Before any of them could reply, the partition slid back up.
"Asshole," Matt said, making sure his voice was loud enough to carry through the partition.
Coop fumbled around for a minute and was finally able to get the door open. They piled out one by one and walked towards the side entrance they had been directed to. There they found Trina, who was dressed in a pair of loose-fitting blue jeans and a maroon, sleeveless blouse. She looked tired, as if she might be hung over.
"Hey, guys," she greeted listlessly. "Follow me."
They followed her, entering through a little used door into a corner of the lobby where the security services and the housekeeping staff kept their offices. Matt and Darren both tried to engage her in conversation as they walked but she ignored them both, thoroughly and completely. At last they came to the elevators. They piled inside and rode up to the sixteenth floor. When the doors opened onto a spacious hallway, there was a security guard manning a podium just outside. His eyes widened as he saw who the current passengers were.
"Miss Allen," the guard said slowly, his eyes flitting from one band member to the other. "Is... everything all right?"
"Everything is fine," she assured him with a wave of dismissal. "These are some guests of Mr. Shaver. They won't be staying long."
He looked them up and down again, quite disapprovingly, and then glanced up the hallway, obviously looking to see if any of the other hotel patrons were in sight. Finally, he nodded. "I guess its okay then," he said.
Trina offered him a slight smile and then exited the elevator. "Come on guys," she said. "Almost there."
The band obediently followed. Shortly they came to a door numbered 1605. Trina used a key to open it and they entered the Presidential Suite.
"Holy fuckin' shit," Matt whispered as he took in the opulence.
Jake had to agree that that pretty much summed it up. There was a marble entryway that led into a spacious sitting room full of plush chairs. Beyond this was an oak wet bar. Beyond that, near the balcony door, was a hot tub that was bubbling and steaming. The balcony looked out over the Sacramento River. Off to the sides were closed doors that presumably led to a master bedroom and a bathroom. Sitting in one of the chairs, before an oak table large enough to hold a meeting at, was Ronald Shaver. He was dressed as casually as his secretary-in a pair of jeans and a button-up shirt. His feet were bare and his face was unshaven. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray before him. Next to this was a small serving tray with a silver lid over it. He had a phone pressed against his ear and was talking to someone named "Gary" about those "goddamn contract extension clauses". He looked up as they entered and waved towards the table he was at, inviting them to sit. They trooped over and grabbed seats, Matt and Jake sitting closest to Shaver, the rest spreading out to either side. Trina walked over to one of the seats not against the conference table. She sat down and began examining her manicured nails thoughtfully.
For nearly five minutes, they sat there in silence, listening to Shaver talk about some mysterious entity or entities that had tried to throw one of these mysterious contract extension clauses onto one of his artists. Shaver told Gary this was not even remotely acceptable and that he, Shaver, was going to recommend outright refusal of the contract in question if those fucksticks wanted to play hardball. He exclaimed that they needed to remember who held the power and who would end up sucking someone's asshole if things went to shit. He rounded out the conversation by asking Gary if he understood where he was coming from. Apparently Gary did, as the conversation ended with the slamming down of the phone a few seconds later.
"Goddamn accountants," Shaver said, shaking his head in disgust. "Sometimes I think they're even worse than lawyers." He looked up at his guests, his eyes flitting from one to the next. "How you doing, boys?" he asked. "Glad you could make it."
They all said their various versions of hello and then Shaver introduced himself to Coop, Darren, and Bill, shaking each of their hands in turn. He then turned to Trina, who seemed lost in a world of her own.
"Trina," he said. "Maybe these boys would like a drink. Set us up with some glasses and some Chivas, please."
"Sure," Trina replied with a yawn. She slowly got to her feet and went over to the bar.
"Now then," Shaver said, while she filled glasses with ice, "I understand you boys are looking for an agent. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Matt said. "That is correct."
"Well, I'll tell you, I have a policy against representing unsigned bands and I especially have a policy against unsolicited demo tapes. But, you know, every policy should have an exception clause. You'll go far in life if you just keep that in mind. And in my case, I just might be inclined to invoke my exception clause with you fellows. I like the way you sound. You've got some raw talent among the five of you. I've been wrong before, but I think that with the right coaching, you just might be able to sell a couple of albums."
"Just give us that chance," Matt said. "You won't be sorry."
Shaver shrugged. "That remains to be seen. But before we go any further, do you boys understand exactly what an agent does for you?"
"You use your contacts in the recording industry to get us a contract," Matt said. "Without an agent, its pretty much impossible to heard. With a well-connected agent, such as you, it's almost a given."
Shaver smiled. "That's an oversimplified and somewhat cynical version of what I do, but yes, you have the basic gist of it. I also help you negotiate the most favorable recording contract if and when that time comes. In other words, I make sure you don't end up as poor slaves to the label. My job is to be your advocate. The relationship is mutually beneficial since what I am paid is tied into what you are paid."
Trina brought a tray over and set it down. On it were five crystal glasses with Chivas on the rocks. She distributed each glass, setting them down gently like a waitress.
Matt picked his up and took a small sniff of it. "Do you have any Coke to go with this?" he asked.
Shaver kept his composure only by the sheerest force of will. He swallowed a few times and closed his eyes for a few seconds. Finally he looked up at Trina. "Could you get a few cans of coke for these gentlemen?" he asked slowly.
She chewed her lip for a second and then said, "Sure." She went back to the bar and returned with three red and white cans from the refrigerator. She and Shaver watched with bemused revulsion as the members of Intemperance each poured healthy dollops of cola into their glasses.
"Good hooch," Coop said, after draining half of it at a swallow.
"Fuckin' A," Matt agreed. "Top rate."
"I'm glad you like it," Shaver said. "Would you boys care for a line to go with your drinks?" He reached over and lifted the top off the serving tray, revealing a large mirror with six fat rails of cocaine laid out side by side. He picked up the mirror and offered it to Matt.
"You are a good host, Mr. Shaver," Matt said, taking the mirror and setting it down before him.
Shaver shrugged, as if to say it was nothing more than putting out a bowl of chips and some salsa. He reached into his pocket and produced a $100 bill, which he quickly rolled into a tube. He passed this over to Matt. "Enjoy," he said.
Matt snorted up the first line and then sniffed loudly, his body shuddering a little. "Wow," he said, his eyes tearing up. "This is some killer blow."
"I'm sure you are used to cocaine that is at least sixty percent cut," Shaver said. "This is pure, uncut Bolivian flake. Perhaps the finest... uh... blow, as you put it, in the world."
"No shit?" Darren asked, grabbing for the mirror. "I gotta check this out." He picked up the bill and snorted noisily. When it was inside him he pounded the side of his head a few times and let out a yelp. "God-fucking-damn!" he declared. "It must be nice to be rich."