Chapter 26: Smooth Operator

San Juan Capistrano, California

April 2, 1996

The limousine dropped Matt Tisdale off in front of his house just past two o’clock that afternoon. He stepped out, his battered briefcase in hand, without waiting for Brian, the driver, to open the door for him. He handed Brian a fifty-dollar bill, told him to go get his weenie wet, and then trudged slowly up to the front door. He had been home from the United States portion of the tour for three days now—the last date had been in Buffalo, New York—and he had just returned from his first trip outside his home since then. He was still tired and still a little wasted despite having slept for thirty-nine of the last seventy-two hours. He really wanted a little snort of the white powder right now, but, unfortunately, he still had one more meeting on this day—although this one was at least in his own home—and his rule about imbibing under such circumstances still held.

The house was its usual spotless self when he entered, but none of the servants were currently in residence. Kim was there, however. She was in the living room watching an old episode of Star Trek the Next Generation on television and sipping from a glass of white wine. Her blonde hair was down, and she was wearing a crop top and a pair of loose-fitting cotton shorts that showed a lot of her sexy legs.

“Hey, Mattie,” she greeted as he came into the room and set the briefcase down.

“Hey,” he returned, eyeing her glass of wine. He did not normally drink the shit, but maybe one glass wouldn’t hurt? He had not had any alcohol since about nine o’clock the previous night and he was starting to feel just a little jittery.

“How’s the taxes?” she asked, turning the volume down on the set.

The meeting Matt had just returned from had been with Andrew Hopple II of Hopple and Hopple Accounting. They had gone over Matt’s federal and state tax filings that Hopple had prepared and Matt had signed them.

“Looking good,” he told her. “I pulled in almost eighteen mil last year when you add up all the album royalties, tour revenue, endorsements, and all the merchandising. My best year so far.”

“Not bad,” she said appreciatively. “How much did you pay in taxes?”

“One point five mil,” he said sourly. “Ain’t that some shit?”

This got her attention. “One point five million dollars? Is that all?”

“Yeah, between federal and state, one point five mil. What do you mean ‘is that all?’ That’s an assload.”

“That’s nothing compared to your income,” she said. “I paid half that much in taxes and I only pulled in about three million in income last year.”

“That’s because you got those fucking Jew accountants doing your books for you,” he said. “Their asses are so tight you couldn’t put a fuckin’ Q-tip with lube on it up there. My guy is a fuckin’ sleazeball—and that’s a bold fuckin’ statement coming from someone like me—but he’s pretty good with figuring out loopholes for me. The big one is that I can claim I don’t live in the US because I got a house in Mexico. That means I’m not subject to US taxation on my royalties since the point I bought the house. Also, my boat and everything associated with it is registered in Mexico. I don’t have to pay luxury tax or any of that other bullshit on it.”

Her face scowled a bit. “Are you sure about that?” she asked. “That doesn’t sound legal to me.”

“Hey,” he said with a shrug, “Hopalong Ass-sleaze has been filing my taxes this way for a few years now. So far, everything’s gone through like shit from a goose.”

“It still sounds kind of funny,” she said. “Maybe I can have Adam, the guy who does my taxes, take a look at your paperwork? Just to confirm you’re not playing with fire here?”

“Fuck that shit,” he said. “I don’t want those fucking kikes getting their eyeballs on my financial business. It might give them ideas.”

She sighed, knowing better than to push the issue beyond this point. “All right,” she said. “But I would be wary if I were you.”

“I’m always wary around that asshole Hopple,” he assured her. “Don’t worry. Things are well in hand.”

“You say so,” she said. “What time is that music guy coming over?”

The music guy she was referring to was Jerry Stillson, who used to be head of tour management at National Records. Matt and Jake and the others had banged heads with him a few times back in the early Intemperance days, though only on the telephone, never in person. Stillson was now the head of something called Music Alive and had asked to meet with Matt to discuss “a very lucrative proposition”. After determining that this proposition did not involve Matt performing any Intemperance material or reuniting in any way with any Intemperance member, he agreed to the meeting, but only if it would take place at his home so he did not have to travel.

“He’s supposed to be here at three o’clock,” Matt told her.

“Any idea what he’s after?”

“Not really,” he said. “I know he’s separate from the record companies now and in the business of booking live music for tours. Most of the shit he’s involved with is getting these old broke-dick bands that used to be popular in the seventies and eighties back together so they can tour for money.”

“Cashing in on baby boomer nostalgia, huh?”

“That’s right,” he said. “He’ll sign these guys up and then send them out touring in small venues in small cities across the country, charging sixty or seventy dollars a ticket.”

“I guess that’ll pay the bills,” she said approvingly. “What does he want with you though? You’re not a broke-dick. You’re one of the hottest of commodities right now.”

“I don’t know,” Matt said. “I guess I’ll hear the man out at least. The moment he starts saying shit I don’t want to hear though, he’s out on his ass.” He sat down next to her and put his hand on her upper thigh. “Want to fuck?”

“I do,” she said. “I’m very horny right now.”

“All right then,” he said, running his hand up a little higher.

“But...” she said, pushing it back down, “I want a real fuck, not a quickie. I want to grind out at least two comes from your mouth and two from your cock.”

“No problem, baby,” he said. “I haven’t eaten pussy in a while now. You know I don’t do that shit with groupies.”

“I know you don’t,” she said. “But there’s not enough time for such a fuck before your meeting.”

“Sure, there is,” he assured her. “We got fifty minutes. I’ll just skip the shower afterward.”

“You want to have a meeting with your breath and skin smelling of my pussy?”

“Why not?” he asked. “I’ve done it before.”

She shook her head. “No way, Jose,” she told him. “Just keep it in your pants until the man leaves. We’ll fuck our brains out and then heat up the dinner Louisa made for us.”

“All right,” he said sourly, “but if we’re gonna do it that way, I’ll need a couple of drinks and a few lines of blow before we get started.”

“Understood,” she said. She then reached over and picked up a magazine from the end table. “Here. Check this out.”

He saw it was the latest issue of Smooth Operator. Kim had a permanent, gratis subscription to the publication, as well as to Hustler, Penthouse, and Barely Legal, because she paid for a significant amount of advertising for her company’s videos in these magazines each month. This was the May edition, which, per normal practice, always came out at the beginning of the previous month. The cover showed a very buxom bleach-blonde who looked pretty damn close to that ‘barely legal’ demographic sitting in a bath towel with her legs spread, the towel just covering her nipples and her crotch at either end, an expression that just dripped with ‘I want to fuck’ on her face. Ginny Jacobs was her name, according to the print below her, and she was the ‘Operator of the Month’.

“She’s pretty hot,” Matt opined. “And I’ll probably whack-off to her at some point, but right now I’m saving my load for you.”

“I don’t want you to whack-off with it,” Kim said, continuing to hold the magazine out to him. “Read the part next to the slut on the cover.”

He took the magazine from her and took a closer look at the cover. Sure enough, what he saw there piqued his interest a bit. Under the bold listing of INSIDE THIS EDITION, was a teaser.

THE SEARCH BEARS FRUIT! INTERVIEWS WITH MINDY SNOW’S CONQUESTS!

IT TURNS OUT MINDY IS A STRONG SUPPORTER OF THE WORKING CLASS!

“Ohhhh,” Matt said, smiling a little. “Jerry Claw found some people willing to talk, huh?”

“Several,” she confirmed. “It’s a very interesting read.”

Matt had followed the whole Mindy Snow and Greg Oldfellow saga with lukewarm interest when it first broke, mostly because he couldn’t stand that bitch Celia Valdez. He still held a grudge against her dating back to the Intemperance days and he was also jealous of her recent runaway success. When Condom-Gate began, however, his interest perked up, mostly because he enjoyed watching bitches like Mindy Snow (who he had never fucked, and who had rejected him the one time he had hit on her) get taken down a few notches. And he did feel a certain kinship with Greg Oldfellow. According to the stories, Oldfellow was a man who liked to score his share of gash (nothing wrong with that, it was natural) and who had apparently been roped into knocking the bitch up through conniving and deceit—the exact scenario that was one of Matt’s greatest fears in life.

He opened the magazine to the table of contents and saw that the Mindy Snow story started on page 23. He flipped to that page, pausing only once to admire a few shots in the “Amateurs Show Their Smooth” section (a buxom brunette housewife with huge, floppy tits and a C-section scar—though she was indeed ‘smooth’, per submission requirements—drew most of his attention). On the opening page of the article was a picture of a young, physically fit man in his early twenties. He was not showing his smooth but was instead dressed in a pair of jeans and a work shirt with the name of the company he worked for blurred out.

Stan Colder was the man’s name, according to the article, and he worked for the company that delivered propane to Mindy Snow’s ‘mountainside retreat outside of Hollywood’. His claim was that on his last delivery to her house, which took place on February 6, 1996, just one day before the American Watcher broke the story of Mindy’s pregnancy, Mindy had invited him into her house and flat out asked him to fuck her.

“Had you ever met Mindy Snow before that day?” he was asked.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t even know that was her house. I was very surprised when she came out and started talking to me.”

“Did she mention why she chose that particular moment to introduce herself to you?”

“She said she was horny as hell and needed a good fuck and wanted to know if I could provide her with one.”

“And you did?”

“Hell yes, I did,” Colder said. “This was Mindy Snow. Who is going to turn something like that down?”

What followed was a clarification that Smooth Operator investigative reporters were able to verify that Colder worked for the company he claimed, that his route did indeed service Mindy Snow’s publicly recorded address, that he had been on duty on the day in question, and that Mindy’s domicile did receive a propane delivery on that day. There was then a disclaimer that they could not actually verify Colder’s story was true, but they had enough corroborating information to print it. That being said, the rest of this section of the article was a fairly graphic description of the sex itself—graphic enough that Matt sprung a respectable semi just reading it. Colder alleged that Mindy took him immediately to the bedroom, stripped off her clothing, and ordered him to start squeezing her tits. He did so with pleasure, finding them the most squeezable tits he had ever had the pleasure of handling. After a few minutes of that, she pulled him down onto his knees in front of her bed, grabbed him by the hair, and pulled his face into her crotch, demanding he eat her pussy out. She gave him very explicit directions about how to perform this act, dictating every move he made, how long he made it, and what amount of pressure he made it with.

“And then she told me to stick my finger up her ass and finger fuck it while I ate her,” Colder said at this point in the story. “I did it, and that’s what set her off. She came really fast after that.”

Following the orgasm, Mindy pulled him to his feet. She then got on her hands and knees on the bed and told him to fuck her. He readily agreed to this plan and dropped his pants, not bothering to take off his work boots or his shirt. Before he could make entry, however, Mindy handed him a condom in a wrapper.

“Put this on first,” she ordered.

“So, Mindy provided you with the condom?” he was asked, just for clarity.

“Of course,” Colder said. “I don’t carry condoms around with me at work. Why would I? Despite all the porno movies that make it seem commonplace, shit like this never happens to guys like me. Not even with normal chicks.”

He then went on to describe a frantic, aerobic exercise level sexual encounter in the rear-entry position while Mindy continuously exhorted him to spank her ass, to stick his fingers in her asshole, and to ‘fuck me like you hate me’.

When it was over, she told him to throw the rubber away and get out. He did so, still wondering if he was in the middle of a wet dream or something, but Mindy did give him a little something to remember her by. It was a pair of slinky red panties. There was a picture of them in the magazine. The picture showed the crotch of them, which was slightly discolored. There was a quote from Colder that he could still smell Mindy’s essence on the panties when he sniffed them.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Matt whispered when he finished the first section of the article. There were two more sections to go, each an interview with another man that Mindy had allegedly had a brief, anonymous fuck with.

Matt saw that the story was to pick up on page 44. He started to flip through to read the rest but got distracted again, this time by the pictures of Ginny Jacobs. She was as smooth as a baby’s butt and oiled as well. He decided to peruse the shots for a few minutes and got lost in them. By the time he finally made it through the section, it was 2:55 PM, only five minutes until his guest was to arrive. He put the magazine aside until later.

The doorbell rang at 2:59. Matt’s hard-on had retreated by that point (mostly anyway) and he went to answer the door. Standing on his porch was a man in his mid-forties, smoothly bald, wearing a grey business suit and carrying a briefcase. He had an earring in his left ear and a pair of dark sunglasses covering his eyes. It was Jerry Stillson, presumably. He smiled when he saw Matt standing there, a good old-fashioned used car salesman grin.

“Matt!” he greeted, as if they were long estranged friends reunited at last. “It’s good to see you again!”

Matt was unamused. One of the things he and Jake Kingsley held in common was a deep hatred and mistrust of phoniness. “This is the first time you’ve ever seen me,” Matt reminded him. “We’ve only talked on the phone before.”

“Well ... yeah, it’s only an expression,” Stillson said. “I feel like I’ve met you before. After all, it was me and my team who put together all those Intemperance concerts back before you and the boys ... well ... you know ... assumed control of that responsibility yourselves.”

“Before we renegotiated that shitty contract we signed in the beginning, you mean,” Matt said. “The one where you were able to force us to wear leather fuckin’ pants on a stage blazing with more light and more heat than the fuckin’ sun while a bunch of lasers shot over our heads and explosives went off blowing our fucking bass player into the audience.”

“Uh ... yeah, exactly,” Stillson said, his smile now faded into nothingness, his expression turning troubled. “Listen, Matt. Maybe we’re getting off on the wrong foot here.”

“We got off on the wrong foot the first time you called me up and told me I would be in breach of contract if I insisted on playing my Strat onstage. You remember that conversation?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I remember it.”

“And then you went whining to Acardio and Doolittle like a little bitch when I told you to go ahead and breach me.”

“Well ... uh ... yeah, I suppose. Water under the bridge now though, right?”

“I’m still playing that Strat onstage,” Matt told him. “I have never stepped out to perform in front of an audience without that Strat in my hands. Not even once.”

“Yes!” Stillson said, the smile returning. “I know! I was totally wrong on that issue. I admit that freely now. Your Strat has become an icon, an integral part of your story. There are actually urban legends about it.”

“Yeah,” Matt said sourly. “I’ve heard them.” And he had. The most popular and widespread of these legends was that Matt’s Strat was somehow enchanted (probably by Satan Himself and probably because Matt had sold his soul to Satan, but this was open to debate) and that it was, in fact, the only guitar he could play. If he were to put his fingers on any other guitar, he would not even know how to make a G-chord, let alone rip out a riff or a solo. And, subsequently, anyone else who tried to play the Strat, no matter how proficient and talented at the instrument, would be unable to grind out even a single note with it. This story greatly offended Matt, not just because it was ridiculous bullshit and there were people in the world who were moronic enough to actually believe it, but because it implied his talent was artificial and not the result of thousands of hours of practicing and perfecting the art of playing the instrument back in his adolescence and early adulthood.

“Anyway, you and your Strat are the reason I’m here today,” Stillson said. “I have a very lucrative proposal to make, as I mentioned when I set up this meeting. Will you allow me to come in and explain it to you?”

Matt stared at him for a moment and then shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said with a certain reluctance. He stood aside to allow the man to enter his home.

Stillson did not take off his shades once inside. Matt did not give the man anything resembling a tour of the home. He led him through the entryway, through the entertainment room (without offering any refreshments), through the living room (without bothering to introduce him to Kim, who was still watching TNG, although by this point it was a different episode) and into his composing room, which was windowless, soundproofed, cluttered, and smelled of marijuana. He waved him to one of the chairs near his desk, upon which sat a bong full of dirty, foul smelling water, and a paper plate with crumbles of marijuana bud still speckled across it.

Matt sat down in his own chair behind the desk. He burped, farted, and then turned to his guest. “All right then,” he said. “What’s all this about? Give me the details.”

“Uh ... sure,” Stillson said, still trying to get used to the surroundings. “Right to the point. I like that. However, I did bring some rather fine uncut Peruvian flake with me. I’ve heard you enjoy a little blast now and then. Perhaps I could line us up a few rails to break the ice?”

“Naw,” Matt said. “I don’t use anything that alters the mind before or during a meeting. I’ve found, over the years, it’s the best way to deal with you weasels.”

“Oh...” Stillson said slowly, taken aback. “I see.”

“Good,” Matt said. “Now, what’s the deal?”

Stillson took a few moments to compose himself—it was obvious that this meeting was not starting off as he had envisioned—and then started to lay it out. “It’s like this,” he said. “As I told you on the phone, I’m now the CEO and lead investor in a venture called Music Alive. What we do is put on concert tours for profit of our organization and the artists involved.”

“Yeah, I know,” Matt said. “You get these has-been bands back together and send them out on tours to cash in on baby boomer nostalgia so you can separate the more successful boomers from their income. It’s a good business plan, honestly. I kind of wish I would have thought of it first. Kudos to you for having an idea.”

“Thank you,” Stillson said.

“Now tell me what this has to do with me,” Matt said. “I’m not a has-been and the boomers ain’t really into me anyway. I’m a generation-X icon and I’m already committed to a European, Asian, South American tour for National anyway.”

“I am aware of your tour dates,” Stillson said. “I touched bases with Crow over at National and he gave me the schedule, as well as your contact information.”

“How fuckin’ nice of him,” Matt grunted.

“And it’s not the baby boomers I’m after with the proposal I’m about to make. The gen-X crowd are now mature enough to have a fair amount of disposable income of their own. That is why you and Celia Valdez and Alanis Morrisette and Collective Soul are able to sell performance tickets at fifty to a hundred dollars a seat. It really is a great time to be in this business.”

“True,” Matt had to agree. “I just went over my taxes today and a good portion of my income comes from touring revenue.”

“Exactly,” Stillson said. “And so, with that in mind, I’m organizing a two-day event that we’re calling the Tsunami Sound Festival. It will be on September 28 and 29, a Saturday and Sunday respectively, just outside of Indian Springs.”

“Where the fuck is Indian Springs?” Matt asked.

“In the Mojave Desert forty miles north of Las Vegas,” he said. “We’re building an amphitheater with two stages there on a piece of BLM land we have leased. The venue, when complete, will be capable of holding one hundred thousand fans.”

“One hundred thousand?” Matt asked incredulously.

“That is correct,” Stillson said. “And with the lineup I’m developing for the event, I am anticipating sales of at least ninety thousand tickets per day. These tickets will cost a minimum of ninety dollars per seat for general admission and up to three hundred a ticket for assigned seating near the stages.”

Matt whistled appreciatively. “That’s a lot of coin,” he said, “assuming that you can actually pull this shit off.”

“I am confident we can pull it off,” Stillson assured him. “But even if we can’t, there is no risk to you. I want you to be the headliner on both nights. For this, I will offer you a flat fee of one point three million dollars, guaranteed payable as long as you show up and perform, regardless of whether or not anyone even buys a ticket.”

“A million three, huh?” Matt said, pondering that. That was a very respectable payday for just two shows. “And that is not dependent on me doing any Intemperance material?”

“We don’t want any Intemperance material in the show,” Stillson said. “National Records would charge us too much for the performance rights—if they would even grant them at all. We just want original Matt Tisdale material. The set you’re doing now would be perfectly fine. National has already agreed to grant permission for your performance.”

“Out of the kindness of their hearts?” Matt asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, right,” Stillson grunted. “Two grand per song is what they want, and that is for each performance, payable upon agreement and irrespective of whether you actually perform or not.”

“That’s pretty cutthroat,” Matt said, doing some quick mental arithmetic. His set was eighteen songs, which equaled thirty-six grand times two shows for a total of seventy-two big just for signing a paper giving this weasel permission to have Matt perform his own music. What a fucking scam.

“As I said,” Stillson went on, “Crow gave me your tour schedule. On the dates in question, you will be on break between the last of the Asia shows and the first of the South American shows. You’ll likely just be kicking it somewhere and waiting for your equipment to be shipped across the ocean.”

“That sounds about right,” he said. And then something occurred to him. “How am I supposed to perform at this tidal wave gig of yours if our equipment is on a fuckin’ ship somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean?”

“The Tsunami Sound Festival,” Stillson corrected. “And, obviously, we will have to rent equipment for you; microphones, amps, effects pedals, a drum set, all of the cabling and electrical. We will foot the bill for this.”

“I’m not playing without my Strat,” Matt warned.

“We wouldn’t want you to,” Stillson assured him. “As I said, it’s an icon, a part of who you are as a performer. The solution to this, however, is quite simple: You just don’t put the Strat on the ship with the rest of your gear. Bring it with you as checked baggage and travel to the festival with it. Your bass player and your secondary guitarist can do the same if they wish. If they do not wish, we’ll rent guitars for them along with everything else.”

“Yeah ... I guess that makes sense,” Matt allowed. “What about travel expenses and lodging and all that shit?”

“We will cover it all,” Stillson promised. “First class air from wherever you are staying to Las Vegas. Suites for you and all your people in one of the hotels on the strip. Private luxury limousine travel to and from the venue. First class air back to wherever you want to go once the festival is over.”

“Sounds good,” Matt said. “Be sure the limo is big enough for at least six groupies to ride back to the hotel with us.”

“Naturally,” Stillson agreed.

“All right then,” Matt said. “And what about paying my band members? Are you going to cover that as well?”

“No,” Stillson said simply. “We will pay for travel and lodging and meals for your band members, but you will be expected to pay them whatever rate you settle on out of the compensation we are giving you for the performances.”

“I see,” Matt said slowly. “That’s kind of a rip.”

“Sorry,” Stillson said, sounding anything but, “but we are compensating you rather well for your performances.”

“True, but I want my guys to have a decent piece of this action. After all, this will be an interruption to one of our extended breaks. If I have to pay them out of my own pocket, I’ll need a little more coin in that pocket before I sign on the line.”

“How much more?” Stillson asked warily.

“Let’s make it an even one point five mil,” Matt suggested.

“I’m sorry,” Stillson said, shaking his head. “I can’t go that high. How about one point three five?”

“Not enough,” Matt said. “How about one point four? That’ll give me an even hundred big to lay on my guys for two days of work. That’s thirty-three grand apiece. I think they’ll go for that shit.”

Stillson sighed. “I really should check with the other investors first, but ... what the hell. One point four million it is. Do we have a deal?”

“We’re getting there,” Matt said, smiling. “Just one more question. Who else is going to be at this gig? How many bands do you have lined up?”

“We’re still working on the final lineup,” he said, “but there will be at least eight different acts on each day. You will be the headliner for both nights; I guarantee that, and it will be in writing on the contract.”

“I would expect so,” Matt said. “But you didn’t answer my question. Who else is onboard at this point?”

“So far, we have commitments from Alice in Chains, Dreamline, Backyard Dirt, David Gross, Seavey Circle, Hole, and The Dave Matthews Band. Lisa Loeb, No Doubt, Pantera, and Linda Perry are all considering.” He did not mention one other performer who was also considering, knowing that it would likely be a deal breaker. He would let Matt know about that particular performer after he signed the contract.

Matt nodded in appreciation at most of the acts, grimaced at a few, but was satisfied. “All right then,” he said. “I guess you can count me in as long as the terms you just laid down are in the final contract and you don’t try to slip any bullshit in on me.”

“We will slip in no bullshit,” Stillson promised. “The contract will be in plain English. That’s how we do things at Music Alive.”

“Uh huh,” Matt said skeptically. “I’ll believe it when I see it. For now though, we have a deal.”

Stillson smiled. “Welcome aboard,” he said, holding out his hand.

Matt shook with him. “Now then,” he said after. “You said something about some Peruvian flake earlier?”

“Indeed, I did,” he said, smiling.

“Let’s take it in the entertainment room and line up then,” Matt suggested. “You crunch it and I’ll make us a couple of drinks.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Stillson told him.

Two evenings later, Jake flew his plane from Oceano to Whiteman airport in the San Fernando Valley. Laura was with him. She, along with Celia and the rest of the band, were on tour break for three weeks between the first and second legs of the North American tour. They had arrived back in LA the day before Matt had his meeting with Stillson. Jake had picked up Laura from the airport and driven her to Whiteman. They had flown home shortly after that and had spent most of the ensuing two days either in bed or lounging around in their sweatpants and t-shirts.