“Uh ... okay, but...”
Matt did not hear the rest of what he said because the phone was now sitting on the bar. After putting the phone down, he picked up his drink and downed the rest of it and dumped the ice out. He then picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a healthy shot that filled the glass halfway. This, he downed in one slug, feeling the warmth exploding through his body. He took a few deep breaths and then picked up the pipe and the bag of genuine California greenbud he had scored from the hotel’s concierge. He pulled off a healthy pinch, stuffed it into the pipe, put the pipe to his lips, picked up the lighter next to his cigarettes, and then fired up. He took a long healthy rip of the pot, holding the smoke deeply for nearly thirty seconds before blowing it back out. He then repeated the procedure one more time. After this, he pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit that up. He took two healthy drags. Only then did he pick the phone back up and put it to his ear.
“All right,” he said. “I’m properly braced now. Lay it on me.”
Wesley, who was by now used to dealing with Matt, simply laid it on him. “The California FTB has come to the figure of eight million, four hundred and sixteen thousand, two hundred and thirty-four dollars,” he said. “The IRS has come to the figure of twenty-six million, nine hundred twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and eleven dollars. Of course, the interest accrual on both of these amounts will continue to rise at the prime rate the longer you go without paying them.”
“Fuck me,” Matt said, shaking his head. More than thirty-four million dollars! It was worse than he had thought.
“As of this moment in time,” Wesley went on, “your yacht, your helicopter, and your Los Angeles domicile are all in escrow. When escrow closes and funding occurs, that will give you four million, sixty-three thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars to pay toward the debt. In addition, we have firm bids on most of your guitar collection that will add another two hundred and eighteen thousand or so to that amount. And liquidation of some of your stocks, bonds, and certificates of deposit will add another two million, two hundred and twelve thousand to that, although you must remember that you will be responsible for capital gains taxes on the sale of the domicile and the investment gains on the stocks, bonds, and CDs.”
“That still leaves an assload to pay off,” Matt said.
“It does,” Wesley agreed. “And the IRS is already making preparations to garnish your royalty checks, your endorsement income checks, and to start seizing some of your other assets. Are you sure you won’t reconsider your decision not to put your house and property in Mexico up for sale?”
“I’m not selling my Cabo pad!” Matt insisted. “Christ, dude. Don’t you ever have anything good to say?”
“Well ... the income you’ll be receiving from this music festival you’re playing tomorrow will help pay the debt down even more.” He paused. “After taxes are considered, of course.”
“Yeah,” Matt said bitterly. “Of course.”
“And the judge has agreed to not allow the IRS to seize your primary guitar or any of the secondary guitars you use in the actual production or performance of your music.”
“Very fuckin’ big of him,” Matt said.
“It was a her, actually,” Wesley said.
“Whatever,” Matt spat.
“I’m doing the best I can here, Matt,” Wesley said. “You didn’t give me much to work with though. You can’t just not pay taxes on income like yours for four years and not expect any consequences.”
“Yeah,” Matt said. “I guess I kind of understand that shit now.”
“Is there anything else I can answer for you at this time?” the lawyer asked.
“Naw,” Matt said. “I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll have some shit to ask then.”
“I’ll look forward to the meeting,” Wesley told him. “Does nine o’clock work for you?”
“In the morning?”
“Uh ... yes, in the morning.”
“I don’t do nine o’clock in the fuckin’ morning,” Matt told him. “How about three?”
“Three it is,” Wesley said.
“All right. Book it.”
“There is one thing I would like to ask, Matt,” Wesley said before Matt could hang up.
“What’s that?”
“Now ... I’m not a fan of your music. I told you that before, during our first conversation. I listen primarily to jazz.”
“Yeah? So what? I don’t see that shit as a problem. In fact, I’m not sure I would want a fan of mine working on my fucking legal problems.”
“Right,” Wesley said. “I understand that point of view. I’m not a fan of Jake Kingsley or Intemperance either.”
“What is your fuckin’ point, dude?” Matt asked, more than tired of this conversation, particularly now that Kingsley’s name had been invoked.
“Well, a few of the paralegals that work in my department are fans of yours,” Wesley said.
“Is this about tickets to the TSF?” he asked. “You want to score yourself some paralegal gash and the way to make the deal go down is to give her a couple of VIP tickets to the show? Sure! I can make that shit happen. I’m all about helping my fellow man score some gash. How many you want?”
“Uh ... no, that’s not where I was going with that,” Wesley said.
“It’s not?” he asked, actually a little disappointed.
“No ... but ... well, now that you bring it up, maybe I could find good use for two VIP tickets.”
“Which night?” Matt asked.
“Both, if you can arrange it,” he said.
“They’ll be at will call under your name,” Matt promised. “Now, what were you actually talking about if it wasn’t tickets for gash?”
“I was just going to say that the paralegals were talking about this rumor going around. The one about how you and Jake Kingsley will do some Intemperance material at the show.”
“That fuckin’ rumor?” Matt said in disgust. “There’s nothing to it. No way in hell it’s going to happen. That rumor got started by the media fucks who speculated that since Kingsley and I were both performing at the TSF then we might be reuniting. Those fuckheads at Music Alive have been encouraging the rumor because it’s helping them sell tickets at more than a hundred a pop. But it ain’t happening. That’s God’s fuckin’ truth there, dude.”
“Oh, I see,” Wesley said. “That’s too bad.”
“Why would you give a shit if me and Jake were getting back together if you’re not a fan of either one of us?” Matt wanted to know.
“I really do not,” Wesley told him. “I was just going to suggest to you that if the rumor were true, you are not asking for nearly enough money. Any form of Intemperance reunion would be worth some serious bank for all concerned with it.”
And, approximately 1600 miles to the east northeast, at thirty-eight thousand feet above sea level and traveling at four hundred thirty knots actual, Laura Kingsley and Celia Valdez were in first class seats of a United Airlines 767 flying from John F. Kennedy International in New York to McCarran International in Las Vegas. This was the third aircraft they had been on since leaving their Warsaw Hilton hotel room well before sunrise, some thirteen hours before. From Warsaw International they had flown to Charles de Gaulle International in Paris aboard an Air France A-320. From there they had climbed aboard the Concorde and flown for three and a half hours across the Atlantic to New York City, actually landing forty-five minutes before they had left Paris thanks to the speed of the aircraft and the time zone changes. After a two-hour layover in New York, they boarded their current plane, which was now more than an hour into its journey.
Laura was awake at the moment, but only because they were eating their meal service. She had an uncanny ability to sleep on aircraft and had dozed away more than five hours of their journey so far. Even on the Concorde she had slept for most of the flight, nodding off shortly after the supersonic plane had leveled off at sixty thousand feet and shut down its afterburners. She had taken a few moments to marvel over the fact that she could actually see the curvature of the Earth out her tiny window and then out she’d gone. She woke up long enough to eat the meal service and then had gone right back out, sleeping until the flaps had come down for landing.