Chapter 2: On the Beach

Venice, California

July 15, 1994

The office of Hopple and Hopple, Certified Public Accountants LLC, was in a nondescript mid-rise office building on South Venice Boulevard near the canals. The window of the fifth-floor office looked out toward the beach five blocks to the west. A steady stream of colorful characters heading to or from that beach made their way past on the sidewalks below. Matt Tisdale did not notice any of them unless a particularly attractive and/or scantily clad female made an appearance. Right now, the majority of his attention was focused on the thirty-four-year-old CPA sitting on the other side of an oak desk.

Andrew Hopple II was that CPA. He looked like a CPA, dressed in a dark power suit with a red tie, his hair cut short and neatly trimmed, his face clean shaven. Matt did not like him much. Andy, as he insisted on being called, was a grinner, which reminded Matt of Greg Gahn, the hypocritical Mormon tour manager. Aside from the grinning, Andy was full of phony ingratiation while simultaneously coming across as insultingly condescending. He would talk down to Matt about his investments and his net-worth and where his income stream was being directed and stored one minute and then start showing him pictures of the strippers in the adult club he (Hopple) had an interest in the next, thinking, quite mistakenly, that Matt would be impressed by them.

Matt had been a client of Hopple and Hopple since 1987, when Pauline Kingsley, who had been his manager at the time, had insisted that he find an accounting firm to take care of his suddenly blooming income from the new Intemperance contract. He had picked the firm pretty much at random back then and had set up his account with Andrew Hopple the Original, Andy’s father, a boring-as-fuck suit-wearing motherfucker who was about as square as the day was long and had no detectible sense of humor. Still, Andrew (one did not call him ‘Andy’, not even his most lucrative client) had been honest, competent, and was able to explain things to Matt (like how he had arrived at the previous quarter’s tax payments) in way that Matt understood. Though Matt had never had the desire to sit down and have a beer with Andrew, he’d trusted the man and appreciated his dedication and loyalty. Alas, the square motherfucker had gone and had himself a major heart attack last year and had decided to retire to Florida or some fucked-up place like that. Though his name was still up on the wall, he had put control of the family firm in the hands of Andy, his first-born child and namesake.

Matt had always disliked Andy and had gone out of his way to avoid the grinning freak when Andrew had been the boss, but now Andy was the one in charge of the Matt Tisdale account. Matt had wanted to sever his relationship with the firm ever since hearing that Andrew the Original was retiring, but he had been out on the road at the time and unable to facilitate the severance of the relationship. And now, though he was home, having returned from the wildly successful solo tour and with an assload of fresh album royalties, tour profits, and endorsement income that needed to be accounted, he still didn’t have the energy to call it quits. It was undoubtedly a pain in the ass to change accounting firms. Files would have to be transferred; a new firm would have to be found. He decided he would at least listen to what this freak had to say before making a major decision like that. True, he was an untrustworthy scumbag, but he did know Matt’s situation better than a new accountant would.

“This one is Electra,” Andy said, showing Matt a couple of polaroid pictures of a skanky bleach-blonde stripper. In the first picture she was naked, standing next to the pole on the stage. The second picture was a close-up of her face. In this shot, her mouth was open and she had a large clump of semen on her tongue, more of it dripping down her face. “We just hired her last month and she packs the house whenever she’s on the bill.”

“Uh huh,” Matt grunted, hardly even looking at the shots.

“Tight fuckin’ body, I’m here to tell you,” the CPA told him. “And in the face shot ... well ... I took that one in my office, right after she got done giving me my weekly commission on her earnings, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Matt said, pushing the photos back across the desk. “Anyway, about my account with you motherfuckers...”

“You should come down to the club with me one of these nights, Matt,” Andy told him, giving him a particularly large, particularly phony grin. “You’ll be my special guest. You can have your pick of the girls for a private lap dance back in one of the rooms. And when you’re my guest at my club, it goes without saying that the lap dance will be very thorough, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Matt said impatiently. “Afraid I’m gonna have to take a pass on that shit though. You see, if there’s one thing I do not have trouble doing, it’s scoring myself some fuckin’ pussy. I don’t need to be in no disgusting, germ-ridden back room with some slut who wasn’t hot enough to make it in legitimate porn.” He paused for a moment, as if considering. “I do appreciate the offer though.”

“Uh ... sure,” Andy said, seemingly hurt by Matt’s refusal. “Keep it in mind though. Our girls are very...”

“Keeping it in mind,” Matt interrupted. “Just don’t hold your fuckin’ breath until I get there. Now, can we talk some business here?”

“Of course,” Andy said. “I just finished up your second quarter report the other night and I double checked everything this morning before you got here.” He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a file folder that had Matt’s name on it. “You’ve done very well for yourself these past two quarters.”

“I know,” Matt said. “My album sold like a motherfucker, still is selling like a motherfucker.”

“You’re not talking out of your ass,” Andy said. “Nine hundred and eighteen thousand copies in the second quarter of 1994, one point four million in the first quarter. My guess is that you will reach triple Platinum before the end of the year.”

“That ain’t no shit,” Matt agreed. “So, what’s the bottom line for the first two quarters here? How much did I pull in and how much am I going to have to give to those fucks at the IRS and the franchise tax board?”

“You pulled in a little more than two point five million in sales royalties for Hard Time, the album, over the first half of the year. You also pulled in around six hundred and eighteen thousand in tour revenue. That includes all revenue contractually paid to you by National Records, which is primarily your share of the ticket sales and the merchandising receipts. That does not include the endorsement income you get from Fender for playing your Strat onstage, or the endorsement you get from Brogan for playing their guitars in the studio.”

“Yes,” Matt said, irritated at his condescending tone. “I understand the fuckin’ endorsement income is separate from royalty and tour income. How much we talking?”

“One point seven million dollars in endorsement income for the first half,” Andy said. “Not bad.”

“Fuck no,” Matt agreed. “They paid me that shit just for doing what I was going to do anyway.”

“The best way to do business,” Andy told him. “In any case, that wraps up revenue from the new album. Revenue from your first album of the contract period—Next Phase—was ... well ... negligible.”

“What do you mean by ‘negligible’?” Matt asked.

“Less than ten thousand in royalties,” Andy said. “Sales of Next Phase did pick up a bit in the first quarter when Hard Times was at the peak of popularity, otherwise you wouldn’t have even had that much.”

Matt shook his head sadly. “People just don’t get what I was doing with Next Phase,” he said.

“Hey,” Andy said, putting the grin back on his face, “I got what you were doing with it, Matt. I always thought it should have sold better.”

“Really?” Matt said, his eyes boring into the accountant’s. “What was I doing with it?”

“Uh ... well ... you know, you were trying to get your music out to the people ... trying to put it down like it is, like it should be. Shit like that.”

“Wow,” Matt said with an eye roll. “That’s fuckin’ profound, Andy. It’s like you were right inside my goddamn brain there. I guess you really do understand me after all.”

“Goddamn right I do, Matt,” Andy said, completely missing the sarcasm.

“Yeah,” Matt said. “Anyway, we were talking about my money?”

“Right,” Andy said. “In addition to the revenue you’ve pulled in for your solo efforts, you’re still pulling in a considerable chunk of change from Intemperance royalties. Between continuing album sales of all Intemperance releases, but particularly Greatest Hits, which sold more than three million copies over the first half, combined with licensing fees when National grants use of one of the tunes for a TV or radio commercial or use in a film, adds up to just a hair under two point eight million dollars.”

“Not bad,” Matt said appreciatively. Though he had been opposed to National releasing that Greatest Hits bullshit (not that his opposition meant a goddamn thing) he had to admit that it was bringing in some serious coin for him.

“Not bad at all,” Andy agreed. “We add in another ninety-six thousand or so for incidental income—things like capital gains on investments, interest income from the various accounts and certificates of deposit your easily liquidated wealth is stored in, and miscellaneous payments for things like compensated media appearances. The bottom line for the first half is about seven point eight million dollars in income.”

“Uh huh,” Matt said. “Sounds like a lot. But how much is going out in taxes?”

“Not as much as you might think,” Andy told him. “Your tax payments for the first quarter were four hundred and eighteen thousand dollars, which has already been paid. Tax payments for the second quarter, which I will be sending out at the end of the week, are four hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars, give or take a few hundred. That means, for the first half of 1994, you will be paying a combined total of eight hundred and fifty thousand dollars in federal and state taxes.”

Matt was not sure he was hearing correctly. “Eight hundred and fifty grand?” he asked. “On seven point eight million in income? Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Andy agreed, grinning happily.

“That’s not very much,” Matt said. “When I was making half that amount on Intemperance alone, your old man was paying out more than twice that in taxes for me. Are you sure you did your math right?”

“Of course I did my math right,” Andy said, insulted at this suggestion. “I stand by my figures. Remember, my name is on those tax documents as well as yours.”

“Not that I’m complaining,” Matt said. “I’m all for keeping as much of my money as I can, but that seems like an awfully low amount for taxes. I don’t want to be getting in trouble with the fuckin’ IRS, you dig?”

“There is nothing to get into trouble about,” Andy assured him.

“Then why did I pay so much more when your old man was figuring this shit out?”

“It’s very simple,” Andy said. “My father was very conservative, very by-the-book. He was too cautious about his accounting practices much of the time and, as such, he did not fully take advantage of the various tax shelters and exemptions that you are entitled to.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” Matt asked.

“It’s very simple,” Andy said. “You don’t live in the United States.”

“What? What the hell are you babbling about? Of course I live in the United States.”

Andy shook his head. “You don’t though,” he said. “Your primary residence is the domicile you own in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Though you are and will remain an American citizen, you currently reside outside the United States and therefore the bulk of your income is not subject to taxation by the IRS or the California franchise tax board.”

Matt stared at the grinning accountant for a moment. “Andy,” he said. “I only spend about two weeks out of the year at my pad down in Cabo. This year I ain’t been there but a few days.”

Andy simply shrugged. “The IRS and the franchise tax board don’t know that. They have no idea how much time you spend there and they have no way to determine that information. That foreign domicile is worth its weight in gold, Matt. It frees you up from the obligation of paying United States and California taxes on your primary income.”

Matt scowled. This sounded way too good to be true. “This shit don’t sound legal to me,” he said.

“It’s a perfectly legitimate loophole in the tax codes,” Andy assured him.

“Then why am I paying any taxes at all?” Matt asked.

“Because, unfortunately, you can’t have it all. All of your Intemperance-based income is still subject to US and California taxation because it stems from a legal agreement—your Intemperance contract with National Records—that was forged and approved before you purchased the home in Cabo San Lucas. Therefore, we cannot claim that living outside the United States relieves you of the taxation burden for that income.”

“Why not?” Matt asked. “The money I make for my solo albums is money that is earned in the United States, isn’t it?”

“Yes, of course,” Andy told him. “But the establishment of that income stream took place after you left the United States for Mexico, therefore it is tax exempt.”

Matt furrowed his brow a bit. “Are you sure about this?” he asked. “Something about this whole deal just doesn’t sound right.”

“I am absolutely sure,” Andy said confidently. “I have a Bachelor’s degree in Business and a Master’s degree in taxation. I know what I’m talking about. You can take that to the bank.”

“All right,” Matt said slowly. “I guess you’re the expert on this shit.”

“That’s right,” Andy told him. “Now, while we’re on the subject of your Intemperance revenue, I feel that I should point out to you that you are missing out on a significant portion of it.”

“What do you mean?” Matt asked. “I’m losing more than just the taxes from those album sales?”

“You are,” Andy said. “Pauline Kingsley is no longer your manager, correct?”

“That’s right,” Matt said. “I don’t have no fuckin’ manager anymore. I don’t need one.”

“I will be the first to agree that you do not need a manager,” he said. “But Ms. Kingsley is still collecting twenty percent of your Intemperance income right off the top. That hardly seems fair since she is no longer representing your interests.”

“Yeah, but she’s the one who negotiated that Intemperance contract for us back in the day. Without her, we never would’ve been able to get in a position where we were actually making money from National. I’d say she earned her twenty percent.”

“Well, of course, back in the day she did,” Andy said. “And it was both required and appropriate for you to compensate her at the rate of twenty percent back then. But what is she doing for you these days?”

“Nothing,” Matt said. “She’s not my manager anymore. But the money I get from Intemperance only exists because of her and, even if I didn’t feel fuckin’ honor-bound to keep giving it to her because she was a badass bitch who got up there and fuckin’ rammed it home to those suits and their lawyers, we signed a contract with her. She was our manager, and she gets to take twenty percent off the top of everything we earned from Balance of Power onward. That’s in writing and I couldn’t change it even if I wanted to.”

“Twenty percent is a lot of money, Matt,” Andy told him. “I appreciate your sense of honor—truly I do—but I think that if I got my legal team looking into this issue there is perhaps a fifty to sixty percent chance we can get a legal ruling that will separate Ms. Kingsley from your Intemperance revenue on the basis that she no longer represents you or your interests. You’ll get to keep everything if that happens. Everything.”

“No,” Matt said without even pausing to consider this suggestion. “I don’t work like that. Pauline may have sold out Darren and helped kill his stupid ass—something I’ll never forgive her for—but she earned that fuckin’ money and I’m not going to try to take it away from her. I’m not like she is, you dig?”

Andy sighed but he nodded. “I dig,” he said. “It was just a suggestion and I’ll drop it.”

“Good,” Matt said.

“Will you at least let me start working on ways to separate Pauline from your Intemperance revenue stream?”

“What do you mean?”

“All of the income you receive from Intemperance-related contracts still comes through her office first before it comes to me.”

“Well ... yeah,” Matt said. “That’s because the entire band as a whole is paid and then she breaks it up into individual royalties. That would be her keeping up with her part of the contract. What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s a potential weak point in the chain of your income,” he explained. “By having that money pass through Pauline first, you are vulnerable to fraud and deceit on her part. She could be skimming off more than her twenty percent.”

The glare returned to Matt’s face. “Do you have any evidence that she is doing something like that?” he asked.

“No, of course not. If I had such evidence, I would have informed you the moment it came to my attention. The problem is that she could be cleverly concealing such skimming and there is no evidence. By removing her from the equation I can guarantee that such a thing is not occurring.”

The glare increased in intensity. “Doesn’t she provide you with all the paperwork and wire transfer shit that itemizes each and every penny of that income?” he asked.

“Yes, she does,” Andy said. “And when I look at them, everything seems to be in order so far. I’m just saying that such documents could easily be forged or altered. I’m not saying she would do it, but it is possible. If we have National just wire your share of the profits directly into your account each quarter instead of sending them to Ms. Kingsley first, we can be absolutely sure that she is not pilfering more than her due.”

Alarm bells and flashing red lights were now going off all over the place in Matt’s brain. Red flags were popping up as well. “Look, dude,” he told the accountant, “I may not have a fucking Master’s degree in taxation. In fact, I only have a high school diploma to my name and I barely managed to score that. Still, I’m not a dumbshit. There’s this thing called ‘checks and balances’, you know what I’m saying? Pauline is part of that system. She makes sure that National Records is not playing games with my Intemperance money and your job is to make sure that Pauline is not playing games with my Intemperance money and, in turn, Pauline is there to make sure that you’re not playing games with my Intemperance money. It’s a system that’s worked pretty fuckin’ well for me over the years, you dig?”

“I dig,” Andy said, “but...”

“No fuckin’ buts,” Matt interrupted. “Pauline may be a sellout bitch that helped kill one of my best friends, but she’s honest. I trust her.”

“I’m not suggesting she’s not trustworthy,” Andy said, “I’m just saying...”

“I trust her a fuck of a lot more than I trust you,” Matt told him. “Even though I ain’t seen her or talked to her in almost five years, I kind of like having her look over my shit before it gets to you. We ain’t changing anything about that.”

“All right then,” Andy said, the grin returning to his face in an instant. “I’ll drop the subject then. We keep things the way they are with the Intemperance income.”

“Goddamn right,” Matt said.

Ten minutes later he was back in his limousine, snorting a few lines of cocaine off a CD case. He congratulated himself for not taking any shit from Andy the Second. You just had to know had to deal with assholes like that.

And the news that he wouldn’t be paying as much in taxes was good to ponder as well.

Shrine Auditorium

Los Angeles, California

July 16, 1994

The hosts of the 1994 Soul Train Music Awards were Patti Labelle, Gladys Knight, and Johnny Gill, all of whom Jake and Laura had had the pleasure of meeting prior to the start of the ceremony. Laura had been quite awed by them, almost to the point of being tongue-tied. Jake, who was more accustomed to meeting legendary musicians, had maintained his calm demeanor but had still felt a little intimidated himself. The greats had actually conversed with him, had actually spoken to him as if he were a peer. It was a very odd sensation.

As guests of Bigg G, who was nominated for the Best Rap Album category for his multi-platinum release Bring It, as well as Song of the Year, for Step Inside, on which Jake had played the acoustic guitar, they had really good seats. Fourth row back, on the center aisle. Gordon and Neesh sat on the aisle itself while Jake and Laura sat next to them. Janet Jackson was sitting on Jake’s right and Toni Braxton was sitting just in front of him. Toni and Laura had actually been chit-chatting with each other during the commercial break periods, their conversation beginning with Laura’s dress, which had been designed by Versace and was quite alluring on her, and then rolling into anecdotes of recording and touring after that.

Jake was not the only white man in the audience, but he was one of the few. If all of them got together, they wouldn’t have been able to field all the positions in a baseball game. Still, he was unintimidated by his minority status, at least in the audience. In a few minutes, however, he was going to step up on that stage with Gordon and the rest of Gordon’s band and they were going to perform Step Inside for the crowd and the national television audience watching the show. Jake would be the only white performer to appear on that stage tonight. That thought was a little nerve wracking.

Gladys Knight handed out the award for Gospel Album of the Year and the members of the group Mississippi Mass Choir made their speeches. The show went to commercial and the gospel singers left the stage, award in hand, to go back to their seats. This was the cue for Jake and Gordon.

“All right,” Gordon said, standing up from his chair and adjusting the bow tie of his tuxedo. “You ready for this shit, white boy?”

“Hell to the yeah,” Jake told him, standing as well and taking a deep breath.

“You’ll do fine, hon,” Laura told him, giving his hand an affectionate squeeze.

Jake laughed. “Since we’re only lip synching what we recorded earlier, it would be really hard to screw it up.”

“There are those who have found a way though,” Gordon said. “Come on. Let’s hit it.”

They hit it, making their way to the front of the auditorium floor and then walking up a set of steps onto the stage. A stagehand and a security guard met them up there and led them back behind the red curtain that was blocking the view of the primary stage where the various acts that were performing had their equipment set up. This part of the stage was divided into two halves so that one act’s gear could be removed and another’s set up while yet another group was performing on the other half of the stage. And since everyone’s performance for this ceremony had been prerecorded the day before so it could be played over the speakers and lip-synched to, there was no need for sound checks, power-ups, echo checks, or even wires to connect the equipment to the sound system.

The rest of the band was already backstage and in position when Gordon and Jake were led in. Rickie Mack, G’s DJ, stood behind a table with three turntables on it. The lead bass player, James Witlock, (who played the acoustic guitar parts for Step Inside when G was out on the road) stood just to the right of him. The two drummers, Evan Jackson and Lucky Powel, had their sets side by side in the rear, and the secondary bass player, Fro Allen was set up back between them. G’s microphone stand, with its dead microphone clipped into it, was at front and center of the stage. Jake had no microphone because he would not be singing, but he knew from rehearsal that his place would be just behind and to the right of G’s microphone stand.

“Here you go, Jake,” said Bobby Core, the lead production manager for entertainment at the ceremony. He held Jake’s Fender Grand Concert guitar in his hands. It had been highly polished with Pledge and smelled of it. There was no cord plugged into its receiver.

“Thanks, Bobby,” Jake told him, taking the instrument and slinging it over his shoulder. He walked over to his position and pulled a pick from the inlay. Instinctively, he strummed the strings a few times, listening to the tuning, before remembering that it didn’t matter if the thing was in tune or not. No one was going to hear it.

“All right,” Bobby told them. “I’ve got twenty-five seconds until we’re back from commercial break. After that, Johnny is going to do the intro for you and the curtain is going to come up. Remember the rule of sham performing. Play like you’re really doing it and keep in synch with the recording. Look into the cameras, particularly the ones in the rear of the venue. Pretend like you’re not pretending. Everyone dig?”

Everyone dug. All of them had been through variations of this before.

“All right,” Bobby said. “Kick some ass, homies!” He then trotted off into the backstage area.

The large clock on the wall in the stage left area clicked down to zero and then began to count back up again. The sound of Johnny Gill’s voice began to boom out of the sound system all around them.

“Notorious rapper Bigg G, known for his hard-hitting lyrics and relevant topics about growing up and living in the inner city as an African-American, decided to go a little experimental on his latest album, Bring It. He hooked up with Jake Kingsley, former lead singer for the heavy metal rock group Intemperance, a man who has more than a little notoriety of his own, if you can dig what I’m saying...” Johnny sniffed loudly a few times, causing the audience to break out into laughter and a little applause.

“Jesus Christ,” Jake said with a laugh of his own, shaking his head.

“Now, aside from having some questionable ideas about where he should be putting his nose,” Gill went on, “Jake is also one of the finest acoustic guitar players to ever put a pick to strings, and Bigg G knew that. So, he recruited him for this next song, a fusion of hip hop and progressive rock that is unlike anything that has ever been done before. This song spent nine weeks at the number one position on the popular music charts, sixteen weeks at number one on the R&B charts, and, incredibly enough, six weeks at number one on the progressive rock charts. It has helped propel Bigg G’s album, Bring It, to triple Platinum status and nomination for the category of Best Rap Album here tonight.

“That song is called Step Inside, and it has been nominated for Song of the Year. Bigg G is here to perform that song for you tonight and he brought along Jake Kingsley to play the acoustic guitar for him. Let’s give them a warm, Soul Train Music Awards welcome.”

Applause rippled across the venue and the curtain before them rose up and disappeared. The spotlights clicked on and Jake found himself staring out into the dimness of a live audience once again. He looked over at Bobby, who was just leaning out of the stage door, out of the view of the audience. Since the song opened with Jake’s guitar picking out the melody, it was Jake who needed to know when to start playing in order for everyone to synch properly.

Bobby counted down from five with his fingers. When the last finger disappeared, Jake began to play. At that same moment in time, the recording began to play the intro as well. The timing matched exactly.

Step Inside was four minutes, nineteen seconds in length on the CD. It was four-fifty-eight on the recording they had done yesterday for this performance, that extra time being taken up by an extension to Jake’s solo and to G and Ricky’s outro. Jake remained firmly rooted to his spot on the stage, his fingers playing the strings to match the recording. G sang into his microphone on the stand for the first verse and then pulled the microphone free and began to wander around the stage for the remainder of the song. Everyone acted as if they were really performing the tune and when it was done, the audience cheered loudly with what seemed genuine appreciation. The seven of them stepped to the front of the stage, linked arms, and took a few bows as the curtain came back down, blocking them once again from view.

Johnny Gill’s voice boomed out once again, telling them when they returned from the commercial break, they were going to announce the winner of the Best R&B/Soul Album Female.

“All right,” G said, nodding in satisfaction. “I guess that’s that then.”

“Yep,” agreed Rickie. He turned to Jake. “Not bad for a white boy,” he told him.

“Thanks,” Jake said. “Can we start drinking now?”