"We can talk about setting up a date to talk about terms," John said. "Jill and I need to look into just what we're going to be doing and how much work it will entail before we are able to quote a bid for you."
"No need to quote any bids," Jake said. "Let me just tell you what I'm willing to pay and you can take it or leave it."
"Uh... that's not really how we do business, Jake," Jill said shyly. "You see, there's a process we have to go through in which..."
Jake named off a figure to them. It was a figure he had arrived at by polling several of the Los Angeles area CPA firms and getting estimates for their services. He had taken the highest bid, increased it by fifty percent, and that was the number he gave to Jill and her parents. It was an amount that was more than four times what their current biggest client — restaurateur Ralph Polesco — was paying. Their mouths dropped open as they heard it.
"You heard him correctly," Pauline said with a slight frown. "Of course I tried to talk him into offering considerably less but he insisted on that amount."
"What... what exactly is it that you want us to do for that sort of money, Mr. Kingsley?" John asked.
"Just keep track of my finances to the best of your abilities," Jake said. "And most of all, keep honest, both with me and with the IRS."
"And you're willing to pay that much?" Jill asked. "That's what we would have done anyway."
"I know that," Jake said. "Or at least I suspect that, otherwise I wouldn't have come to you in the first place. I'm not a stingy man and I doubt I ever will be. I'm young and I'm kind of new to this whole business of being rich, but my philosophy on the matter is that I should make those who work for me in any way happy with how I'm compensating them. Happy people stay loyal and on the straight and narrow. As Pauline has pointed out to me on several occasions, we're talking about a lot of money here. I want you to be happy that you take care of it for me, to know that I'm paying you very well for what you do. I also don't want you to be tempted to start playing games with me. I don't like games. I can afford to be screwed out of a thousand dollars here and there and, in truth, I probably wouldn't even miss it, but if I ever find out that someone is screwing me in any way — even a little bit — my relationship with that person will end right there forever."
"So you're buying our loyalty?" Laura asked.
Jake shrugged. "If you want to put it that way," he said.
"And you don't plan on asking Jill or us to do anything illegal?" John asked.
"I would never do that," Jake said. "My greatest wish is to never have problems with the IRS as long as I live."
"In that case," John said, "I think we have a deal. Of course our contract will specify that it can be terminated by either party?"
"Of course," Jake said. He held out his hand and there were handshakes all around.
"I'll get a copy of a contract to you by the end of the next business week," Pauline said. "Once it comes back signed and proper, Jake will make arrangements for Jill — and one of you if you so desire — to fly to Los Angeles and start making some sense out of the mess he calls his finances."
Malibu, California
December 6, 1986
The house that Matt Tisdale — lead guitarist for Intemperance — was renting for $6000 per month sat right on a bluff overlooking the beach. It was a 3200 square foot, two-story complete with wraparound redwood decking and situated on an acre of prime, beachfront land in one of the most expensive zip codes in the United States. Matt staffed his house with an elderly Italian cook, an even more elderly Mexican housekeeper, and an elderly Englishman who served as butler.
"Why," Jake asked him once before going out on the Balance Of Power tour, "did you hire nothing but people over sixty to staff your house for you?"
"Well in the first place," he'd replied, "they're all career servants. Louisa has been cooking for rich pricks since she was twenty. Carmen has been cleaning up rich pricks' houses since she was fifteen, and Charles has been opening doors and laying out clothes for rich pricks since he was twenty-five. They know what the fuck they're doing."
"Uh huh," Jake replied. "But what's the real reason?"
Matt had chuckled. "The real reason is I don't want no fuckin' sex going on with my servants. I don't ever wanna get drunk and be horny some night and decide to stick my salami into the fuckin' housekeeper or the cook. If they're old bitches I won't be tempted. And I don't want them fucking each other either. I want nice, sedate, post-menopausal geezers working for me so I won't have no fuckin' soap opera drama going on to detract from my own sex life."
And so far, that was exactly what he'd gotten. Louisa, Carmen, and Charles were the epitome of efficiency and service — even if they were a bit scandalized on a regular basis by some of Matt's wilder exploits — and so far Matt had not fucked any of them, or even tried, and they had not fucked each other.
On the first Saturday of December, three weeks after the end of the tour, Matt threw a party at his house for all of the roadies, sound techs, and security force that had worked the tour and made it the overwhelming and profitable success it had been. Using sixteen thousand dollars of the tour profits Pauline had wired into his account, he had financed an extravaganza complete with open, unlimited bar, valet parking, bartenders, and cocktail waitresses. The side dishes were all provided by one of the most expensive catering services in Los Angeles County but the main dish — barbequed ocean fish — was being supplied by Matt himself. He had shipped to his house over three hundred pounds of frozen marlin and rock cod filets from fish he had caught on his vacation in Cabo San Lucas.
Each of the seventy-eight road crew members (this did not include Greg Gahn, the hypocritical Mormon road manager that National sent with them, nor did it include anyone else who worked directly for National management) had been given two private invitations to the gathering and as of 6:00 PM, there were 143 people in Matt's house, or on the deck, or out on the beach behind the house. They were all drinking Matt's booze, smoking Matt's marijuana, and snorting Matt's cocaine. The stereo system was blaring loudly with Master Of Puppets the latest album by Metallica and the first to achieve something like commercial success. Matt was out on the deck standing before a huge barbeque and flipping the marinated fish fillets at precisely timed intervals. He was working on his eighth beer of the night and smoking his twenty-fourth cigarette of the day when the title cut of the album began to play.
"Yes!" Matt said, dropping the smoke and making a guitar out of his spatula as the main riff began to pound out. "I love these guys! Listen to that fuckin' guitar, Jake! Just when I thought that we were the only ones making any progress in the shitheap that is modern music, a ray of fucking hope comes along. I want to do some heavy palm-muted shit on our next album. I fuckin' love it!"
Jake was standing next to him, sipping from a bottle of beer and smoking a cigarette of his own. He was pleasantly drunk and slightly stoned, although he had managed to stay away from the cocaine. "I don't know," he said doubtfully. "You think we could pull something like that off?"
Matt looked insulted at the suggestion. "Can we pull it off?" he asked. "Are you fucking high?"
"Actually, I am," Jake said.
"Oh... yeah, but what are you trying to say? Kirk Hammett is a bad-ass guitarist but I can blow his ass away with one hand tied behind my back and my guitar pick taped to my cock."
"I know that," Jake said, and this was true in all respects, "but will our fans like it if we start doing heavy palm muted shit? I mean we've done basic palm muting on Thrill and Service Me, but nothing like Hammett's. Won't they think we're trying to imitate Metallica?"