He sighed as he thought about it. "You're so pathetic," he told himself.
He still hadn't spoken to her since that last day, when they'd climbed on the bus to head for their first concert in Bangor. Even when they'd actually been in Los Angeles for three concerts, when he could have called her from the hotel room phone, he hadn't done it. That had been when the Spinning Rock article was all everyone was talking about. He'd told himself he couldn't face her after that, that she wouldn't want to speak to him. And then when they'd returned to Los Angeles after the tour, when they'd set him up in this condo, he hadn't called her then either. She lived less than six miles away and he couldn't bring himself to contact her.
Call her now, a part of his mind whispered. Pick up that fucking phone and call her. She could come over tonight and you could talk to her. Maybe she'll be disgusted with what you've become, with the things you've done, but then, maybe she'll understand. Wasn't that always the best part of your relationship with her? She was a girlfriend, not just a slut you fucked. You could talk to her, relate to her, tell her your fears and frustrations and she would listen and commiserate.
He picked up the phone. But he didn't dial Angie's number. Instead he called Bill, who lived in a smaller condo just three floors down.
"Hey, Jake," Bill said, his voice a little strained. "Caught you on the show this morning. Had to get up with this overindulgence syndrome to do it, but I caught you."
"Yeah, that asshole fucked me over pretty good," Jake said.
"It wasn't very aesthetic," Bill had to agree. "You just get back?"
"Yeah. You must've gone out last night if you got the overindulgence syndrome again."
"Indeed I did," he said. "Matt and I went to the Yellow Ostrich Club again."
The Yellow Ostrich Club was a trendy Los Angeles nightclub near downtown. It was one of eleven such places they were allowed to frequent, which was to say that they were on the list of places their limo drivers would take them to. Though it had never been admitted to them Jake was pretty sure that National Records had some sort of endorsement contract with the establishments on the list. If they tried to go someplace not on the list, the limo drivers would refuse. And it had been threatened that if any of them used their allowance money to call a cab and go someplace not on the list on their own, the allowance money would be cut off for a month.
"Did you get laid?" Jake asked.
"I think so," Bill said. "Two of my rubbers were gone when I woke up and there was a pair of panties next to my bed."
"That's usually a reliable sign. Were they nice panties?"
"Pink bikini cut," Bill said. "Size small."
"Well, odds are she was hot. What're you doing now?"
"Laying around in my pajamas and waiting for my headache to go away."
"Why don't you come upstairs?" Jake asked. "We'll burn some and then eat the hausenpepper Manny is making for me."
"Hausenpepper?" Bill asked. "You mean like on Bugs Bunny?"
"That's the stuff," Jake said. "You in?"
"I'm in," Bill said.
Bill came up ten minutes later, unshaven, dressed in a pair of knee-length shorts that showed off his knobby knees and a tank top that showed off his skinny arms. His coke-bottle glasses were resting in their accustomed place and his crew cut was only two days old.
"Would you care for a drink, Mr. Archer?" Manny asked after inviting him inside.
"I'll get the drinks, Manny," Jake told him. "You go get the stash and load up the bong for us."
"As you wish," Manny said, disappearing into the kitchen.
Jake mixed Bill his favorite drink, Crown Royal and 7up. He mixed himself a potent concoction of coke and imported Jamaican rum. They settled in before the television set just as Manny came back carrying a hand-blown glass bong filled with ice water and a lemon slice. He set it down before them and then handed Jake a silver container filled with high-grade marijuana.
"Would you care for me to load the water pipe for you?" Manny asked.
"Naw, go stew your rabbit," Jake told him. "We'll manage on our own."
And they did. They took three hits apiece and then sipped quietly on their drinks. They talked about going out to one of the clubs but eventually decided not to. Instead they engaged in one of their more frequent activities, playing video games on the Atari 2600 console. They played Space Invaders and Missile Command until it was time to eat. After destroying Manny's hausenpepper they smoked some more weed and played for another three hours, drinking all the while.
It was a fulfilling evening.
The next morning a limousine picked up Jake at 8:30 in the morning. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a pair of dress slacks and a dress shirt. The driver cruised through the congested downtown streets until he arrived at the Maton Pauvrete building, which was yet another higher end condominium building full of second rate celebrities. This was where Matt had been assigned to live. He had a huge suite up on the twenty-first floor of the twenty-three-story building.
The driver opened the door and Matt stepped inside, finding a seat directly across from Jake. He was dressed a little more casually for the meeting they were about to attend, as was typical. He wore stonewashed jeans and a T-shirt he'd picked up during a recent day-trip to Mexico. The logo on the shirt was an advertisement for a popular Tijuana brothel Matt had visited and eventually been kicked out of.
"Wassup, brother," he greeted as he lit up a cigarette. "Caught you on the tube yesterday. Pretty fucked up showing."
"Yeah," Jake agreed. "It was about as much fun as a rectal exam."
They were driven to Hollywood and dropped off in front of the National Records Building. A group of tourists that had been wandering by spotted them and quickly swarmed them. They signed ten or fifteen autographs apiece before managing to break free and make it to the main lobby entrance. There they were admitted to the elevator by an aging security guard. The rode up to the eighteenth floor and were led by yet another security guard into a conference room.
Sitting at the table in the room were Max Acardio, Shaver, Rick Bailey from the Artist Development Department, and, of course, Janice Boxer, their publicity manager. All had cups of coffee and plates of bagels before them. A cocaine mirror sat in the middle of the table, residue plainly visible on it.
"Matt, Jake," Acardio greeted, getting up to give them the obligatory hug of greeting. "How are you doing this morning?"
They both grunted that they were fine and then took a seat.
"We were just enjoying a little Bolivian flake while we waited for you," Shaver said. "Would you boys like me to set you up?"
"No, thanks," both answered, making a point to be as cool to Shaver as possible. While he was still technically their agent, they no longer met with him, sought out his advice, or even talked to him. While it was true he had opened the door for them in the recording industry their gratefulness for that was overridden by the fact that he had allowed them to be screwed by their contract while he himself had been nicely taken care of and was currently raking in twenty-one percent of all their royalties before any deductions were taken out. They had tried to fire him when National decided to exercise their second option on the contract but they were unable. Intemperance's contract with Shaver specified that he would be their agent for the duration of any contract he secured with the recording industry — including any option periods. It hadn't seemed like a big deal back in the beginning, when the goal had simply been to secure a contract in the first place, but it was certainly a big deal now.