matt Tisdale to Pauline Kingsley. Is Ms. Kingsley available to accept the call?”
Pauline immediately wondered if this was some kind of joke or mistake. Matt Tisdale calling me? He would never do that! Especially not from freaking Rotterdam. “I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head a little. “Did you say that Matt Tisdale is calling?”
“That’s what she said,” Matt’s voice interjected. “Is that you, Pauline? It sounds like you.”