"And, Jake," Shaver said, "if you go breach you wouldn't be able to work as musicians in any capacity until this contract would have expired."
"Ahh," Jake said. "So what you're saying is that if we breach our contract, we'll end up in menial jobs and wouldn't be making much money for you to take away from us?"
"That is irrelevant," Acardio said. "We'll take every penny from you even if you're working as a shithouse cleaner."
"Which is likely what we'd be doing if we couldn't work as musicians," Jake said. "What's minimum wage these days?"
"About three bucks an hour," Matt replied.
"That's not much," Jake said. "You wouldn't be making much money off us that way, Max."
"We don't care," Acardio said. "We'll take all your money just for the principle of it. Don't think we won't."
"I have no doubt you're shitheaded enough to do exactly that," Jake said. "But you're missing the point I'm trying to make. If you force us to go breach of contract, you'll be getting six thousand, maybe eight thousand apiece out of us for the next year, right? That's about fifty grand at best."
"I told you, we don't care," Acardio said. "It's the principal of the thing."
"Uh huh, but isn't your main principle to make money for your corporation?"
"What?" Acardio asked.
"We're not asking too terribly much here," Jake said. "We're asking that we not be told to perform some crappy music that you think is good for our image. We only want our own songs on the Intemperance label and believe me, Max, we will stand firm on this. Now if you accept three more songs from that recording we made, we'll be in the studio on time and we'll have our next album out by November. If that happens, you'll make a little more than fifty thousand dollars from us next year, won't you?"
"This isn't going to work, Jake," Acardio said. "We'll breach you before we allow you to start dictating terms to us."
Jake shrugged. "Then I guess you'll have to breach us," he said. "You've heard our terms. Give us a call when you're ready to accept them."
"That will be never," Acardio told them. "You will do our songs or your career is over!"
Jake and Matt stood up.
"Then I guess our career is over, isn't it?" Matt said.
Despite the threats and pleas, they walked out the door, not looking back. Five minutes later they were in their limo, heading for their respective homes.
Chapter 9A: Rebellious Souls
July 8, 1983
Los Angeles, California
"Jake, where are you going?" Manny asked as Jake picked up his key ring and headed for the front door. It was 9:25 AM and Manny had just finished cleaning up the mess made from the light breakfast he'd served.
"Out," Jake said simply.
"But you didn't call a limo," Manny said.
"Just taking a little walk, Manny," Jake told him. "Don't worry about it."
"But, Jake, you can't just..."
"Don't worry about making lunch," Jake said as he opened the door. "I'll be eating elsewhere."
He stepped through the door and closed it behind him. He half-expected Manny to come chasing after him, but he didn't. Thank God for small favors.
He rode the elevator down to the lobby and encountered the day-shift doorman as he walked through the doors.
"Are you going somewhere, Mr. Kingsley?" he asked, concerned.
"Yes," Jake said, walking right by him.
"But I wasn't notified," the doorman told him. "There's no limousine out front for you."
"I'll be walking to my destination today."
"Walking?" the doorman said, appalled. "You can't do that!"
Jake turned and looked at him. "I can do whatever I want. I'm an American citizen, remember?"
"Well... yes, but..."
"See you later," Jake said, turning and heading out the door.
"But, Mr. Kingsley," the doorman called after him. The door slid shut, cutting off what came next.
Jake was dressed in a pair of tan shorts and a collared white shirt. He had a baseball cap on his head, sunglasses on his face, and a pair of old tennis shoes on his feet. He began to walk west. As he did so, the doorman — who was being paid one hundred dollars a week to keep an eye on Jake and Bill — got on the phone to Manny, his contact in the chain of command. "Jake just left on foot," he said. "Where is he going?"
"I don't know," Manny replied. "He just walked out of here and didn't tell me anything. I didn't even know he was planning to go out."
"He's up to something," the doorman opined.
"Yes," Manny agreed. "I'd better call Mr. Acardio."
Jake, meanwhile had gone two blocks west. He turned right at the next intersection and there, parked in front of a fire hydrant, was a candy apple red 1983 Porsche 911 convertible. Sitting in the front seat, dressed in white shorts and a sleeveless red blouse, her brunette hair pulled back in a simple ponytail, was Mindy Snow. The dark sunglasses she wore hid her eyes but she sported a huge smile as she saw him approaching. She opened her door and got out, holding out her arms to him for a hug.
"You made it," she said as they embraced.
"Mission successful," he reported, feeling himself flush as he felt her alluring body push against his.
She pulled back and looked him up and down for a minute. "Its good to see you," she said. "I'm glad we were able to get together."
"Me too," he said. And it was very true. They had talked to each other two more times on the telephone since that first conversation and he was finding himself increasingly infatuated with her. For the first time in months he had stopped thinking about Angie whenever he looked at a telephone and had started thinking about her. Today was the first time they had actually been able to arrange to get together. Since neither her agent nor Jake's employers would care too much for them being seen together, they had been forced to resort to secret agent maneuvers in order to have an actual date.
"We'd better get going," Mindy said, looking around. "I think people are starting to take notice of us."
Jake looked around and saw she was right. Several people walking down the sidewalks or sitting on the benches were looking directly at them, whispering to each other, pointing fingers. It would only be a matter of seconds before someone came closer to see if their suspicions — that they were really looking at Jake Kingsley and Mindy Snow — were correct. "Yeah," he said. "Let's hit it."
"Why don't you drive?" Mindy suggested.
Jake shook his head. "It's your car," he said. "And you know the way."
She stepped a little closer to him, so her shoulder was pushed against his. "I'm an old fashioned girl, Jake," she said. "I believe the man should drive. I can tell you the way."
He smiled. "You talked me into it," he said.
He opened the passenger door for her, allowing her to sit, and then walked around to the driver's side and climbed in. He had to adjust the seat back since Mindy was considerably shorter. He then pushed in the clutch, fired up the engine, and listened with satisfaction to its finally engineered purr. He put it in first gear and pulled away from the curb, accelerating rapidly down the one-way street.
"Sweet," he said as he shifted gears. "This a beautiful car."
"It doesn't exactly fit my image," she said, "but I love it so. Get on 110 east and take that to I-5 north. From there, we'll go through the valley and catch Highway 14 out into the boonies."
"I'm on it," he said, changing lanes and getting ready to hit the onramp.
"You're a great driver," she told him as he rocketed onto the freeway and merged into the semi-thick mid-morning traffic.
"I don't get to do it very often these days," he said. "And I've never driven a Porsche before. It's very nice."
"Nothing handles better," she said. "Wait until we get to the windy roads up by my place. You'll really love it then."
"I can't wait," he said.