Chapter 14: Take One Down, Pass it Around

Mark Stanley, the post-graduate CSUS student who managed to acquire the bootleg recordings of Jake Kingsley playing with the Cypress High School Orchestra, did not end up making much of a profit from his venture. He quickly found that no single buyer was willing to just deposit $500 per MP3 file into his bank account and simply trust that he would then send the files in return. And he was not willing to trust that they would send him the money if he sent them the files first. This was very frustrating to Mark and he had the fleeting thought that there should be some kind of an escrow service for online transactions, something where a third party could hold onto the money, charge a fee for doing so, and only release it to the seller of a product when it was confirmed that the product in question had been received.

Someone could make a lot of money if they started something like that, he thought whimsically. And then he abandoned the thought that would eventually lead another entrepreneur to develop PayPal and moved on to trying to figure out how he could at least make back the $250 he had laid out for getting one of the undergrads to make the recording for him and the $125 he had spent purchasing the tape recorder. And suddenly, the answer came to him. MP3 files were not like actual recordings! They were digital copies and could be copied over and over again without any degradation of quality! Why did he need to sell the files to only one person? He could sell as many copies as the market would support!

And so, he removed his original post and put up another. This one was offering copies of the bootleg files of Any Given Sunday, I Got Away From You, and Winter Frost to any and all who wanted them for a mere $25 per file, delivery to occur when he verified deposit of the funds. For this, people were a little more willing to take a chance and trust a total stranger online. In the first 48 hours after making the post, 31 people took him up on the offer, every last one of them only purchasing a single file instead of all of them. In the next week, another 17 more joined them. Of these 48 people, 18 of them failed to deliver the money so Stanley failed to deliver the MP3s. In those nine days, he made $750 for a net profit of $375. And then a funny thing happened. June 1 came along and, over the next two weeks, only three more people expressed interest in buying any of the MP3s. He received no repeat customers willing to lay down another twenty-five bucks and score another of the files now that they knew Stanley would deliver. By the third week, he was receiving no interest whatsoever. This was very puzzling and upsetting to him because he knew his best window for making money off the recordings would end in mid-July, when the actual CD was released for sale.

The mystery was solved, however, when he reposted his offer on the bulletin board and lowered the price to $15 per MP3. A user with the handle Bonghit420 posted a comment on Stanley’s offer.

Dude, it said, why would anyone pay you $15 for those files when they’re fuckin’ free on the Napster? Get with the times!

Free? The Napster? What the hell was the Napster?

It was a question that was being asked, and answered, all over the country starting in the first few weeks of June, 1999, mostly in college dorms and college computer labs.

It was the question of the age, and the answer was nothing more or less than the beginning of the complete and utter destruction of the music industry as it had existed for the past seventy-five years.

United Flight 718, a Boeing 777 from Logan International in Boston, touched down at LAX at 4:33 PM Pacific Time and rolled to the gate. It was now June 16^th, a hot and sticky Wednesday in the LA basin. Smog and smoke from a nearby wildfire was thick in the air and the sun was a burnt orange color. In the first-class section of the aircraft were Jim and Marcie Scanlon, Stephanie Zool, Jeremy White, and Rick Jackson—the members of Brainwash. All five were traveling without spouses (except Jim and Marcie, of course) or children. All five had had a few drinks on the flight and were a bit tipsy.

Per directions from Jake Kingsley, they had no checked baggage, just what they could fit into a simple carry-on bag. This made them a little strapped for clothes and supplies but saved them the trouble of stopping at the baggage carousel. They made their way out to the front of the terminal where a stretch limousine was waiting for them. The driver was holding up a cardboard sign with Jim and Marcie’s name hand written on it. He welcomed them to Los Angeles and helped them stow their bags in the trunk. They then settled in for the sixty-five-minute trip through weekday afternoon Los Angeles to Whiteman Airport in the San Fernando Valley. The band took the opportunity to have a few more drinks on the way. All of them were a little bit nervous about the next leg of their journey and the alcohol helped ease this anxiety.

The limo dropped them off in front of the main airport building. There were multiple aircraft parked out here but they had no trouble recognizing Jake Kingsley’s airplane even though none of them had ever seen it before. He had described it to them several times before and it was quite unique looking.

“You’ve flown with Jake before,” Marcie said to Steph. “Does he ... you know ... know what he’s doing up there?”

“The man’s been flying for years,” Steph told her.

“Yeah ... but ... he doesn’t do anything reckless or dangerous when he’s flying, does he?” she wanted to know. This was, after all, the notorious Jake Kingsley they were talking about here.

“I only spent about an hour total with him in his plane,” Steph said. “We just made a run from Coos Bay to Costco. He seemed very serious and professional about his flying though. Wouldn’t let me talk to him until we got up to altitude.”

“He didn’t do any dives or rolls or loops or anything like that?” Marcie asked.

“No,” she said. “He took off, climbed up, descended, and then landed twenty minutes later. And then, after we got the supplies at Costco, he did the same thing to get us back.”

“Okay,” Marcie said doubtfully. “I guess that’s okay then.”

“That was his other plane though,” Steph qualified. “It didn’t look nearly as sporty as this one.”

“It is a cool looking plane,” Jim had to admit.

The members of Brainwash, after agonizing over the ultimatum they had been given by KVA Records, had finally come to their decision. They wanted to keep playing music together. They wanted to make more money by playing their music together. The only way that could happen was if they quit their teaching gigs for good and moved themselves and their families across the country for at least part of the year. They could not go back to the old days when they toured around New England during their summer breaks. Their one attempt to perform live after the release and wild popularity of the first Brainwash CD had taught them that. And so, Jim had called up Jake on the phone three days before and told him the decision. Brainwash was in for the next CD.

“Even though it means you’ll have to quit your jobs?” Jake asked him, just to have it on record.

“Even though it means we have to quit our jobs,” Jim agreed with a sigh.

So far, none of them had submitted their resignations (except Steph, who had done so more than a year ago now). They would not do that until a new contract was agreed to and signed. That was why the band had been flown at KVA expense to southern California. In two days, they would get together in the KVA office and begin negotiation for that next contract. For now, however, Jake and Laura had invited them all to stay at their home on the ocean in San Luis Obispo County. They wanted to show them around the area so they could start thinking about where they wanted to stay during the recording process.

Jake came out of the airport office to greet them as they all collected their bags from the trunk of the limo. He was wearing a pair of denim shorts, tennis shoes with ankle socks, and a simple beige pullover tank top with a picture of a rooster on it. His arm tattoos were showing prominently and his hair was particularly long, well past his shoulders now, though it was a good look for him. He was a handsome man, in good shape, his stomach flat and his calves bulging with runner’s muscle, but about as un-pilot-like as it was possible for a man to look without being an actual street bum.

He greeted each of them by name, giving handshakes to the men, hugs to Steph and Marcie. He then led them over to the aircraft and opened the door. He opened up the cargo compartment in the nose and pulled out a flat digital scale.

“All right,” he said, his jovial tone turning a bit more serious now. “Let’s weigh everyone’s bags before I load them in and then we’ll weigh all of you.”

“Do we really need to weigh me?” Marcie asked sourly. Like many women, she did not enjoy standing on a scale or having other people know what reading that scale might give.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Jake told her. “I need to know the exact weight I’m carrying so I can calculate takeoff roll, V1 speed, VR speed, climb rate, and fuel burn. That includes fuel, bags, and people. But don’t worry. I’ll keep the information confidential.”

“But you’ll know,” Marcie said.

“True, but just think of me as a doctor,” Jake told her.

They did the weighing of the bags and then the people. Jake wrote all of the numbers down on a piece of paper (and Marcie was only 160 pounds on a 5-6 frame, not Hollywood skinny, but certainly nothing to be ashamed about). When he was done, he stuffed the paper into his back pocket and then began loading the bags into the nose.

“Can I help you with that?” Jim asked.

“No,” Jake said simply. “It has to be done in a certain way so that nothing shifts and so the weight is distributed evenly.”

“I see,” Jim said, feeling a little better now that he could see Jake was taking things seriously.

Once the cargo was secured, Jake told them he was going into the office for a few minutes to finish up his flight plan now that he had the weights written down. “You’re welcome to board the plane if you want, but the engines are off right now so there’s no AC running. It’s probably a bit stuffy in there.”

“I’ll wait outside,” Marcie said. Everyone else made the same decision.

Jake disappeared into the office. Jim walked over to the door of the plane and took a nervous look inside. It was a very luxurious looking ride, but it was small. Even smaller than the business jets they had traveled on to get to Coos Bay from LA and then back again for past sessions. And it was a plane that would not be flown by a professional pilot, but by a hard-drinking, hard-partying rock musician who happened to have a pilot’s license. And he and his companions were a rock and roll band themselves. How many times had famous musicians died in such circumstances? More than he could count on one hand, that was for sure. He could perfectly envision the headlines that would be on every paper across the nation if they went down. JAKE KINGSLEY AND BRAINWASH KILLED IN TRAGIC PLANE CRASH is what they would say.

“All right,” Jake said when he returned. He had a bottle of iced tea from a vending machine in his hand now. “Flight plan is filed. I’ve already done the external preflight and fueled up for the trip. Let’s climb aboard and get this fine piece of wop engineering in the air. Who wants shotgun?”

“I’ll take shotgun!” Jim blurted before anyone else had a chance to.

“Jim’s got shotgun,” Jake said with a nod.

They loaded up and Jake closed the door behind them. It was indeed quite stuffy and warm in the cabin. Jim settled into the copilot’s chair, looking at the array of knobs, switches, and dials, noting the pedals on the floor at his feet, the complex array of circuit breakers on a panel below the throttle levers. He was afraid to touch anything.

Jake seemed to pick up on this as he flipped two switches and the computer screens and dials suddenly came to life. “Don’t worry,” he told him. “The first thing I’m going to do is lock out your controls. Just don’t touch anything in the center or overhead.”

“Oh ... cool,” Jim said, nodding a little. And then something occurred to him. “What happens if anything happens to you when we’re up in the air?”

“Then we all die,” Jake said simply.

“I ... see,” Jim said, not feeling better.

“I will try, however,” Jake told him, “as my last act before succumbing to the heart attack or stroke or whatever, to unlock your controls.”

“What good will that do?” Jim asked. “I don’t know how to fly a plane.”

“I know that,” Jake said. “Your job will be to try to steer the crash away from populated areas so that we don’t take out any innocent people on the ground. You up for it?”

Jim looked at him in alarm. “Uh...”

Jake chuckled. “Just fucking with you a little,” he told him. “I hardly ever crash this thing. We’ll be fine.”

Jim laughed nervously.

“All right now,” Jake said. “Let’s fire these engines up.”

He fired them up and the blessed air conditioning began to circulate from the vents. He then gave a brief safety lecture to everyone. “Keep your seatbelts on and tight from now until we land. This is a small plane and sometimes we get bounced around a bit going over the mountains. If you have to get up to pee, or if you want to make a drink at the bar, do it quickly and only if we’re above ten thousand feet and then fasten your belts again once you’re back in your seat. Flight time will be twenty-five minutes from wheels up to touchdown at SLO. We will be going offshore for one leg of the flight, so I do need to let you know that there are life vests underneath your seat in case we have to land in the ocean. If something does go wrong, however, I cannot foresee any circumstance where I would actually try to land in the ocean as opposed to coming ashore and trying to put down on a runway or a road somewhere. We’re not going to be so far out that even a double engine failure would make it necessary to try to ditch in the water.”

“What if the wing comes off or something like that while we’re over the ocean?” Marcie asked.

“Then the plane will be uncontrollable, we’ll all die on impact, and you won’t have to worry about the life vest,” Jake told her. “So ... let me program my flight computer and run through the checklist and then off we go into the wild blue yonder.”

Once they were in the air, Jim began to enjoy himself a bit more. Jake’s calm, cool, businesslike demeanor behind the controls was comforting. The scenery from the relatively low altitude they were flying (Jake leveled them off at thirteen thousand feet) was incredible. And the Jack Daniels on the rocks he got from the bar after they cleared ten thousand feet helped as well. They touched down neatly at San Luis Obispo Regional Airport at 5:48 PM, exactly twenty-five minutes after lifting off from Whiteman.

Jake parked the plane outside of a hangar at the airport and powered it down. Everyone filed out of the door after he opened it and spent a moment marveling over the change in weather conditions. It was now only seventy-five degrees or so and there was a pleasant breeze blowing. The sky was nice and blue, without a hint of smog in it.

“We don’t get any smog here on the central coast,” Jake told Jim when he made note of this. “Occasionally we’ll get some wildfire smoke in the late summer or autumn, but down where I live the onshore wind clears it out pretty quickly.”

“That’s good to know,” Jim said, filing that thought away. Neither he nor Marcie were much impressed with Los Angeles—they found it big, crowded, smoggy, with insane traffic that made Boston look like commuter paradise, and entirely without soul—but he could already detect an air of difference here in this place.

A minivan pulled into the taxi area that serviced the row of hangars. It stopped just in front of the hangar next to Jake’s and Laura Kingsley stepped out. She was wearing a pair of red shorts, flip-flops, and a green sleeveless blouse. Her copper-colored hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. She had a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses covering her eyes. She smiled as she saw the assembled Brainwash crew and then walked up to greet them. She hugged everyone warmly and told them she was so glad they would be signing with KVA for another CD project.

“Let me know if you need some sax on any of the cuts,” she told them. “I’d love to work with you all and I’ll be free while you’re here.”

“Hmm,” Jim said, pondering that offer. “Now that’s an interesting thought.”

“Yeah,” agreed Marcie, instantly thinking of two of her tunes that could maybe benefit from such an addition.

“I’ll keep you in mind,” said Steph politely but without much interest. Her tunes tended to be a little harder on the rock spectrum and would not support a saxophone either for melodies or a solo.

They loaded all the luggage into the spacious cargo compartment of the minivan. While they were doing that, Jake attached a tug to the nose wheel of the aircraft and pushed it backwards into the hangar. He then shut and locked the door, leaving the tug attached.

“Let’s blow this scene,” Jake told them. “I’ll be driving my Beamer home. Any minivan haters who want to ride with me?”

“I’ll go with you,” Steph said immediately. “Uh ... no offense, Laura.”

Laura chuckled. “None taken,” she said. “Jake has still never even made physical contact with the Sienna.”

“Really?” Jim asked, impressed. “That’s dedication there.”

“Some things you just have to take a stand on,” Jake said.

Jim piled into the van with Marcie, Rick, and Jeremy. Marcie took shotgun this time. Laura drove them west from the airport, towards the ocean. They did not pass through much of San Luis Obispo itself as the airport was located to the south of the city proper, which was a shame because Jake had told him that he and Marcie would likely find the best schools and housing in SLO city. But, they were going to do a thorough exploration of the area tomorrow (including a tour of the studio itself) and he was able to see that there was a Costco located between the airport and Jake’s home. He and Marcie were fans of Costco. There had been a time when they could not afford the membership, but ever since the Brainwash money had started to come in after the first CD neither of them had set a single foot inside of a Walmart and had maintained a Costco Gold membership.

Shortly past the Costco, they entered a set of green hills spotted with Cypress trees, climbing quickly to a thousand-foot summit where they caught their first land-based glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. The sun was sinking in the sky but was still a few hours away from sunset. It looked like it was going to be a good one. They wound down out of the hills and hit a little traffic as they entered the town of Pismo Beach and began driving along the actual coast itself. The waves crashing ashore here were bigger and slower than the Atlantic Ocean waves Jim was familiar with and dozens of surfers could be seen bobbing up and down, paddling back and forth, and occasionally riding the bigger swells into shore.

“Lots of good beaches around here,” Laura told them. “And the sand dunes are loads of fun. You can spend a whole day just riding one of the quads they rent.”

Just beyond Pismo Beach the highway (Laura called it the PCH) curved back to the east, going around a moderately sized rocky outcropping. The traffic disappeared and the landscape became more rural and empty. Just as they rounded a bend and started heading back in the direction of the coast, Laura slowed down and made a right turn onto a narrow, paved road that led uphill between clusters of trees. There was a sign that read:

PRIVATE ROAD

NO BEACH OR CLIFF ACCESS

NO OUTLET

DO NOT ENTER

“This is our road,” Laura told them. “We don’t actually own this part of the land, but we have an easement from the county as long as we keep it maintained. The next sign is where our property actually begins.”

They wound upward a little more and the next sign came into view. It read:

PRIVATE PROPERTY

NO TRESPASSING!

ENFORCED BY

THE SAN LUIS OBISPO

SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT

Below this sign, on the same pole, was yet another sign. It read:

IF YOU HAVE BEEN INVITED HERE

OR HAVE OFFICIAL BUSINESS HERE

PLEASE PULL UP TO THE GATE AND

FOLLOW THE PRINTED INSTRUCTIONS

The gate in question was just beyond the warning signs. It was an ornate black gate, made of wrought iron bars at least ten feet high, and the bars themselves had sharp looking points on the top. An intercom box and a camera were plainly visible. Stretching out in both directions from the gate was a matching wrought iron fence with those same pointy spikes on top. Every thirty feet or so was another of the NO TRESPASSING! signs.

“Not exactly welcoming, right?” Laura asked lightly. “We used to just have a simple no trespassing sign right in front of the gate, but after the hippies and their diapers that one night we decided to make our point a little clearer to anyone who wanders in here.”

“Hippies and their diapers?” Jim asked. “That’s the second time I’ve heard them mentioned. Someone has to tell us the story.”

“They were fairly harmless,” Laura said, “but they did make us realize we weren’t taking security as seriously as we probably should. There’s a lot of crazy people in the world. And a lot of them don’t care for Jake or for me.”

“That’s kind of scary,” Marcie said.

“It’s the life we choose,” Laura said lightly. “The life you’re choosing now too.”

That gave them a little food for thought.

Laura pushed a button on a remote control that was clipped to her sun visor. The gate swung open in the inward direction. She pulled through it, stopping just outside the swing of its arc and then pushed the button again. Behind them, the gate swung closed again. She stared in her rearview mirrors until it finished closing and then started forward again.

“Why didn’t you just leave it open?” asked Marcie. “Aren’t Jake and Steph just behind us somewhere?”

“Yeah, they’re probably no more than three or four minutes back,” she said. “They had to hike back to get the Beamer, but Jake drives faster than I do. Still, we don’t ever leave the gate open. And we always watch to make sure no one slips through when we go in or out.” She shrugged. “Security.”

Marcie nodded a little nervously.

The minivan finished its climb up the hill and then emerged on a big open plateau atop of it. The view of the ocean was incredible. The first impression of Jake and Laura’s house, however, was almost of disappointment. It was just a flat, plain-looking house, only single-story. There were no towers or arches, no fountains or stables. It hardly seemed the sort of domicile befitting the lead singer of Intemperance and his wife.

“We know it doesn’t look like much from the outside,” Laura said. “That’s the way Jake designed it. It just kind of blends into the landscape. Not pretentious. Not a castle. The inside is very impressive though. And it is a fortress. As long as the doors are locked and the windows shut, there is no way any intruder would be able to get inside before the sheriff’s department shows up. Not even if they have sledgehammers and cutting tools.”

“Interesting,” Jim said, that little nervous doubt coming back as he heard another tidbit about the lengths and expense that Jake had to go to in order to keep his family safe from crazies.

Laura parked the Sienna in the attached garage. Everyone piled out and went to the back of the van to collect their luggage. While they were doing this, Jake pulled in next to them in his BMW. He and Steph got out. Jim saw that Jake made a point to stay at least six feet away from the minivan at all times.

“Welcome to Casa Kingsley,” Jake told them as he opened the door with a key.

The smell of onion, garlic, tomato, and oregano was strong in the air as they entered the house. The reason why became quickly apparent. The Kingsley’s housekeeper—she was introduced to them as Elsa and she gave them a brief lecture on what to do with their clothing after removing it—had just pulled a homemade lasagna out of the oven. It looked absolutely mouthwatering.

“Dinner is in fifteen minutes,” she told them. “As soon as the bread is done.” And, with that, she put a pan of homemade garlic bread into the oven.

“Elsa makes the best lasagna,” Laura said. “It is absolutely to die for.”

“I can’t wait,” Marcie said.

“Me either,” Steph added. “I’m famished.”

“Yeah, it’s all right,” Jake said with a shrug and a little see-saw gesture with his hand, earning him a steely look from the housekeeper.

“All right?” Elsa asked, continuing to glare.

“I meant that as a compliment,” Jake told her. “It’s almost as good as that stuff they sell in the freezer section at the grocery store.”

“Do not blaspheme in my kitchen, Jake,” Elsa warned sternly. They locked gazes for a moment and then the two of them chuckled at each other.

“She knows I’m just kidding,” Jake explained to his guests. “And she always gives me crap about ‘that mediocre music you make’.”

“I’m not kidding about that,” Elsa put in, effectively winning the little sparring match.

They went into the entertainment room. Here, Jim and the rest of the Brainwash crew began to appreciate Casa Kingsley as it should be appreciated. They looked around at the splendor of the pool table, the guitars on the wall, the large wet bar, the racks and racks of wine, the pinball machine, the dart board, the expensive furniture that faced the huge television and entertainment center, and the view out the sliding glass doors.

Sitting on the couch and watching television with a glass of white wine in her hand was a familiar woman. It was Celia Valdez. She was barefoot, wearing a pair of tattered gray sweat shorts and an old t-shirt with a picture of a kitten on it. Her hair was down and she wore no makeup. She smiled and stood up as the band entered the room.

“Celia!” Marcie said, smiling at her. “What are you doing here?”

Celia simply shrugged. “I hang out here a lot,” she replied. “Jake and Laura have such a nice house.”

“But ... didn’t you say you had a house in Malibu?” asked Jim, sensing there was a little more to the story than what she was telling.

“Yeah, I do,” she said. “It’s nice too. I like the company and the privacy here though. And Elsa makes sure I get enough to eat.”

“I see,” Jim said slowly.

Hugs and greetings were exchanged between Brainwash and Celia. Jim felt a strong surge of sexual excitement when he felt the Venezuelan singer’s breasts pushing into his chest during the embrace. She really did have an incredible body. And she smelled like vanilla! He sincerely hoped that Marcie would be up for a little west coast action tonight after they went to bed.

“Where’s Caydee?” Laura asked once the greetings were complete.

“She and Meghan are out back,” Celia told her. “Caydee wanted to go look at bugs again.”

“Ahhh, of course,” Laura said with a shake of the head. She turned to Marcie and Steph. “Caydee’s become fascinated with bugs lately. She’ll spend an hour out there looking under rocks and rummaging around on the ground trying to find them.”

“It’s a good thing Meghan is so patient,” Jake added. “Since we live on a cliff over the ocean and there is no fence on the ocean side, we decided that it probably wasn’t a good idea to let Caydee out there unsupervised.”

“It’s about time they come in to get washed up for dinner,” Laura said. “You want to give the tour, sweetie, while I take care of that?”

“Sounds good,” Jake said.

Jake led them on a tour of the rest of the house. The master suite where Jake and Laura slept was quite impressive. And Caydee’s room was adorable as well. Jake assigned everyone rooms as they passed, giving Jim and Marcie the secondary suite, and then Jeremy, Steph, and Rick the large guest rooms. He pointed out the room that belonged to Meghan, the nanny, and let them know—politely—that that room was off limits to guests.

“Where does Celia sleep?” asked Steph after making note that, once everyone was assigned a space, there really weren’t any actual bedrooms left for the beautiful singer (Steph had gotten herself quite a sexual rush by hugging Celia as well).

“Uh ... well, you know? Celia can share Caydee’s room while you’re all here,” Jake told her.

“Oh ... I see,” Steph said slowly, a little confused. There was no bed in Caydee’s room other than the crib the little girl slept in. There was a couch, true, and it looked like a comfortable one, but... “I don’t want to displace Celia from her room. I could bunk on the couch in the entertainment room.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Jake told her.

“Are you sure?” Steph asked.

“I am sure,” Jake assured her.

“Well ... okay,” Steph said. “The offer is still open though.” And then her thoughts went back to the feel of the beautiful singer when she had hugged her. She was so tall, so Amazonian, and she smelled so good. She remembered that there had been rumors in the news about Celia dallying with her lesbian pilot out on the road. Could those rumors be true? Did Celia really enjoy the softer things in life? Maybe she’d like to share my room with me while I’m here, she thought whimsically, feeling a little moisture gushing below as she pondered this.