"Twenty-one percent," Jake said thoughtfully, mulling that over. He knew exactly why Shaver had named that figure. The one percent was symbolic, meant to indicate that a punk kid had not negotiated him all the way down to nothing. It was a face-saving measure, something important to Shaver's ego and sense of control, and Jake instinctively knew that he would fight to the death over that final percentage point.
"Well?" Shaver said.
Jake nodded. "It sounds like a deal."
A collective sigh of relief was exhaled through the room. The tension began to evaporate almost immediately, like an ice cube on a hot sidewalk. Shaver shook each of their hands and welcomed them aboard.
"Trina," Shaver said. "Can you get one of those pre-printed contracts from my briefcase and bring it in here."
"Sure," she said, standing up. She shot Jake a look as she passed by. It was not a look of disrespect. She disappeared into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.
While she was gone, Shaver took the time to pass a few words with Coop and Bill while Darren sucked down the remainder of his Chivas and Coke. While they were doing that Jake looked over at Matt. Matt was staring at him, letting him know that this matter would be discussed later. Jake nodded slightly, acknowledging the telepathic communication.
They signed a representation contract with Shaver Talent Agency Inc., all of them going over it line by line and initialing the part where Shaver's percentage of thirty percent had been crossed out and twenty-one percent written in instead. The rest of the contract was only two pages in length and had been written in pretty straightforward language. Jake and Matt were both able to satisfy themselves that there were no hidden pitfalls lurking within that collection of words and phrases. The complicated contracts, Shaver told them, were the ones they would sign with a record company, assuming things went that far.
"The very first priority," Shaver said, "is to get a real demo tape made. A professional tape, mixed and edited."
"Where are we going to do that?" Bill asked, speaking for the very first time since the initial introductory handshake.
"There's a studio down in Sacramento," he replied. "They usually use staff musicians to record tunes for local television and radio commercials, theme songs for shows, and stuff like that. Their techs aren't the best in the business but they'll be able to get your music down on tape well enough for me to let the record company execs hear what you sound like. We'll do six songs, a cross-mix of your tunes. Matt, pick your three best and Jake, you do the same. Include one of your ballads in there somewhere too. The execs love ballads because they translate out into singles."
"How much is this going to cost?" Jake asked. They had looked into professional studios before and the average fee was in the neighborhood of fifty dollars for each hour of time. Recording and mixing each song generally took about nine hours. So what they were talking, for six songs, was about $2700. Money that the Intemperance general fund was well short of.
"I have some connections there," Shaver told him. "I can get you sixty hours of studio time for free. Just be sure to get all the tunes recorded in that amount of time, will you? If you go over, you're paying for the extra time."
Sixty hours of studio time for free? Even Jake was impressed by this.
They left the hotel shortly after, each taking a copy of the contract they had signed with them (a room service employee had come up, taken the original, made seven copies, and then brought them all back up-for which Shaver had tipped him ten bucks). The limo was still waiting for them downstairs and as the driver took them back to Matt's house he seemed much more friendly than he had on the inbound trip, actually opening the doors for them and calling them "sir" now.
Coop, Darren, and Bill began to party immediately upon entering the house. The stereo came on, playing Led Zepplin's Houses of the Holy. Darren rolled a fat joint while Coop distributed mixed drinks. Matt and Jake abstained from the festivities, at least for the time being. They had business of their own to attend to.
"Don't get too fucked up," Matt warned the trio as he grabbed two beers out of the refrigerator. "Remember, we still have a gig tonight."
They promised they would maintain composure.
Matt handed one of the beers to Jake. "Come on," he said. "Let's take a walk."
"Right," Jake agreed.
They went outside, following a cement path over towards the main house. They ended up at the pool, which was too cold to swim in but which had not yet been covered for the coming winter and still had all the patio furniture laid out around it. They grabbed seats at one of the tables, both opening their beers and having a drink. Matt took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Jake. Jake accepted and they both lit up, smoking thoughtfully as they collected their thoughts.
"Jake," Matt said at last, "you ever hear people say that the ends justify the means?"
Jake nodded. "I've heard that a time or two. Can't say that I always agree with it."
"Exactly," Matt said. "The ends that you accomplished there with Shaver turned out to be a good thing. You got him down from thirty percent to twenty-one. I can't argue with that." He took a drag from his smoke, blowing it out thoughtfully. "But the means you utilized to get there, that was pretty fuckin foul, you dig?"
"I dig where you're coming from, Matt, but in this particular instance, I'm afraid that I do agree with the saying. I did what I needed to do there, what you should have done."
Matt's temper flared the smallest bit. He took another drag, calming himself. "I made a decision in there and I expected you to support me. You were putting our relationship with Shaver at risk and you were defying me in front of the rest of the band. Jake, I can't allow that to happen. This band has to have a leader and that leader is me. Don't cock-block one of my decisions like that ever again. Especially not in front of a roomful of people. You have any idea how fuckin embarrassing that was? How much you undermined my authority?"
Jake shook his head. "I'm not gonna promise that," he said.
"What?" Matt asked, his face coloring a little more.
"You pussed out in there. We agreed beforehand that twenty percent is what we would accept. Do you remember that conversation?"
"Yes, but..."
"Ain't no fuckin buts about it," Jake said. "You pussed out. You got overwhelmed because Shaver brought us in there and showed us how rich and powerful he was and how tiny and meaningless we are and he tried to screw us and you fuckin caved. You caved, man! I've never seen you do anything like that before. I did what I did because you didn't have the guts to."
"Hey fuck you!" Matt said, his temper boiling over. He stood up quickly, his chair falling over on his back. He pointed his finger angrily at Jake's chest. "I'm the fuckin founder of this band and I'm in charge of it. I don't give a shit what you think of my decisions or why I make them. I'm in charge and you will support what I do!"
Jake remained calm. "Or what, Matt? You gonna kick my ass? You gonna try to solve your problem with me the way you did with Hathaway? Go ahead. Kick my ass if it'll make you feel better. I won't even fight back. Of course I probably won't be able to go on stage if I'm all bruised up, but maybe you and the rest of the boys can pull off the gig without me."
"Don't you fuckin play that card with me, Jake!"
"Then get the fuck out of my face," Jake told him. "Sit your ass back down and lets discuss this like the professionals we pretend to be. Like I told Darren, this isn't high school. The guy who can kick the other guy's ass doesn't win by default here."
Matt seemed to struggle with himself for a few seconds and Jake began to fear that he really was going to hit him. But finally, he seemed to get himself under something like control. He took a step back and lowered his hand. He picked up his chair and sat back down. "Okay," he said. "I guess you're right. I'm sorry I lost my temper."