Crow scratched at his head for a moment. “Are you willing to put this in writing?” he asked.
Matt barked out a laugh. “Putting things in writing is the only way I would do business with you motherfuckers,” he said.
“Fair enough,” Crow said. “I don’t have the authority to agree with this offer, of course.”
“Never thought you did.”
“But I’ll bring it up to Doolittle and the rest of the team. They just might play ball with you on this.”
Two days later, in Los Angeles, Jake pulled his BMW 750 iL into the circular driveway in front of Pauline’s house on the shore of Silver Lake Reservoir. He parked just behind a somewhat battered 1987 Mercedes 500 series that was already there and stepped out, taking a moment to stretch. It was just past noon. The southern California summer air was warm, muggy and smoggy and, as such, he was dressed in a pair of shorts, tattered brown sandals, and a tank top that showed off the tattoos on his upper arms. He walked to the door, an envelope with official looking writing on the front in his hand. He made a quick check of his watch and nodded. Right on time. And the presence of the Mercedes meant the man he had come to see was still here. With a brief smile, he walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell.
Gloria, Pauline’s housekeeper/cook/butler, opened the door thirty or so seconds later. She had the requisite smile on her face as she saw who the allegedly unannounced visitor was. “Mr. Kingsley!” she greeted. “Welcome. Ms. Kingsley did not tell me you were expected.”
“I wasn’t really expected,” Jake lied. “I was in the neighborhood taking care of some business and thought I’d stop by to drop something off for her.” He held up the envelope. “It’s something for her but it came to the studio by mistake. I thought it might be important.”
“Oh ... I see,” she said, nodding, her words heavily accented. “She is with one of her clients right now. You want me to take to her?”
“That was my plan,” he said, “but it looks like her client is Coop, am I right?”
Her face darkened a little. “I no at liberty to tell others who Ms. Kingsley is meeting with,” she said sternly.
He nodded, actually respecting her discretion. “I understand,” he said, “but I’d know that car anywhere. I even threw up in it once.”
She wasn’t quite sure how to respond this this. “Uh...”
“It’s okay,” he said. “Just slip in and tell Pauline I’m here and ask her if she minds if I pop in for a minute. I haven’t seen Coop in ages. I’d love to say hello to him.”
She still looked doubtful but she allowed him entry. Jake handed her the envelope—which had nothing but a stack of blank pieces of paper inside—and she carried it down the hall toward Pauline’s office.
Jake stayed in the foyer, looking out the living room window at the lake, where a dozen or so pedal boats were cruising around. Interspersed among them were a few wind surfers who were struggling to have any fun out there due to the lack of any significant wind. Two attractive women in shorts and half-tops came jogging by on the running path that circled the reservoir. Jake stopped looking at the watercraft and looked at them instead, giving an appreciative whistle at the bouncing breasts and well-muscled feminine legs. That reminded him that he needed to get laid. It had been well over a week now since he had engaged in “meaningless fornication”, as Nerdly would have put it.
Gloria returned. Her face was much more relaxed now. The envelope was no longer in her hand. “Ms. Kingsley say that she and Mr. Cooper are finished with their business and you may come back.”
“Thanks, Gloria,” he told her, stepping in that direction. “I know the way.”
“Very good, Mr. Kingsley,” she said. “Can I get you anything? Some Corona with lime?”
“No, thank you,” he replied. “I’m not going to be here long.”
“As you wish, sir,” she said.
He walked down a hallway lined with original oil paintings done by a variety of local artists, living and dead. The office door was standing open and he stopped at the threshold, giving a quick knock on the door frame. “Cool to come in?” he asked.
Pauline was sitting behind the desk, a few manila envelopes and file folders sitting next to her computer monitor, all closed. The envelope Jake had just delivered was sitting separately. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse and had her hair down. She gave him a knowing look and invited him inside. “Come on in, Jake,” she said. “We were just finishing up our business.”
John Cooper—aka Coop—former drummer for Intemperance, was sitting in the chair in front of her desk. He looked pretty much the same as he always had: a tall, wiry figure with light skin and a mop of curly blonde hair that poofed out in a near afro form and spilled down onto his shoulders in an unruly glob. His face was still smooth and unlined, despite the years of substance abuse he had participated in and flirted with. He wore a pair of tattered blue jeans and a tank top that showed off his well-muscled drummer’s arms, both of which were fully sleeved in a variety of tattoos. His face had a smile on it as he turned to take in his former bandmate. The smile changed to a look of confusion as he got a good gander at Jake’s new look.
“Jake?” he said carefully. “Is that really you?”
“It’s really me, Coop,” Jake assured him, stepping forward and holding out his hand. “It’s good to see you, brother.”
Coop stood and stepped forward to meet him, slapping his hand into Jake’s with significant force. They shook warmly and then pulled each other into a bro-hug, holding the embrace for a bit longer than the requisite three pats on the back.
When they broke apart, Coop looked him up and down again. “What the fuck did you do to yourself?” he asked him.
“Just got a haircut and grew a ‘stache,” Jake said. “Keeps the ladies from attacking me in public.”
Coop scowled in confusion. “Why would you want that?” he asked.
Jake laughed. “I do have to ask myself that sometimes,” he said. “You’re looking good.”
“Thanks,” Coop said. He reached out and touched the tattoo on Jake’s right arm. “Got yourself some new ink finally, huh? I like it. What is it, Hawaii or some shit like that?”
“South Island of New Zealand,” Jake said, turning so he could see it better. “You see that red dot there?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s where my house is.”
“That’s fuckin’ awesome,” Coop said. “I love the detail.”
“The best goddamn ink slinger in Lyttleton, New Zealand put that on there for me. I insisted on the best.”
Coop nodded. “Good work. I didn’t even know they had tats in New Zealand.”
Jake chuckled. “They got ‘em, all right. Fancy meeting you here. You and Pauline talking some business?”
“Yeah,” Coop said. “We were just going over some of the particulars about that Greatest Hits bullshit that National is putting out. She was telling me how they’re leaning more heavily for the earlier tunes, the ones before we renegotiated our contract. That way they don’t have to pay us as much.”
“Yeah, they’re snakes,” Jake said.
“It’s the way the fuckin’ world works,” Coop said solemnly.
“That’s the God’s truth,” Pauline had to agree.
“How’s the gig with Veteran going?” Jake asked. “Pauline tells me you’re up for release soon.”
“We are,” Coop said. “We just started tour rehearsal last week.” He shrugged. “I’m excited to get back out on the road again, but, you know, it ain’t gonna be the same without you and Matt and Nerdly and ... you know ... Darren.”