"Who are all these people we're thanking?" Jake asked.
"Oh, the usual stuff," Acardio said. "Our production specialists, our technicians, our sound guys. They're all working hard on this project. Don't you want to thank them?"
"Sure," Jake said. "They are a good bunch. But what about these other people? What about these companies?" He let his finger trail down the list. "Brogan Guitars? Lexington Drums? Caldwell Pianos?"
"They're the people who supplied you with the instruments you play for the recording. You know that." And Jake did. The first thing they had been told when they'd come for the orientation session prior to starting the recording was that the battered old Les Paul Jake played and that the scratched and beaten Strat Matt played simply wouldn't due for recording quality play. Jake was given a brand new Brogan six string and a brand new Brogan mahogany finish electric/acoustic. Matt was given a top-of-the-line Brogan Battle-Axe guitar that he detested. Darren, who had already played a Brogan bass guitar was given nothing-apparently his scratched and battered bass was good enough. Coop's entire drum set had been replaced by a Lexington twenty-five piece set with the band's name on the dual bass drums. And Bill had been given both an electric piano and an actual acoustic grand piano from Caldwell.
"So this is an endorsement thing?" Jake said. "Is that why you insisted we play those instruments?"
"No," Acardio scoffed. "Not at all. We've simply found over the years that those particular instruments sound better when recorded. It's nothing more sinister than that."
"But you're getting money from these people to mention these instruments on your album covers, aren't you?"
"Well... yes, but I assure you, that has nothing to do with why we pick those instruments. We pretty much figure that since we're using them anyway, why not pick up a few endorsement fees for the effort? And since we do have an endorsement contract of sorts, it means we get to supply you with those instruments for free. Isn't that nice? The cost of your guitars and that drum set is not included in the recoupable costs portion of your contract."
"Uh huh," Jake said sourly. He didn't want to get into the old recoupable costs argument again. That was a very sore subject for him and the rest of the band. He slid the album cover back across the desk. "Very nice, Max. Thanks for showing it to me." He started to stand.
"Uh... before you go, Jake, there is one thing I need to talk to you about."
Jake sat back down, wondering what it was this time. "Sure," he said. "What's up?"
Acardio gave an apologetic smile. "Well, it's about the outside work clause in your contract. I assume you remember the terms of that."
"Yeah," Jake said bitterly. "I remember the terms of it."
The outside work clause he was referring to was a portion of their contract that stated the band Intemperance and its individual members were forbidden from performing musically for anyone other than the record label without specific permission. And the label routinely denied such specific permission, as had been the case when Jake and Matt had asked Shaver to try to get them a few gigs down in the L.A. area so they could pick up a few bucks to help supplement the meager advance money they'd been given. Shaver had told them that the label would probably not give permission for such a thing and, of course, he was right.
"Nobody sees you in concert until we get this album finished and get you out on tour," had been Acardio's response to the request. He had not explained himself any further than this, nor was he required to.
"What's the problem with the outside work clause now?" Jake asked. "We haven't been doing any gigs. You should know that."
"Well," Acardio said, "I have some information to the contrary, Jake."
Jake raised his eyebrows up. "Someone told you that we have a gig somewhere?"
"Not the whole band, just you."
"Me?" Jake asked. "Someone told you I have a gig by myself."
"Had, not have," Acardio said. "I'm told that you engaged in a live musical performance yesterday evening before a crowd. Is that true?"
Jake's eyes widened. "Last night? Are you talking about the parking lot party we had after work? Is that what you're talking about?"
Since they were not able to work as musicians during the recording process, and since their advance money was hardly enough to live on, everyone but Matt (whose parents send him generous allowance checks each week) had been forced to get night jobs to survive. Jake's night job was as a minimum wage dishwasher at The Main Course-a trendy yuppie eatery in downtown L.A. He worked from 7 PM to closing Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, and 5 PM to closing Saturday and Sunday. On Wednesday nights he and a few of the other staff members were in the habit of gathering in the back parking lot after closing to drink beer and smoke a little weed if someone had some. Last night Jake had happened to have his old acoustic in the car and had put on an impromptu performance for his friends. It had been a good time. He wowed them with his voice and his guitar skills, performing before a group for the first time since their last gig at D Street West all those months ago. Performance was like a drug and being able to play his guitar and sing, to have people appreciate his gift, had given him a badly needed fix. That couldn't seriously be what Acardio was talking about, could it?
"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Acardio confirmed. "You were in violation of your contract, Jake. This is a very serious matter."
"Max, I was playing my guitar for a couple of work friends. I hardly think that qualifies as a gig."
"You were performing live before an audience," Acardio said.
"There were like eight people there," Jake said, exasperated. "We were drinking beer. It's not like I was charging them money."
"Nevertheless, that constitutes an audience. I'm also told that you performed copywrited material from other musical acts. That's even more serious. You don't have permission to sing Led Zepplin songs live. They're not even on our label. Do you have any idea what sort of trouble we would be in if it came to light that one of our musicians was performing another label's songs without permission? I shudder to think of what would happen."
"Max, this was not a concert!" Jake almost yelled. "I sang Stairway to Heaven because one of the waitresses liked the song! I was trying to get laid, for God's sake!" Something else occurred to him. "Wait a minute. How do you know that I was singing out in the parking lot last night? How do you know what fucking songs I was singing?"
"I see no reason to swear at me," Acardio told him. "And how I know is irrelevant. The fact is that you performed live before an audience last night in violation of the terms of your contract. Now, we're not going to fine you this time, but if something like this happens again I will be forced to penalize you monetarily by adding a five thousand dollar fine to your recoupable expenses. Do you understand?"
"You have a spy in the restaurant," Jake said in wonder, ignoring his question. "A fucking spy! That's why you recommended that job to me. That's why they hired me so quickly. They're on your goddamn payroll, aren't they?"
"The manager and I do have a certain arrangement," Acardio confirmed. "And he does have a network of people on his staff who keep him informed about the activities of certain people. But that's neither here nor there. What I want to know from you, Jake, is if you understand that you are not to do this again and what the consequences are if you do?"
Jake took a deep breath, resisting the urge to clench his fists, to yell further. After all, it would be pointless. "I understand," he said.
"Very good," Acardio told him. "I'm glad we were able to clear this up. You may leave now."
Jake left, heading to the cafeteria where he would eat the bologna sandwich he'd made for himself. His anger and frustration followed him down.