Jake didn't love Colette. He had no desire to converse with her outside of this bedroom. But the allure of what she had to offer, what the girls like her had to offer, was something that he could not deny. This woman was beautiful, sexy, light years out of what he considered to be his league, and she had given herself to him unconditionally and with un-faked enthusiasm simply because he was something of a celebrity, a musician in a band she happened to like. He could have a woman like Colette, maybe even two, after every gig if he wanted.
For the first time Jake suddenly realized the true magnitude of the gift his talent and efforts had bestowed upon him. For a twenty-one year old kid who had spent the bulk of his life being ignored and called Bonerack, it was a powerful thought indeed.
Los Angeles, California
October 1, 1981
Ronald Shaver's office was on the twenty-second floor of the Hedgerow Building in Hollywood. It was an office that was designed to intimidate and impress. The view out the large window was of the Hollywood Hills and the famous sign atop them. The desk that sat before this view was of genuine oak and contained nearly eighteen square feet of workspace. Next to the desk was a fully stocked wet bar, complete with polished mirror hanging behind it. There was a leather couch where he frequently balled his twenty-two-year-old female secretary. On the desk itself was a typewriter, two telephones, a large Rolodex, and a custom made blotter, atop which sat a jeweled frame mirror about six inches square. Sitting on this mirror were two lines of pure Bolivian flake cocaine that sold for $150 per gram. The coke had been lovingly chopped into a fine powder with a razor blade. Descending towards the line on the left was a rolled up $100 bill, the other end of which was attached to Ronald Shaver's right nostril.
Shaver was a talent agent specializing in musical acts. At the age of forty-two, his name was known and moderately well respected by most of the major recording labels based in southern California. He had cut his teeth in the business during the disco craze of the mid-seventies, signing six major groups and/or artists, including one who had managed to make the transition to more palatable music once that particular craze came to a swift and merciful end. These days his two major clients were Earthstone, a hard rock band from San Diego that had cut three gold records; and The Two Lips, a punk rock band from Indianapolis that had gone mainstream enough to make their fourth album actually shoot past gold and go platinum.
Shaver was successful enough at his trade to be more than a little pompous but privately he knew he was not as successful as he could be if he only had the right material to work with. Earthstone was a solid band that made good music and would probably continue to for some time, but there was nothing that particularly stood out about them, that made them appeal to more than a sub-section of the music market. And The Two Lips, while wildly popular at this particular moment in time, would undoubtedly flounder into nothingness as soon as the punk fad currently sweeping the nation died out and was replaced by something a little less abrasive (an event that couldn't come too soon as far as the part of Shaver that actually appreciated good music was concerned).
What he needed was to get his hands on an act that had some talent, some originality, and, most important, some long-term mass appeal. He longed to discover the next Van Halen, or Led Zepplin, or even the next Hall and fucking Oats. He wasn't particular.
He made a point to keep his ear close to the ground, to keep his nose sniffing about for such an act, but so far he'd encountered nothing but a bunch of second-rate one-hit pop types at best, out and out hackers at worst. Was he losing his touch or was the talent pool just shrinking? Either way he feared the consequences and so, with no idea that exactly what he was looking for was about to be carried into his office by his secretary, he snorted up the first line of cocaine and sniffed loudly as he felt it settle into his nasal passage.
"Hey, Trina," he said as she came through the door. He made no effort whatsoever to move his cocaine mirror or hide what he was doing.
"Hi, Ronnie," she replied, flashing her best smile at him. She was a beautiful, willowy blonde dressed in a tight, short business dress, her smooth, sexy legs clad in dark nylons. She set two envelopes down on his desk. "Mail's here."
"Thanks," he said, sniffing a few more times. He picked up the mirror and offered it to her. "Care for a little toot?"
"Sure," she said casually, taking the mirror from his hands. He handed her the $100 bill and she made the line disappear. She sniffed loudly a few times and then set both back on the desk. "Thanks, hon," she told him. "We still on for tonight?"
"Dinner and dancing at Aces and Spades," he assured her. "I'll pick you up at eight."
"Bitchin'," she said with a smile. "Should I call your wife and tell her you'll be working late?"
"No need," he assured her. "She's down in Palm Springs for a week with Loretta."
"She's still doing the LPGA girl, huh? Does she know you know that they're more than friends?"
He shook his head. "She's dumber than dirt. That's why I married her. She didn't even have her lawyer look over the pre-nup before she signed it."
They both had a laugh at the expense of Gina Shaver, the beautiful, sensuous, and dim-witted woman he had walked down the aisle with three years before.
"Ahh well, she is good breeding stock though," Shaver said. He turned his attention to the mail. "So, what came in today? Anything important?"
"That new copy of the preliminary contract for Earthstone's next album. It's pretty much the same as the last prelim except the label cut the limo clause from the tour package and reduced the advance offer by another ten percent."
He sighed. That fuckstick Tim Johnson over at National Records' Business Affairs department was jerking him around again. It was obvious he understood the terminal mediocrity that Earthstone was condemned to and was trying to cut as much out of the artist's budget as he could in order to preserve more profit for the label. Well, what did you expect from a fucking accountant anyway? It was a wonder to him that the world held bean counters on some sort of higher plain than ambulance chasers when they were easily just as sleazy. "I'll call that asshole up and deal with him after I get a little more blow in my system," he told her. "What else we got?"
"Just this," she said, indicating a large brown envelope with multiple stamps on it. "Came from a return address in Heritage."
"Heritage?" he said with distaste. "I don't know anyone in Heritage. And if I did, I surely wouldn't admit it. What is it?"
"I don't know," she said. "It's addressed to you by name and labeled Personal and Confidential."
He picked up the envelope, hefting its weight, and knew immediately what it was. To confirm, he felt the outside of it, finding the shape of a cased cassette tape inside. "It's a fucking demo tape," he said in disgust. "An unsolicited demo tape by some talent-less hackers who found my name in the library. You know I don't accept unsolicited demos, Trina. Why are you bringing this crap to me?"