Chapter 22: Old Friends

Los Angeles, California

February 6, 2004

Jake pulled his truck into Pauline’s circular driveway in Silver Lake after making the drive from Whiteman Airport. It was Friday afternoon, just past 3:00 o’clock. He and Nerdly had shut down the recording session at the Campus after lunch so they could make their 3:30 appointment with Pauline and Jerry Stillson, the CEO of Music Alive, here at Pauline’s house. Celia was with them as well, rounding out the owners of KVA Records when Pauline herself was included. They did not know what Stillson wanted to talk about other than it would have something to do with concerts and shit, which was the business he was in.

“This is very annoying,” Jake said, looking up at the news helicopter that was circling about fifteen hundred feet over their heads, its camera no doubt zooming in on the three of them. It had followed them from shortly outside the restricted airspace around Whiteman, undoubtedly alerted to go there by someone in SLO Regional reporting his flight plan. It was not alone. At least four chase cars full of paparazzi and entertainment reporters had followed them as well and would likely be showing up any second.

Ever since the news of Jake and Celia filing for divorce had broken six days before, nearly everyone in the Kingsley inner circle had become targets for the media circus. The spotlight was most definitely back on, the cries of ‘the people have a right to know’ in full voice. Whenever anyone left the Kingsley house, they were followed and, upon reaching whatever their destination was, had a mob shouting questions at them, snapping pictures of them, taking videos of them. This included Westin, when he made his trips to the grocery store or the meat market or the seafood shop. It included Celia when she went to pick up the Scanlon kids from school. It included the Scanlons themselves, including the kids (much to the anger of Jim and Marcie). It even included Mama and Papa Valdez when they came over for Sunday dinner and Mom and Dad Kingsley back in Cypress County. So far, no one had talked to them, not even to give a ‘no comment’ statement. The only official confirmation of the divorce had come from the harried receptionist at KVA Records’ main office who would simply say ‘yes, they are getting divorced’ when asked about it and who had to be given a thirty percent raise in order to keep putting up with this shit.

“Really?” asked Celia, her voice full of sarcasm. “You think it’s annoying to have helicopters full of ghouls following us everywhere we go?”

Jake gave her a weary smile but did not answer her. It seemed safer to maintain silence. He considered raising both middle fingers at the circling aircraft but his better judgement won over the impulse. They walked as a group to the front door and rang the bell.

“Well now,” Pauline said as she answered the door and the helicopter made a particularly close pass overhead. “How did I ever guess you were here?”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Jake said with sincerity. After all, he and Celia had caused this circus to come to her town.

“I know,” she said. “Come on in.”

“There will be more of them in cars any minute,” Celia told her.

“I already anticipated that,” Pauline said. With that, she taped a sign that was handwritten in sharpie on a piece of printer paper to the outside of the door. It read:

“Not bad,” Jake said after reading it. “It might even work.”

“I’d give it a fifty-fifty chance,” Pauline said. “Those pricks have a remarkable ability to assume that such a sign does not apply to them.”

“The public has a right to know, after all,” Celia said.

Pauline closed the door and locked it just as the first of the media vehicles pulled up out front. She then gave her brother, current legal sister-in-law, and Nerdly hugs of greeting. It had been a few weeks since she had seen any of them in the flesh.

“Drinks, anyone?” she asked.

Jake, of course, asked for tea as he had more flying to do. Celia requested a scotch on the rocks. Nerdly went with an appletini. Pauline herself decided to join Celia in the scotch. Tabby, who had just arrived home from school fifteen minutes before, was in the dining room working on her homework. The visitors all went and gave her hugs while the hostess worked on the beverages.

The doorbell rang while Pauline was still constructing the beverages. With a shake of her head, she went to the office where her security cameras were monitored. Seeing that the visitor was not the man they were expecting, but a camera operator and a woman with a microphone in her hands, she pushed the intercom button. “Did you think, for some twisted reason, the note on the door did not apply to you?” she asked plainly.

“I didn’t see it until I already rang the bell,” the female replied. “Is this Pauline Kingsley?”

“This is the woman who is telling you to get off the property immediately or the police will be called,” she replied.

“Pauline,” the woman said, “I’m Lori Jacobs, Channel 4 news. If I could just ask Jake and Celia a few questions, I’ll be on my way.”

“You’ll be on your way now,” Pauline told her. “If you’re not walking back to the sidewalk in the next five seconds, I’m making the call.”

“But...”

Pauline cut the connection between them. She then watched the camera. There was a brief discussion between the two of them and then they turned and walked back to the sidewalk in front of the house, joining the other eight to ten vultures who were gathered. Pauline knew it would only be a matter of minutes before the police were called anyway. One of her neighbors would do it. Not that it would accomplish anything. As long as they were set up on the sidewalk and not blocking traffic or free access to any property with themselves or their vehicles, they were perfectly within their rights.

She returned to the bar, mumbling curses under her breath. “At least once we move out of this place they’ll have a harder time getting to the front door,” she said.

Having finally decided to give up her Silver Lake house and take advantage of the respectable wealth she now enjoyed, Pauline had put in an offer on a six bedroom, 8000 square foot home in the exclusive LA enclave of Pacific Palisades. The two-story home was perched high on a bluff overlooking the ocean and sat upon nearly two acres of land. The neighborhood itself, known as El Medio Bluffs, was the most exclusive of the exclusive enclave and was surrounded by a concrete wall and iron gates with guards controlling access twenty-four hours a day. Her offer of $6.8 million for the property had been accepted by the seller two weeks before and she was now in a brief escrow period of thirty days, the briefest the seller had been willing to agree to.

“Are you sure they’re going to let me in when I show up?” Jake asked. “After all, I’m a pretty shady looking character.”

“Tommy Chong is one of my neighbors,” Pauline said. “He lives two doors down. They let him in.”

“No shit?” Jake asked.

“No shit,” she said. “Arnold Schwarzenegger lives on the next street over—when he’s not being the governor, that is.”

“Maybe you’ll run into them at the grocery store,” Celia suggested lightly.

Pauline chuckled. “More like my housekeeper will run into their housekeepers,” she said. Her longtime housekeeper had retired two months before and had yet to be replaced. Upon moving, however, that was the first thing she planned to do.

They all had time to work their way through a drink and pour another (except for Jake, who was merely sipping his) when they heard a commotion of shouting voices outside come drifting through the closed door of the foyer. They could not make out most of the words they were hearing but Jake and Celia both heard their names among the noise.

“It would seem that Mr. Stillson has arrived,” Jake said.

“It would seem so,” agreed his sister.

“Did you warn him about what was waiting outside?” asked Nerdly.

“I did not,” Pauline said. “By the time I figured out it was going to happen, it was too late.”

The doorbell rang three times, one after the other. Pauline checked the front door camera view. While she was doing that, the doorbell rang a few more times, the pace almost frantic.

“It’s Stillson,” she reported after seeing his face on the screen. She could also see that a good many of the crowd had followed him up the walkway and were now gathered about ten feet behind him, demanding to know who he was. He looked more than a little alarmed by the attention and said nothing to the crowd.

Pauline opened the door and practically dragged him inside. She then looked at the crowd, who was now shouting questions at her instead of Stillson, and held up her hand for silence, which they reluctantly gave.

“You are all unwanted on this property,” she told them. “Get back to the sidewalk and stay there or I will call the police.”

“Pauline!” shouted several voices which they then immediately followed it up with overlapping questions. “Who is the man that just arrived?” “Is that Celia’s divorce attorney?” “Is this a mediation hearing?”

“Back to the sidewalk!” she told them. “No one here has any comment!”

With that, she slammed the door on them while they continued to shout. She double locked it and set the house alarm. She then turned to her latest guest. He was dressed in signature fashion, wearing an expensive, custom tailored suit with a rather loud pink and green tie. His head was neatly shaved bald. He had a gold hoop earring in his left ear and a pair of dark sunglasses covering his eyes. The expression on his face was of trepidation. As a behind-the-scenes operator in the music world, he was unaccustomed to reporters and paparazzi shouting questions at him and snapping pictures of him.

“Stillson,” Pauline said mildly. “Welcome to my home.”

He glanced at the door and then back at her. “What the hell was all that about?” he asked.

“Just part of the life we choose,” she said wearily. “You’ve heard about Jake and Celia getting divorced, right?”

“Of course I’ve heard about it,” he replied. “People in fucking Zimbabwe have heard about it.”

“Well, Jake and C have this weird idea that they have a right to privacy in their personal lives and don’t need to explain their business to the world. The pap and the media disagree.”

Stillson shook his head. “I don’t know how you live like this.”

Pauline gave a smile. “It pays well,” she said. “Follow me.”

He followed her into the dining room, where everyone was now seated around the table. He was not surprised to see Celia among the participants. By this point the media had confirmed the fact that Celia and Capriccio were still living in the house with Jake and Laura and Cadence Kingsley. No explanation or justification had been offered for this yet, though when the time came the plan was to use the old ‘for the good of the children’ bit. Stillson greeted Jake, Celia, and Nerdly, shaking hands with each. He then sat down. Pauline offered him a drink and he asked for a double Chivas, neat.

Pauline brought it to him and then sat down herself. Stillson chugged half of his drink in a single gulp. He then looked up at everyone. “Thank you all for inviting me over,” he said. “It’s an honor to talk to the owners of the legendary KVA Records.”

“No need to ass-kiss us, Stillson,” Jake told him. “Just tell us what you want. If it’s an Intemperance tour, however, that won’t be happening for a while. We haven’t even started the next CD yet.”

“I understand that,” Stillson said. “And even if you were, Music Alive is not yet in a position to outbid the bigs for any major acts for touring. We’re getting there and we’re doing pretty well booking the nostalgia tours for the boomers and Gen Xers, but the traditional record companies like National and Aristocrat still have the advantage for big time acts like Intemp or Tool or Metallica since they tend to still own the rights to the tunes.”

“That makes sense,” Jake said. “When you book Reo Speedwagon or Eddie Money or Pat Benatar, either the exclusivity clause for the rights has expired or it’s not worth enough to be a factor to the bigs.”

“That’s right,” Stillson said. “I was one of the first ones to figure out that the nostalgia tours would be worth some money and was able to cash in on it. True, the acts aren’t playing major venues—it’s mostly casinos, state fairs, and little muni theaters that hold less than four thousand people—but we can still charge premium money for those tickets. Boomers and Xers have money to spend these days and they fuckin’ love their music. They’ll plop down a hundred dollars a ticket to see the bands of their youth in a small intimate venue. They’ll plop down two or three hundred for the VIP seats.”

“So ... as long as you run these old guys ragged,” said Jake, “having them perform six nights a week in six different cities for fifty or so weeks out of every year, you make a killing.”

“Exactly!” Stillson said with a smile, completely missing Jake’s sarcasm.

“And I’m guessing,” said Pauline, “that you pay those bands just enough to keep them living in the lifestyle they’re accustomed to, but not enough they can dig themselves out of whatever hole they’re in from no longer having any hit albums to sell.”

“That is the name of the game,” Stillson said, still missing the disapproval of the observation. He simply thought they were on the same page as he was—kindred souls, if you will.

Jake shook his head a little, making an effort to clear it of unpleasantness. “As you yourself pointed out,” he said, “Intemperance is not a nostalgia band. We’re top billing, as is Celia, Brainwash, and V-tach. None of KVA’s acts are in your league as far as touring goes. So, what brings you here?”

“Nostalgia tours are only the bread and butter of Music Alive,” Stillson said. “We are also heavily involved in music festivals, particularly the Tsunami Sound Festival which you, Jake, and your bandmate Matt Tisdale both performed in as solo artists back in 1996.”

“We did do that,” Jake agreed. He remembered the experience quite well. Laura had flown in from Poland to perform with him on South Island Blur with no actual rehearsal time with the full band (and had nailed her part in the tune) and he had broken his hand punching one of Pantera’s roadies in the face during a scuffle. He had then played his entire second night set with a throbbing, swelling right hand and had to undergo a conscious sedation to set it back together in a Las Vegas hospital after the show. Still, it had been a good time and Stillson had paid them pretty good money for the gig.

“We’re now planning and booking for the ninth annual Tsunami Sound Festival,” Stillson said. “Since the first one, we have expanded the venue by twenty-five percent and added another stage for a total of three. We now have ninety by one hundred and twenty foot video screens above each stage and a huge, exclusive VIP section that sits in a half circle around all three stages. We’ve also expanded to four nights instead of two—Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. TSF-nine is what we want Intemp for. V-tach and Brainwash too, if we can get them. It goes without saying, of course, that Intemp will be the headliner on the nights you perform.”

“You don’t want me at the TSF, Jerry?” Celia asked with feigned hurt feelings. “My little act is not good enough for you?”

“Uh ... well ... your act is first rate, of course,” Stillson said, “but it’s not quite in the same genre the TSF is known for.”

“I understand,” Celia said. “I guess I’ll just have to fill the seats in arenas elsewhere.”

“You’re planning this for September?” Jake asked. “I’m not sure Intemp would be able to accommodate that. We’ll likely be working full-steam ahead on the next CD at that point.”

“And I’ll be working on my next CD,” Celia added. “Which means I’ll need Jake’s time as well.”

“The TSF was moved to Easter weekend back in 1998,” Stillson said. “The weather in southern Nevada tends to be too hot in September. March or April is usually pleasant enough and we get a lot of spring breakers who would rather party down in Vegas and watch some good music than go to Mexico or Florida.”

“Easter weekend?” Jake said, raising his eyebrows. “Easter falls on April 11 this year.”

“That’s Laura’s birthday,” Celia said. “She’ll be turning thirty-nine ... the bitch.”

“It doesn’t matter who is having a birthday,” Jake said, exasperated. “That’s only two and a half months away. There is no way in hell we could put together a set in that amount of time even if we had absolutely nothing else going on—which is not the case.” He shook his head. “Sorry, Stillson. It can’t happen.”

“You don’t understand, Jake,” Stillson said. “We’re already booked for this spring break and tickets have already sold out. The bands are already set. TSF-eight is this April. We got Korn, Linkin Park, Tool, and Godsmack for the headliners. We’re lining up acts for TSF-nine now. That’s spring break of 2005. March 24^th through the 27^th. You would have fourteen months to come up with a set if you agreed.”

“Oh...” Jake said. “That’s different then.”

“Did you really think I would ask you nine weeks before the festival to be the headliner?” Stillson asked. “Did you really think we wouldn’t have had the acts booked by this point?”

“There is literally nothing that I wouldn’t put past you record company execs, Stillson,” Jake told him.

“I’m not a record company exec,” he said, as if insulted to be described in that manner.

“You used to be,” Jake reminded him. “That means you’re cut from the same mold. Anyway, lay some particulars on us about this thing. What kind of money are we talking?”

“Well ... I did not come here to negotiate a contract,” Stillson said. “I just wanted to run the idea by you and see if you might be interested.”

“You need to lay a figure on the table in order to capture our interest,” Pauline said.

“Very well,” Stillson said with a sigh. “We’re prepared to offer two million dollars for two nights of performance by Intemperance at the TSF-nine. We would give you Friday and Saturday nights, which are the most lucrative. If V-tach and/or Brainwash are included in the acts, we will negotiate that separately.”

“Well ... that’s a good starting place, Stillson,” Pauline told him, “but there is no way we would accept that figure for such a performance.”

Another sigh from Stillson. “As I said, that’s just the amount I’m laying out right now. This is not the official negotiation.”

“I trust that all reasonable expenses would be covered by Music Alive as well,” said Nerdly. “Travel for the crew and band, accommodations for same, transport of band equipment?”

“Not to mention the rights to any audio and video recordings,” said Celia.

“Again, that would all be covered in the official negotiations of a contract,” Stillson said. “I’m just here to present the idea at the moment.”

“And we’re here to present our minimum requirements for consideration of the offer,” Pauline said. “We can negotiate monetary compensation later, but that all expenses paid thing that Bill is talking about, that is mandatory if we’re going to say yes.”

“Noted,” Stillson said sourly. “Can I assume that you are at least considering the offer?”

“You can assume that,” Jake said. “I still need to talk to Matt and the rest of the band and make sure they’re onboard with this. If they are and if we can come to terms on the money, we’ll be in.”

“Excellent,” Stillson said.

Stillson fought his way back through the crowd of pap and media twenty minutes later, heading back to his office in Hollywood to meet with his partners and give them the good news. Having Intemperance as the headliner for two of the four nights would be lucrative indeed. They were trying to nail down Ozzy Osbourne for the Thursday night headliner and Iron Maiden for Sunday night. If they could do that while Intemp closed the Friday and Saturday night shows, TSF-9 could very well be their highest profit margin gig yet. Between the camping fees, parking fees, concessions, sponsorships, and the ticket revenue itself, Music Alive could easily pull in around a hundred and fifty million dollars of profit. That was certainly worth a drive out to Silver Lake on a Friday afternoon.

Jake, Celia, and Nerdly left a few minutes later. Again, they refused to answer any questions or even acknowledge the vultures gathered on the sidewalk. At least the helicopter had finally gone—probably only to refuel. They climbed into Jake’s truck and headed back to Whiteman Airport, the media vehicles forming up and following them.

“How much longer can this possibly go on?” asked Celia with a sigh as one of the pap cars paced them on the passenger side, a cameraman in the backseat snapping away.

“Forever,” Jake said with a sigh of his own. “Remember, just about the time their interest in you and me starts to fade, it will be time for Laura and me to start being seen together again.”

“It is times like this that I am happy to be the obscure member of the band and the label,” Nerdly said. “In Sharon’s delicate condition I am sure that the constant media attention would prove detrimental to the baby.” Sharon Archer was now almost 36 weeks pregnant and hugely swollen. It was a girl and the two of them had picked out a name but had not shared it with anyone yet.

“I wouldn’t exactly call her delicate, Nerdly,” Celia said. “She’s tough as nails.”

“Her condition is still one of delicacy, however,” Nerdly insisted.

Since Whiteman was a public access airport, the media followed them right onto the grounds. Airport security, however, kept them confined in the GA terminal, refusing to let anyone but Jake and party out onto the tarmac. Jake was forced into their presence when he came inside to file his flight plan home, but everyone else was spared. Jake simply ignored them, pretending they were not there, even when they were all gathered four feet from him, pointing cameras and microphones and demanding a statement. He feigned calm disinterest well, but his heart was beating rapidly and he could feel stress hormones surging through his body when he finally escaped back out the door.

The pap and the media stayed on the ground when the Avanti took off. That did not mean they were free, however. There was another group of them waiting at SLO Regional when they landed twenty-six minutes later. Fortunately, security kept them inside the terminal here as well and, since Jake had no reason to enter the terminal, he did not have to deal with them. He parked the aircraft in his hangar and they all hiked back to the parking area adjacent to the terminal building in a place the vultures did not have access to. Jake and Celia climbed inside Jake’s BMW while Nerdly climbed into his Honda. Jake and Celia were followed. Nerdly was unmolested.

The media stayed at the bottom of the hill in the Johansen turnout. Experience had taught them that Jake and everyone else in the house would not be going back out after returning in the afternoon so their stakeout would likely be brief. They would set up shop again on Monday morning, when it was time for Laura to take Caydee to school and time for Jake to hit the studio. They would also camp out when it was time for Celia to go pick up the Scanlon children from school.

Jake, as always, felt the immediate stress melting away once he was in the privacy of his own home and in the presence of his family. Laura was sitting on the couch in the entertainment room watching some kind of true crime show while she cuddled Cap against her, rocking him gently. Caydee was in the dining room working on her homework. Westin was in the kitchen, working on their dinner (it smelled like some kind of seafood dish) and Sean was putting away the day’s laundry.

Jake and Celia both kissed Caydee, Cap, and Laura. Laura let it be known that she was quite in the mood for a sexual ravishing by her two lovers after the children were put to bed. Celia and Jake both indicated they were not opposed to participation in such an endeavor. The two soon-to-be-divorcees then updated Laura on the meeting they had had with Stillson.

“Next March, huh?” she asked. “Just the two shows?”

“At that point, yes,” Jake said. “If all goes according to plan we’ll be close to finishing up the next Intemp CD by then, but we’ll have to stop any progress around the first of the year to start working up a set to play.”

“And then you just go back to the recording when the TSF is done?” she asked.

“Yep,” Jake said. “Hopefully, we’ll be able to intro two or three of the new tunes during the set, record them and distribute them on the P-to-P networks and generate some advanced publicity for the studio recording.”

Laura nodded thoughtfully. “What about your project, love?” she asked Celia.

“I’ll be able to keep working on it during all of this,” she said. “Rev already told me that he’ll keep his nose in my business while he’s working on Intemp material. We’ll work it out.” She giggled a little. “Wait until the media finds out you’ll be working with me as my sax player again. That will get their little heads spinning.”

“At some point I just hope they get bored with us,” Laura said. “We’re just your average, everyday polyamorous triple. It’s like they’ve never heard of such a thing before.”

Everyone had a little chuckle about this.

“Well, I guess I’d better give Matt and the rest of the boys a call and make sure they’re down with doing the TSF,” Jake said.

“Do you really think any of them won’t be down with it?” Celia asked.

“No, not really,” Jake said. “No one else has anything going except for Nerdly and he’s already said that he’s in. Still, I have to make sure before we go negotiating anything.”

“True,” Laura said. As usual, she was a bit conflicted when Jake was planning to do a project with Matt Tisdale. It was true that such projects brought in a considerable amount of money, but she still did not care much for him and did not particularly like her hubby spending a lot of time with him.

Jake made himself a triple rye on the rocks and carried it into the office. After a brief check of the camera views—all was currently peaceful—he turned to the answering machine, which was blinking away. The indicator said there were fourteen messages waiting for review. That was not surprising. The media had their home number, having ferreted it out long before. They had changed it several times in the past but it was always only a matter of a week or so before they got their slimy little hands on the new number. Their cell phone numbers were much more secure and had never been discovered so they now just kept the ringers on the home phone turned off and let the machine field everything silently. Anyone in their lives who really needed to talk to them knew to call their mobile numbers (and to keep those numbers sacred).

He looked at the log on the machine to see if any of the numbers that had called in the last twenty-four hours were important. None were. They all began with 213 or 323, both of which were the area codes for the Los Angeles area. None of the numbers were in his list of known contacts. That meant that all were likely from media people trying to get comment from anyone in the house. The log also showed that an additional fifteen numbers—again, all with LA area codes—had called but had not left a message. Jake erased everything without listening to a single message. It had been several months now since someone he actually wanted or needed to talk to had called the home number. Even Mama and Papa Valdez knew to call the cell phones.

He picked up the phone and dialed Matt’s number. It rang several times and then an unfamiliar male voice answered. “Tisdale reside,” it said. “How can I help you?”

“Who are you?” Jake asked. “Another butler?” Matt, like Pauline, had recently endured the retirement of his household staff. He was having a problem finding replacements, however. There were plenty of applicants and people willing to give it a shot, but none had lasted more than a few days yet. Something about Matt’s personality seemed to make them decide the money Matt was paying—which was considerable—was not worth it.

“Uh ... yes, sir,” the voice replied. “I am Daryl. Mr. Tisdale’s new house servant. Who may I say is calling?”

“Jake Kingsley,” Jake told him. “Maybe someday I’ll actually meet you, Daryl.”

“Uh ... yes, of course,” Daryl said. A pause, and then: “Are you really Mr. Kingsley?”

“I wouldn’t lie about that.”

“Because if you’re not and I allow you through to talk to Mr. Tisdale, it will upset him greatly. I prefer that Mr. Tisdale not be upset.”