As soon as he was done eating, Louisa swept the dishes away and carried them to the sink. Since she was in charge of the kitchen, it was she who took care of the day-to-day dishes. By the time Matt returned from his post-meal, post-party bowel movement, the kitchen was back to its sparkling self and Charles was on the phone with one of his connections, arranging for a late morning delivery of six grams of Bolivian cocaine that would be put in the entertainment storage container in Matt’s safe.
The limo picked Matt up exactly on time and delivered him to the front steps of the National Records Building in Hollywood at twenty-two minutes after two. He made his way into the lobby of the building and was greeted by a few tourists who recognized him and wanted his autograph. He signed three or four until someone asked the taboo question.
“Dude,” a long-haired surfer type in his twenties enquired, as Matt raised his pen to sign the piece of paper, “are you and Jake and the rest of Intemperance ever going to get back together?”
“No,” Matt responded, glaring at the surfer with enough venom to make the man take a step backward. He handed the piece of paper back, unsigned. “There is no Intemperance anymore. We are never getting back together. I thought I had made myself clear on that point.”
“Uh ... sorry, dude,” the surfer stammered, absently taking the paper back. “I just thought that ... since ... you know ... you were the greatest fucking band on Earth ... I mean, don’t you owe it to the people?”
“I don’t owe anybody a fucking thing,” Matt said. “Excuse me. I got shit to do.”
With that, he walked away, heading for the elevators. He passed through a security checkpoint without stopping. The guards knew better than to question Matt Tisdale. Three minutes later, he was up on the top floor, standing in the inner office of Steve Crow, his A&R representative for his upcoming album.
“I’m here,” he told the secretary. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Uh ... good afternoon, Mr. Tisdale,” the harried secretary said. “You are still a bit early for your appointment. If you wouldn’t mind having a seat until...”
“What the fuck?” Matt asked her, making no move to take a seat. “Does he got Mikey fucking Garcia in there slurping on his schlong again?”
“Uh ... no,” she said. “Mr. Crow is alone, but...”
“Then let’s get this shit going,” Matt said. “Pick up that fuckin’ phone and tell him I’m here.”
She picked up the phone and told Crow he was there. She seemed quite relieved when she was told to go ahead and send him in.
“Mr. Crow will see you now,” she said.
“Thanks, baby,” he said.
Steve Crow looked no different than the first day Matt had met him. That had been eight years before—God, has it really been that long? Matt pondered—when he replaced Intemperance’s initial A&R rep, Max Acardio, who had gotten a little heavy handed during a dispute about the band doing pre-written material. He still had his hair immaculately styled, his clothing custom fitted, the single gold stud in his right ear, the perpetual sunglasses covering his eyes, and the same untrustworthy grin perpetually on his face. He was a snake, as were pretty much all of National Records’ upper management, but he was the devil that Matt knew, so that was why he had not balked when National assigned him to his solo effort.
“Mattie, my man,” Crow greeted, the grin becoming so wide it looked like his jaw might actually separate. “It’s good to see you. How are they hanging?”
“High and tight,” Matt told him. “The way they always do when I have to visit this fucking place.”
Steve laughed as if that were the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Have a seat,” he invited. “Can I get you something to drink? Or maybe some blow?”
“You know I never take you up on that shit, Crow,” Matt said, planting his butt in the chair. “Why do you always ask?”
“Just trying to be a good host,” Crow said. “Can I get you anything at all?”
“Nothing,” Matt said. “I’m here to talk some business. Shall we skip all the fake-ass preliminaries and just get to the point?”
“No problemo,” he said with a shrug. “What’s on your mind?”
“The album, of course. You fucks have been delaying and delaying the release for months now. I want it on the shelves as soon as possible.”
“Well ... that’s what we want as well, Matt. We are releasing it as soon as possible. It is in the queue for manufacturing as we speak. It’s just that there are higher priority items that need to be produced first.”
“Bullshit,” Matt said angrily. “Don’t try to blow smoke up my fuckin’ ass, Crow. My cheeks are too tight for that shit. We completed that master back in late March. It was supposed to be on the shelves by May, but it’s still sitting in your fucking queue and we haven’t even started talking about putting a tour together. What the fuck is going on here?”
Crow shook his head. “There is no conspiracy going on, Matt,” he said. “We just have a number of projects pending release and our manufacturing capabilities are limited. We have to schedule these things accordingly. And if the release of the album is not imminent, then there is no point working on the tour. Tours, as you’re aware, must coincide with the release of the album.”
“I know how the fuck the system works,” Matt told him. “That’s why I know you sneaking little pricks got some reason for delaying me. I ain’t gonna put up with it. Now tell me what the reason is and we can start talking about how to get around it.”
“There is no reason,” he insisted. “It’s just that...”
“Crow,” Matt interrupted, his eyes boring into him. “Can you just drop the slimeball-record-executive-talking-to-the-fresh-young-talent-we’re-going-to-exploit act for this meeting? I’ve been around the fucking block a few too many times with you ass wipes for that shit to work on me.”
Crow returned his stare for a moment and then sighed. “All right,” he said. “We talk straight.”
“Hopefully straighter than you,” Matt muttered.
“Hey now,” Crow warned.
Matt held up his hand in appeasement—about the closest he could come to apologizing to someone—and then resumed his steely stare. “What’s the deal?” he asked.
“It’s complicated,” Crow said.
“I’m a smart guy,” Matt assured him. “I assure you, I can follow along.”
Crow nodded. “Well ... it primarily has to do with the marketing of your project, the best way to get maximum sales out of it.”
“Marketing?” Matt asked, rolling his eyes. “My shit don’t need no fancy-ass marketing, just basic promotion and saturation airplay of the release cuts on the hard rock stations. It will sell itself.”
Another sigh from Crow. “That’s just the thing, Matt,” he said. “The boys in the marketing department and the promotions department are not quite as confident as you in the potential of the project.”
“Why the fuck not?” Matt asked. “I laid down eight goddamn tracks of some of the best guitar work to ever be recorded in any medium. I put my fuckin’ heart and my fuckin’ soul in that shit and it rocks. There are millions of adoring Matt Tisdale fans in this country and throughout the world that are going to eat that shit up once they hear it. They are going to snatch those albums off the shelves like they’re fuckin’ rubbers in that drug store over on Western Avenue.”
“Uh ... an interesting analogy,” Crow had to admit, “but the thing is ... we ... uh, that is they, feel that the lack of even basic audio engineering on your project will be a detriment to airplay and sales.”
Matt’s face darkened into a scowl. “Again with that overdub shit,” he growled. “Will you motherfuckers ever let that shit drop?”