Chapter 22: Under Pressure

Birmingham, Alabama

January 25^, 1996

The Celia Valdez show tonight—the seventeenth of the first leg of the Two Too Much tour—was at the Birmingham-Jefferson Convention Complex, a multi-use center in downtown Birmingham. The coliseum of the complex seated 18,500 for concerts. The venue had been sold out long before and the scalpers were offering nosebleed seat tickets for sale for an average price of two hundred dollars. And people were paying for them.

The limousine carrying Celia and her band pulled up to the loading door of the coliseum at 4:30 PM, local time, two hours before the doors would open for the crowd, three hours before showtime. The caravan of tractor-trailer rigs and crew buses were already parked there. Celia and the band had just finished the show-day ritual of music store visits to sign autographs (two of them) and radio station interviews (two of those as well). Now it was time to disappear into the venue until the show was over and the crowd had gone home.

They got out of the vehicle one by one and headed for the man door, which was guarded by Josh Cantele, one of the tour’s security guys, and a private security guard that worked for the convention complex. Josh greeted them but did not bother introducing anyone to his companion. He then handed them their all-access backstage passes which they all hung around their necks.

“All right,” Josh told the center guard once they were all inside. “I’m going to take them back to the stage so they can start working on the sound check. From this point onward, no one else comes through this door unless they have an all-access hanging around their neck.”

“I understand,” the private guard said, his eyes still looking at Celia in a manner that was half worship, half lust.

Josh led them through the maze of boxes, packing containers, spools of wire, and other flotsam and jetsam related to assembling the show. They went up a brief staircase and through a door and they were in the backstage area. Larry Candid, the tour manager, was talking something over with Dan Baldovino, head of security. Other roadies were moving from place to place, still setting things up. From out on the stage came the sound of distorted guitar chords being cranked out and then chopped followed by voices shouting back and forth about levels. This was the sound of the primary sound check in progress, performed by the crew to initially set the levels of the amps and speakers to match the arena acoustics. The final sound check would be the fine tuning of the individual instruments and microphones done by the band itself.

Larry saw them enter and his eyes lit up. “Hey, troops!” he greeted enthusiastically, as if he had not seen them in months instead of just a few hours before when they had checked into the Sheraton Hotel across the street. “How were the meet and greets?”

“The usual, Larry,” Celia told him, her voice monotone. Though he was an excellent tour manager, Celia really did not like the man personally. He was a sleazebag extraordinaire.

“Good, good,” Larry said. “Glad to hear it. We’re running a little behind schedule here as you can probably see.”

“How far behind schedule?” Celia wanted to know.

“Twenty or thirty minutes,” he told her.

“What happened?” she asked.

“A little engineering issue,” Larry said. “Nothing big. The ceiling supports did not quite match up with what was on the floor plan the venue provided us, so the monkeys had to figure out a different way to hang the lighting scaffolding and run the power lines. They worked it out, but it put us back a bit. And, as you know, we can’t have people working on the stage area while they’re hanging the scaffolding and the lights. It’s a safety issue.”

“I understand,” Celia said, shrugging. At pretty much every venue there was some kind of technical or engineering or electrical issue that needed to be solved.

“Do you want Josh to show you to the dressing rooms while they get the primary done?” asked Dan.

“No,” Celia said. “We’ll just hang out here if we’re not in the way.”

“You’re not in the way,” Larry assured her.

Everyone found a place to sit down amid the clutter and chaos. Laura chose one of the cable spools that had been placed near the stage door. There was another empty spool next to it. Eric, after carefully watching to see where everyone else sat, made his way over to her when nobody else sat on the spool.

“Is it okay if I sit here, Laura?” he asked shyly. He always called her by her Christian name, never Teach.

“Of course it’s okay,” she told him. “You don’t have to ask.”

This was a bizarre concept for him. Eric would no more sit next to someone without asking than he would wear a white polo shirt and khaki shorts. But, now that he was given permission, he grabbed a seat.

They sat in companionable silence for a bit, watching the roadies dash about, watching Dan speak into his portable radio to other members of the team, hearing the guitar and bass chords come drifting in from out on the stage. Finally, Eric told Laura he had something he wanted to ask her, his eyes even more downcast than normal, his voice even more hesitant than normal.

“What is it?” Laura asked kindly.

“Uh ... well ... it’s just that...” A long pause. “Oh ... never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Eric,” she said. “I’m not going to forget you said something. You said you had something to ask. So, ask.”

He shook his head again. “It’s stupid,” he said. “And embarrassing. Forget it.”

“Come on now,” Laura told him gently. “I’m your friend, right?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “You really are.”

“And friends can ask each other anything. Don’t be embarrassed. Just ask me what you need to ask me.”

“Well ... it ... it ... has to do with ... you know ... those people.”

“What people?” she asked.

“The people that ... uh ... Coop and Charlie have meet them backstage ... and then take back to the hotel with them.”

“You mean the groupies?” Laura asked. So far, Coop and Charlie were the only ones in the band who had had any dealings with groupies, but they had those dealings pretty much every night. No one begrudged them of that. This was a music tour, after all.

“Right,” Eric said. “The groupies.”

“What about them?” Laura asked. He’s not going to ask me what Coop and Charlie do with those groupies, is he?

He was not. “Well ... the thing is,” he said, “it’s my understanding that Coop and Charlie ... uh ... ask Dan to bring them back for them.”

“Yes,” Laura said. “It’s called a request and one of the unwritten duties of the head of security of a music tour is to ... uh ... see to it that the requests are filled.”

“I see,” Eric said, finally looking up a little now.

“Does it bother you that they do that?” she asked him. “I mean ... I suppose if you’re not used to how things work on the road that it could be a little shocking.”

“No no,” he said. “It doesn’t bother me at all. What I actually was wondering was ... uh ... if maybe ... you know ... if it wasn’t too much trouble, if Dan would be able to ... uh ... uh...”

He could not quite go on. He did not really need to though. Laura finally started picking up what he was laying down. “Ohhhh,” she said. “You want to know if you can give Dan a request.”

He looked down at the floor again, his face blushing an alarming shade of red, but he nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I was wondering.”

She nodded. “And I assume you’re not talking about a female groupie, right?”

“Uh ... right,” he said. “I really ... uh ... don’t do the whole heterosexual sex thing. I tried it once back in high school.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t ... uh ... you know... perform.”

“Just weren’t into it?”

“I really wanted to be,” he said. “It would have made my parents very happy and lifted a really big burden off of me, but ... no ... I wasn’t into it.”

“So, that’s when you chose to be gay, huh?” Laura asked, deadpan.

Eric looked up at her, his eyes looking into hers for the first time all day. He saw that she was kidding. Currently, the unmovable dogma in conservative and religious circles was that homosexuality was deviant behavior that people chose to engage in, because if one chose to do something like being sexually attracted to one’s own gender, then one was not entitled to a few basic human rights and could even be legally discriminated against in matters of marriage, employment, or even the ability to openly display affection for one’s partner. As if people like Eric would voluntarily choose to be a part of a downtrodden minority just for the sake of rebellion and nonconformity. But Laura did not move in conservative or religious circles much these days. She knew Eric, or Phil, or Dexter, or Z had no more chosen to be gay than she had chosen to have red hair and small boobs.

Eric smiled at her, a rare occurrence indeed. “You had me going for a second there,” he told her.

She smiled back. “I’m like that sometimes,” she said. “Anyway, if you want to get yourself ... you know ... some companionship for after the show, I’m sure Dan can arrange that for you. All you have to do is ask and tell him what you want.” She blushed. “Uh ... at least that’s what I understand.”

“Ask him?” Eric said, his smile disappearing in an instant. “I couldn’t do that.”

“Then how would he know that you have needs to be taken care of?” she asked simply.

He shook his head. “I’ll just forget about it,” he said. “Something will come along eventually.”

“How will something come along?” she wanted to know. “You never talk to anyone, Eric. You have to get over some of your shyness and let people know what you want.”

“I’m trying,” he said (though she had seen no evidence of this), “but Dan is so ... intimidating.”

“Danny’s a great guy,” Laura said.

“He’s so big, so daunting.” He shook his head again. “No. I can’t do it. I wouldn’t be able to get the words out of my mouth.”

Laura nodded, suspecting he was right. “Well ... how about if I ask him for you?” she suggested.

“You ask him?”

“That’s right,” she said. “What are friends for?”

He thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “I guess that could work.”

“All right then,” Laura said, standing up. “Let’s go do it.”

A look of alarm appeared on his face. “Right now? Right here?”

“No time like the present,” she said. “Come on.”

“I have to come with you?” the look of alarm was now approaching panic.

“Yes, you have to come with me,” she said. “I don’t know what kind of ... uh ... companionship you have in mind.”

“Oh ... I guess that makes sense,” he agreed, “but ... well ... couldn’t we just...”

“No,” she said. “Now come on. Let’s go do this thing.”

He reluctantly followed her over to the corner of the stage left area, where Dan was now standing alone, his radio hanging from his belt, watching the entrance that led back toward the loading doors.

“Hey, Danny,” she greeted as they came up to him. “You got a minute?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “What’s up?”

“Well ... Eric here...” She looked and saw he was hovering back out of earshot, staring furiously at the floor. She stepped back and dragged him forward, so he was in the little circle of conversation. “Eric was hoping that maybe you could find him ... you know ... some company for after the show tonight.”

Dan looked at the skinny violinist who he had not passed more than a dozen words with since the tour started. “A request?”

“That’s right,” Laura said. “A request. Do you think you could accommodate him?”

“No problem at all,” Dan said without hesitation. “You’re gay, right, Eric?”

Eric muttered something inaudible.

“What was that?” Dan asked.

“He is gay,” Laura replied for him.

Dan simply nodded, no sign of judgement on his face or in his eyes. “I’m assuming you are requesting a male companion then?”

Eric nodded, making no attempt at speech this time.

“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Dan said. “There’s always a few twinks hanging out with the usual crowd at the selection points.”

“The selection points?” Laura asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “The places where the groupies gather and wait for possible selection. You see, over the years, the system has developed so that full-on habitual groupies, which are defined as women, or men in this case, who will do anything just to be the companion of a famous musician for a night, or even the companion of someone just loosely connected to the group, and who are willing to pay the price to get there, gather in certain places in the venue before, during, and after the show. Near the soundboard is a primary area, but also at the side entrances to the stage and in the loading area outside the rear doors.”

“No kidding?” Laura asked, fascinated by his story. She had never really thought much about how the security guys found the groupies—she had always kind of assumed they just went strolling through the crowd and asking likely looking prospects. She had no idea that there were established staging areas for them, but, now that it was explained, it made sense.

“No kidding,” he assured her matter-of-factly. “Anyway, my point is there’s always a few twinks hanging out on every tour no matter who the band is because lots of times there’s a closeted homo or two in the group—especially in country groups. With your band, however, there’s always been a larger selection of them even though we’ve never actually brought any back.”

“Why?” Laura asked.

“Why have we never brought any back?” Dan said. “Because no one has ever asked for any until tonight.”

“No, I mean, why do we have more of them than other tours,” she clarified.

“Oh ... because of Charlie,” Dan said. “Why else? Remember, he was openly gay for quite a few years before his miraculous epiphany that he’s really hetero. Even though he’s never asked for a guy, the twinks hang onto their hopes.”

“Interesting,” Laura said. “Isn’t that cool, Eric?”

Eric muttered something that was inarticulate but that carried the tone of agreement that yes, that was cool.

“All right then,” Dan said, whipping out a small notebook from his back pocket. There was a cheap ballpoint pen attached to the binding of it. He removed the pen, clicked out the tip, opened the book, and then looked at Eric, preparing to write. “So ... what are we talking here, my friend? I’m going to assume you want a topper?”

Eric nodded.

“Should be easy enough,” Dan said, scratching a note down. “Young, old, blonde, brunette, bald? Gimmee some details here.”

“I ... I want him to be nice,” Eric said softly.

“Nice,” Dan said, writing that down. “I’ll make sure of it. What else?”

“That’s ... uh ... that’s all,” Eric said.

“A nice top-boy, huh? All right. I’ll dig something up, but ... uh ... would you prefer any particular body type, any age, any quirks?”

“No,” Eric said simply. “Just that he be nice.”

“All right then,” Dan said. “I’ll get my people on it.”

Laura smiled. “Thanks, Dan.”

“No problem,” he said. “Part of the job.”

She turned to Eric. “Eric, don’t you want to thank Dan for doing this for you?”

Eric muttered something that might have been a thank you.

“You’re welcome,” Dan said.

They headed back to the spools to resume their seats. They were about halfway there when Laura suddenly stopped. Eric stopped with her and looked at her questioningly.

“Go ahead and sit back down, Eric,” she told him. “I just thought of something else I wanted to ask Danny.”

“Oh ... okay,” Eric said. He resumed his course.

Laura turned and walked back over to the security chief, her stride a little more hesitant now, but determined.

“Something else, Laura?” he asked when she got back over to him.

“Uh ... yeah,” she said softly. “One more request.”

“For whom? Eric?”

“Uh ... no,” she said. “It’ll be ... uh ... for me.”

“For you?” he said, his voice toneless, his eyes, once again, without a hint of judgement.

“That’s right,” she said. “What’s the situation at these selection points of yours with ... uh ... lesbians?”

He did not bat an eye. “We generally have a pretty good showing of the muff-munchers,” he told her. “Most are hoping that Celia swings that way, or if not Celia, maybe you or even Liz.”

“I see,” she said, feeling herself blush. Even though she had done this nine times on the Bobby Z tour, it was still always awkward. “Well ... the fact of the matter is ... uh ... that I have been known to swing that way on occasion.”

“Uh huh,” Dan said with a nod, as if this information did not surprise him a bit. He pulled out his notebook and pen again. “What are we talking here? Lipstick lesbian for you?”

“That’s right,” she said. “Age doesn’t really matter, as long as she’s ... uh ... not illegal or uh ... old enough to be my mother.”

Dan nodded and wrote that down. “Big boobs?” he asked.

“I prefer natural boobs, no matter what the size.”

“You got it,” he said. “Tattoos, piercings, weird dye jobs, excess body hair; any of that a deal breaker?

“Well...” she said, considering, “I wouldn’t want a full body sleeve or anything, and I would prefer no hairy legs or armpits or mustaches, but ... a few tattoos, some piercings, weird hair ... that might actually be interesting.”

He jotted down a few more notes. “I’ll handle this one personally,” he promised.

“Thanks, Danny,” she said shyly.

“Of course, you know that the no-kissing rule will still need to be followed, right?” he asked.

“I understand,” she said, her blush increasing.

“And be sure to remind Eric of the same thing,” Dan added. “Josh will be scoping out his companion for the night, and Josh enjoys accepting payment for letting the twinks back.”

She nodded. “I’ll let him know.”

When Laura returned to the performer lounge following her post-show shower, her request was there, as promised. She was a curvy young woman in her early-twenties, somewhat emo in appearance. Her hair, done up in short pigtails, was lavender in color, matching her sleeveless half-shirt exactly. She had pouty lips and a long, narrow nose. She had multiple piercings in both ears. She had several tattoos on her upper arms and one surrounding her belly button. Her breasts, which were precariously contained by her top, were moderately sized, obviously natural, and obviously without a brassiere encumbering their every jiggle and bounce. She wore a pair of loose-fitting black denim jeans, fastened about her waist by a studded leather belt. Her butt was a little larger than what was considered ideal in Hollywood circles, but quite attractive in Laura’s circles. All in all, she approved of Dan’s selection.

As was customary in such a situation, no one said a thing when Dan brought her over to Laura’s side and introduced her. Coop did raise his brows a bit, however. And Celia flashed a brief, knowing smile at her sax player before going back to her glass of wine and her plate of chicken wings.

Laura’s groupie’s name was Connie; Eric’s was Rich, although neither would remember these handles by tomorrow. Rich and Connie, as well as Lynda and Debbie, Coop and Charlie’s groupies respectively, accompanied the band back to the hotel. While Celia, Liz, and Little Stevie headed for the bar to have a few drinks before retiring, the band members who had groupies headed for the elevator.

There was a bit of a crowd waiting to board the lifts, so everyone was not able to get into the same car. This was fine with Laura, as being in too close of proximity to Coop and Charlie’s requests was kind of creeping her out. Not that Connie would ever be asked to solve any physics equations or anything, but Lynda and Debbie were so airheaded she was amazed they did not have to be reminded to breathe every few seconds.

Shortly after Coop, Charlie, and their ladies of the evening disappeared behind the conveyance doors, another elevator arrived with a ding and an arrow pointing up. Laura and Eric and their dates walked over to it and watched as the doors opened. And who should be inside but Njord, the copilot, undoubtedly heading to the hotel bar to sip on ginger ales with lime and try to pick up on any women who happened to be hanging out there. This was a nightly routine for Njord and, according to Suzie and Celia, he was absolutely shameless in this pursuit. He would play the “I’m Celia Valdez’s pilot” card as his primary opening line and then try to wow whatever woman was in his sights with tales from his time as a bush pilot in Alaska while buying her drink after drink to get her drunk. It was a strategy that actually worked more than it did not, as Njord was a good-looking guy and he could spread the bullshit with the best of them.

“Njord is married, isn’t he?” Laura asked Suzie one evening.

“Fuckin’ A,” she said. “He has two kids and a wife in Seattle. She’s older than him, a manager in a bank or something like that. I’m sure she has no idea what he’s up to when he’s doing his overnights. That’s why this is such a dream assignment for him. He gets to spend three months away from home.”

“He’s a pig,” Laura said, shaking her head.

“He is,” Suzie agreed. “And a pathological liar too. You know all that bullshit he spouts about doing time up in Alaska as a bush pilot?”

“He didn’t really do that?”

“He spent some time up there all right,” Suzie said. “About two months. He couldn’t pass his check-rides, so they let him go.”

This was more than a little alarming of a revelation to Laura. “He didn’t pass his check-rides? You mean ... he’s not a good pilot?”

“He’s actually a really good pilot,” Suzie said, “and I trust him in that regard. It’s just that being a bush pilot in Alaska is like being a Navy Seal or a Green Beret. Only the best can fly up there. You have to be able to routinely fly below the minimals in Alaska because of the height of the mountains and the weather. They get from place to place by going through passes and along river valleys with high terrain on every side and where one little mistake means you’re smeared on a mountainside somewhere and they might not even find your body until the next ice-out. It’s no shame for a pilot not to be able to cut it there, but Nordie is one of those guys who has to exaggerate everything, can’t admit he’s ever failed at anything. Therefore, he was a hardened bush pilot. I suspect that most of the stories he tells are tales that the real bush pilots he met up there told him.”

“Does he know that you know this?” Laura asked.

Suzie shrugged. “If he does, he doesn’t seem to care.”

And now, here was Njord right before her, stepping out of the elevator wearing a pair of dress slacks and a button-up shirt, his mullet neatly styled, his skin reeking of Old Spice cologne. He actually had a pair of wings pinned to his shirt. He really was shameless.

His eyes lit up happily when he saw her. This was usual. He made a point to hit on her pretty much every time he found a reason to speak to her despite the fact that she had shot him down every single time and given him absolutely no encouragement whatsoever. “Hey, Teach,” he greeted, completely ignoring Eric. “Fancy running into you here.”

“Yes,” she said tonelessly, not returning his smile—she never did. “Fancy that.”

His eyes took in the groupie standing next to her and got a little wider. It was obvious that he liked what he was seeing, although, in truth, there were not many human beings between the age of fourteen and sixty he did not like as long as they had a functional vagina. “And who is this lovely lady?” he enquired.

“She’s a friend of mine,” Laura said, feeling awkward again. She would have preferred that Njord had not seen or even known about her companion. “We’re just going up to my room to have a drink or two.”

“Is that a fact?” Njord said, his smile widening. He turned to the groupie. “I’m Njord.” He tapped the wings on his shirt. “I’m Celia Valdez’s pilot.”

“I’m Connie,” Connie said blandly. “Nice to meet you.”

“Well, we’ll be heading up now,” Laura said, stepping toward the elevator.

“Maybe I could join you two up there?” Njord suggested. “Of course, I can’t drink alcohol, but I could sip some ginger ale while I keep a couple of lovely ladies company.”

“Hey now,” Connie said, “I didn’t sign up for any sausage tonight. I paid the price I had to pay, but that’s as far as I swing in that direction.”

Njord was looking at Connie in confusion now, obviously trying to piece together what she was talking about.

Laura was now angry. How dare this sleazeball intrude on her pressure release time! Where did he get off inviting himself up to her room? And hitting on her lesbian groupie! “Njord,” she said slowly, her eyes now boring into him.

“Yeah, Teach?”

“Get the hell away from me right now,” she said.

“Whoa ... hey,” Njord said, holding up his hands in appeasement. “No need to get all hostile here or anything.”

“Get away from me,” she said again. “And furthermore, never attempt to hit on me, flirt with me, or charm me again. Never. In fact, I would prefer it if you don’t even talk to me.”

“Now, listen, Teach,” Njord said. “I think maybe you misunderstood what I...”

“I misunderstood nothing,” Laura said. “Go away. Do not speak to me unless necessary. And do not call me Teach. I am Laura to you. If you hit on me one more time I will start complaining to Celia and to Suzie and I will make every effort I can to have you removed from this flight assignment. I don’t know if I can do it, but I’ll try. And even if that doesn’t work, Jake will be visiting us soon. I don’t think you want to find out what Jake will do if I tell him that you are constantly harassing me.”

This speech seemed to have a sobering effect on the copilot. Whether it was the threat of trying to have him removed or the threat of Jake, Laura was not sure, but it was obvious she had struck a nerve. “All right, all right,” he said, holding up his hands again. “I guess I can see when I’m not wanted. You don’t want me to be friendly to you, that’s fine.”

“Good,” she said.

He turned and resumed his trek toward the bar. Laura heard him mutter “that’s some wicked PMS there,” as he went.

She let this go and turned back to Connie, Eric, and Eric’s groupie (she had already forgotten his name). “Now then,” she said. “Shall we head on up?”

“Yeah,” Connie said, a twinkle in her eye now. “Let’s do that.”

They got into the elevator and rode it up to the top floor, where the suites were. Laura turned right when they exited, Eric turned left.

Laura could not vouch for anyone else, but she had a rather enjoyable evening of pressure release. It was just a shame she couldn’t kiss Connie. Connie had some very pouty lips and Molly and Neesh had both taught her that she rather liked kissing girls.

Jake’s flight landed at LAX just past 3:00 PM on the afternoon of January 27 after the three hour and forty-five-minute trip from New Orleans. He had just spent the last ten days on tour with Gordon and his band, making his special guest appearances for two shows in Dallas, one in San Antonio, two in Houston, and two in the Big Easy itself. Once again, the word of mouth would spread that Jake Kingsley could show up at any Bigg G concert, thus keeping the demand (and the price) for his tickets high. And the fact that Jake was paid three percent of the gross revenue for each show he appeared in (not to mention two percent royalties on all album sales in perpetuity) wasn’t bad either.

Jake traveled light out on tour, so he did not need to go to baggage claim with the other sheep. Outside the terminal building a limousine was waiting for him. Tony was the driver for this mission. Jake greeted him politely—Tony was a good guy he had known for years—and allowed him to stow his carry-on bag with his clothes in it into the trunk.

“Home, Jake?” Tony asked him once they were both settled into their respective seats.

“Well ... the Granada Hill house anyway,” Jake replied. “My home is in Oceano.”

“Sounds good,” Tony said, dropping the gearshift into drive. He pulled smoothly away from the curb and started heading for the airport exit.

They made a little small talk for a few minutes; Jake telling him a few anecdotes from his trip, Tony updating him on his wife and children and slowly growing career apart from limo driving. By the time they got to the freeway, the conversation had petered out.

“I’m gonna close the partition, Tony,” Jake told him. “I need to make a phone call and check in with the boss.”

“Laura?” Tony asked.

Jake chuckled. “The other boss,” he said. “Pauline.”

“Ahhh,” Tony said. “The big boss.”

Jake slid up the partition and then pulled his recently purchased cellular phone out of his back pocket. It was made by Motorola, was a so-called flip phone (one of the latest trends) and had cost him one hundred and twenty-nine dollars, plus the activation fee, and, if he went over the two hundred minutes per month his sixty-nine dollar a month plan allowed, he would be charged twenty-five cents a minute extra. He did not think he was going to be in danger of going over two hundred minutes.