Chapter 9: Lost Wages

September 26, 1996

Las Vegas, Nevada

Jake and his Tsunami Sound Festival band members were all put up in luxury suites at the Caesars Palace Hotel and Casino on the Las Vegas strip courtesy of Music Alive. The members of his crew, however, were not included in the deal. He had twelve people on his crew, all of them people he had worked with before, either as part of Celia’s last tour or in the Intemperance days. It would be they who would do the assembly and tear down of the equipment, run the soundboard during his portion of the show, hand him and the other musicians their instruments when it was time to switch during the performance, and generally make sure that Jake’s performance was all that it should and could be. He could have paid them minimum wage and housed them two to a room in some sleazy off-strip roach motel and they would have been perfectly happy, but Jake believed in treating those who worked for him fairly and generously. He was paying them twenty-five dollars an hour for the time they were actually working on show-related business and had arranged for all of them to have private rooms in the same hotel he was staying in. In addition, he was picking up the tab for all of their meals and had given all of them a thousand dollars in casino credit for drinks and gambling.

The crew had ridden by chartered luxury bus to Las Vegas, leaving at noon and arriving at the hotel at 4:30. Since Jake had arranged for an open bar on the bus, all of them were already hammered by the time they checked into their rooms. As for the band, Phil, Lenny, Ben, Ted, and Natalie all flew to Las Vegas on a 3:05 flight out of Burbank Airport in first-class commercial seats that Music Alive had paid for. Though their time in the airport and in the air was less than two hours, they too managed to get a pretty good head start on their Vegas partying. Jake, Gordon, Pauline (who was doing soprano backup singing for him and was nervous as hell about her first live performance), Obie (who was not performing, but wanted to see Pauline sing) and the Nerdlys (who Jake had recruited to dial in his sound and oversee the multi-track recording of the show which he had negotiated the right to do and exploit as part of his agreement to perform) flew in Jake’s new plane from Whiteman to Henderson Executive Airport just south of the city. Jake was unable to pregame because he was piloting, but his passengers all made good use of the now-stocked bar in the aircraft during the trip.

The six of them rode in a limousine from Henderson to Caesars Palace and checked in at the private, high-roller desk on the second floor just after five o’clock in the afternoon. They were given their room key cards and asked if they would like to sign for casino credit for their gaming enjoyment during their stay.

“Goddamn right I do,” Obie told the young, extremely attractive desk clerk. “I’ll take fifty grand.”

“Me too,” Pauline said—she somehow already had a drink in her hand.

“Put me down for fifty,” Jake said. He was not a big gambler, but, when in Vegas...

“Better put me down for seventy-five to start,” said G. He was a big gambler, and this was not his first trip to the high roller section.

“And what about you, Mr. and Mrs. Archer?” she asked the Nerdlys.

“We will decline the offer,” Nerdly told her.

“Decline?” asked G. “What’s up with that shit, Nerdly? I’ll show you how to shoot some craps.”

“I already know how to do that,” Nerdly said. “And craps does statistically give you the most favorable odds of success of all the various games of chance in the casino, but those odds are still in the favor of the house, which means they will eventually emerge victorious in the contest. Therefore, it is illogical to engage in the activity.”

“Does this guy know how to party, or what?” Jake asked, looking around to try to figure out where Pauline had scored her drink. It was time for him to start pregaming as well.

“I seem to remember a little gambling trip we made back in the day,” Pauline said with a smile. “I do not recall you thinking it illogical then.”

“It was not illogical then,” Nerdly said. “I was playing with Mindy Snow’s money, not my own. I had nothing to lose.”

“Good point,” Pauline said, grimacing a little at hearing Mindy’s name mentioned. She was still getting phone calls from entertainment reporters about Mindy Snow and Greg Oldfellow and Grand Oldfellow and Celia’s thoughts on the matter.

The clerk offered to assign them their own private casino room on the third floor, but they declined on the grounds that none of them planned to spend that much time gambling. She then told them where the exclusive high-roller casino floor—available only to those who signed up for at least thirty thousand in credit or took out thirty thousand in casino chips—could be accessed. They all took note of this information, signed their casino credit agreements, and then headed to the elevators to go check out their rooms.

“I’m heading down to the floor as soon as we get our shit stowed,” Obie said. “Who’s with me?”

“You know I am,” Pauline said. “There’s a roulette table that I’m just itching to feed.”

“Me too,” said Jake. “I’m up for some blackjack and a few alcoholic beverages to start my evening.”

“I’ll be there too,” said G. “I think I’ll start with a little blackjack and then hit up the craps table.”

“What time do you all plan to have dinner?” asked Sharon. “Should we wait for you or just go ourselves?”

“How about around seven?” Jake suggested. “Celia and Laura will get here around nine o’clock or so and I’d like to have my food nice and settled before then—if you know what I mean.”

“Ahh yes,” said Nerdly. “You will obviously want to engage in vigorous marital relations with Laura after going so long without them.”

“Damn right,” Jake said.

“That’s a policy your mother would approve of, Jake,” Obie said with a grin. “Always wait at least an hour after eating before you go in.”

Jake chuckled. He had a little bit of anticipatory stage fright brewing in the back of his mind, but, in general, he was happily anticipating performing tomorrow, was even more happily anticipating the reunion with his wife in a few hours, and was in an overall good mood.

“Are you sure she is going to want to get it on?” Pauline asked. “The two of them are going to be wasted after flying all the way from Poland to Las Vegas after finishing up their last show the night before, not to mention being jetlagged as all hell.”

“I have faith that Laura’s need for satisfaction will outweigh her jetlag and fatigue,” Jake said confidently. “Does seven o’clock dinner work for everyone?”

Everyone agreed that it worked for them. They boarded the elevator and rode up to the top floor together. Fifteen minutes later, Jake, Pauline, Obie, and G all met at the main entrance to the high-roller casino floor. The armed security guard at the entrance scanned their key cards, saw they were allowed inside, and permitted them entry.

The casino floor was maybe three thousand square feet in size, though looked much bigger thanks to the mirrors that lined every wall. Unlike the normal casino floor where the riffraff played, there were only a few slot machines and poker machines here. These were clustered together in one corner and the minimum bet for all of them was ten dollars per play. No one was playing on them at the moment. Most of the room was filled with gaming tables; blackjack, roulette, craps, pai-gow, and baccarat; upon which the minimum bet was five hundred dollars. There were perhaps two dozen gamblers in the room, a few of them musicians who would be playing at the TSF tomorrow or Sunday, most of them older people unknown to Jake. There were no clocks on the walls. There were no windows to the outside. The lighting was uniform and would remain so twenty-four hours every day. There was a light haze of cigarette smoke in the air and the smell of a cigar or two. A trio of scantily clad, extremely attractive cocktail waitresses circulated about between the bar and the customers, serving drinks and enduring without protest the occasional hand stroking their bare legs. All of the tables were staffed by at least one dealer. Two bartenders manned the bar—one an extremely attractive woman, one an extremely attractive man.

“Drinks, first and foremost,” Jake said, making a beeline for the bar.

The rest of his group followed him over. Everyone ordered their drink of choice—Jake went with a captain and coke—and the bartender politely set them up, making no effort to collect payment or even verify their identity. If they were able to enter this room, they were to be given free drinks. That was the rule. Everyone tipped him and then turned to take in the casino floor once again. Pauline found the roulette table and headed over. Jake, G, and Obie wandered until they found an unoccupied blackjack table staffed by an extraordinarily beautiful girl named Yolanda. Yolanda’s nametag declared that she was from El Paso, Texas and she looked young enough that one might question whether or not she could legally work in a casino.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” she greeted as they sat at her table, Obie at first base, Jake at second, Gordon at third. “Can I get you some chips for play?”

“I’ll take twenty for now,” Obie told her.

“Same for me,” Jake said.

“Give me forty,” G directed.

“Very good,” she said. “If you’ll just show me your identification and let me scan your room cards?”

They produced the required documentation. She called out to the pit boss—an older, though still attractive gentleman who looked more than a little prissy—to verify the transaction and then pulled out twenty thousand dollars in chips for Obie and Jake and forty thousand for Gordon. The chips were carefully counted out in view of their recipients, the dealer, the pit boss, and the cameras in the ceiling and, once everyone was satisfied with the count, names were signed and play was able to begin.

“Good luck, gentlemen,” Yolanda told them and then began to shuffle the multideck pile in the shoe.

They placed their bets for the first hand. The minimum bet was five hundred dollars but none of them were that piddly. Obie threw down two thousand-dollar chips. Jake threw down one. G put down three of them.

Yolanda laid down the first hand. Under this table’s rules, the player cards were dealt face-up. Obie had a seventeen. Jake had a fourteen. G had two sevens. Yolanda’s up card was a six of hearts.

“That’s what I like to see,” Obie said, waving his hand over the top of his cards.

Jake did the same, playing the odds that the dealer would break, thus giving him the win by default. G split his hand, putting another three thousand dollars down to cover it. He was given a six on the first seven, which he held, and then an eight on the second. He held that as well.

“All right, let’s see what we got,” Yolanda said cheerfully. Her cheer was likely genuine. After all, it was not her money she could potentially lose here, but the house’s. She got paid the same from the house no matter what the outcome. And if the customers were winning, they often tipped her quite well.

She turned up her hole card. It was a nine, giving her a fifteen. She was required to hit on anything less than seventeen, forbidden from hitting on seventeen or above (unless it was a soft seventeen, made with a six and an ace, in which case she had to hit). She put one more card face-up on the table. It was the queen of spades, giving her a total of twenty-five. She had busted.

“Now that’s the way to start off,” G said happily as Yolanda paid everyone their due from her large cache of chips.

She dealt up the next hand and they settled in and began to play, drinking their drinks and talking of inconsequential things. Jake went on a run in which he could not seem to lose. He increased his bets with each consecutive win and was soon up more than twenty thousand dollars. Obie was just the opposite. He endured a freakishly long streak of being dealt thirteens, fourteens, fifteens, and sixteens in situations where strategy dictated he should hit. And he busted on every single one of them. He was soon down eighteen thousand. G seemed to have found the middle ground. He won about half, lost about half, and stayed within a thousand dollars or so of his original stake. Win or lose, however, they were having a good time basking in male bonding.

“How’s the second Brainwash release coming along?” Obie asked shortly after they were served their third drinks (and shortly after he pulled out another ten thousand in chips). “My moles in my studio tell me they’re finished laying down the tracks.”

“Yeah,” said Jake. “They finished overdubs at the end of August. They’re all back in their classrooms in Providence now. The Nerdlys have been working on the mixing this past month with the techs. It’s not moving very quickly.”

“That’s because you ain’t there to prod the Nerdlys along,” Obie suggested.

Jake nodded. He knew Obie was right. Without him there to draw the lines in the sand, the agonizing over unachievable audio perfection went on and on endlessly. They were still working on the second of ten tunes that would be on the CD. And of the two that had been mixed already, Nerdly still had not signed off that they were actually complete, stating he was planning to go back and give everything a final once-over after all were done. “You speak the truth,” he said. “Nerdly has actually forbidden anyone to so much as enter the studio while he and Sharon are here to help us out with the TSF. Not a single note will be approved without his say-so.”

“Nerdly needs a brake,” Gordon suggested. “And by that, I don’t mean a break, as in a period of rest and relaxation, but a brake, a device to slow something down and/or stop it.”

Jake nodded again. “I’ll be heading up to Oregon next week to assume the position,” he said. “I feel bad enough that I wasn’t there for most of the recording process. I’ve been checking in on the weekends here and there, but I’ve had to devote most of my time to getting ready for the TSF. I haven’t even heard the complete tracks for all their tunes yet. I haven’t been able to shape them as much as I would have liked.”

“They should be okay,” G said. “Brainwash are a talented bunch of squares, that’s for sure—never would have thought I’d say that the first time you told me about them—and the Nerdlys are pains in the asses and ultra-anal, but the end product of anything they work on always comes out clean and fine in the end.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” Jake said.

“But you’re ready to go with the TSF tomorrow?” asked Obie after taking a hit on a twelve and drawing a ten.

“We’re dialed in pretty tight,” Jake said. “I don’t know how we did it with this ragtag bunch I assembled, but everyone stepped up and I think the crowd is going to like what we do.”

“Especially the talk box number,” G said. He looked over at Obie. “Wait ‘til you hear my man Jake wail on that fuckin’ thing.”

“Paulie told me you have a talk box number,” Obie said. “You don’t think that’s kind of seventies?”

“Maybe a little,” Jake admitted, “but the sound of it is iconic and endures. I’ve updated it a bit into the alternative rock genre. I think I pulled it off.”

“His solo on that thing is badass,” G said.

“Where did you put it in?” Obie asked.

“I modified it into my tune I Am High from the second release,” Jake said. “Are you familiar with the piece?”

“Yeah, of course,” Obie said. “I’ve listened to all your CDs many times. They were recorded in my studio and my old lady sings on them, after all. It’s your tune about flying your plane.”

“Right,” Jake said. “Not one of my most popular tunes. Never got any real airplay and I never bothered trying to get it any. Just a deep cut that only people who bought the CD and listened to it a lot would appreciate. Still, a good, simple tune with heartfelt lyrics about my love of being a pilot—with, perhaps, more than a little innuendo about getting stoned. We extended out the solo from thirty-three seconds on the studio version to six minutes twenty live. I’ll do a conventional guitar solo to open it up...”

“The first solo that Jake himself shreds in the set,” G put in.

“You’re not doing all your own solos?” Obie asked, surprised.

“No,” Jake said. “Lenny is doing most of them. He’s a talented guitarist and he’s able to duplicate all of my solos pretty much to perfection. He’s handling most of the lead guitar duties, leaving me to play rhythm and acoustic.”

“Are you still hung up on the comparisons between you and Matt?” Obie asked. “I told you a hundred times, you ain’t got nothing to be ashamed of with your lead skills.”

“I’ve learned to accept that and embrace it,” Jake said. “If nothing else, publicly playing the lead on the tune that G and I did—I Signed That Line—convinced me of that. It’s just that Lenny can play the parts, can play them well, and it’s a lot easier on me as the lead singer to not have to concentrate on the lead guitar parts simultaneously. In the studio, recording those cuts is one thing. Being out on stage and playing them out while trying to sing at the same time is another. Matt can pull it off—and I salute him for that—and I probably could if I had more time to rehearse it up, but things will be much easier, and, I think more entertaining to the crowd, if I remain the secondary guitarist for most of the show.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Obie said.

“Besides,” G said, “that crowd will have no doubt that Jake can shred by the time he gets done laying down High. Even before he puts his mouth on that talk box, they’ll know they’re dealing with talent.”

“I certainly hope so,” Jake said. “Anyway, as I was saying, we’ll start the solo period with me shredding out the studio solo with an extension on it. I’m going to give them the best conventional guitar solo playing I know how to do. Nothing held back. After that, G comes in with a pretty ripping keyboard solo. Once that’s done, I do the talk box solo for another three minutes, running through various tempos and intensities with it.”

“Do you do some talking guitar shit with it?” Obie asked. “Like Frampton?”

“The whole tune is something of a tribute to Frampton’s Do You Feel Like We Do?” Jake said. “So ... yes, I do some talking guitar. Mostly the first line of the chorus hook, which just happens to be the title lyrics.” He sang a little, softly. “I am high... I am high... I am high up in the sky.”

Yolanda, who had been seemingly ignoring their conversation and just dealing, collecting, paying, and occasionally shuffling, looked up at him at this point, pausing in her collection of Jake’s chips (he had just busted hitting on a sixteen while she showed a ten, losing three thousand dollars). “I’m going to be at the festival tomorrow,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” Jake asked.

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ve always been a fan of yours. I can’t wait to hear what you were just talking about.”

“Well, I hope you enjoy it,” Jake said.

“I’m sure I will,” she said with a smile. She then looked at G, who signaled for a hit, got a face card, and busted himself. “Sorry,” she told him apologetically.

“Not your fault, baby,” he said. “Just the way the cards fall.”

“This is true,” she returned. “And I would like you to know, Mr. G, that I’m a big fan of yours as well. I’ve been listening to you since high school.”

“High school, huh?” G said with a grin. “And how long ago was that?”

“I graduated four years ago,” she said.

“You don’t look that old,” G told her.

“Thank you,” she said.

“What time you off shift, baby?” Gordon asked next.

“Eight o’clock,” she said.

“That’ll be right about the time we finish up dinner,” G told her. “Maybe you could meet me for a few drinks and we could get better acquainted.”

Yolanda smiled. “I think I would like that,” she told him.

“All right then,” G said. “How about we meet down on the floor, in that big-ass bar they got down there?”

“I’ll be there,” she told him. She then played out the rest of her hand for the benefit of Obie, who had stood on nineteen. She flipped her up her hole card, which proved to be a queen of hearts, giving her a twenty.

“Well, that sucks,” Obie grumbled, watching another four thousand dollars disappear.

“Sorry,” she said again as she collected his cards and got ready to deal another hand. As they were placing their bets, she looked over at Jake again. “I was just wondering...”

“What’s that?” Jake asked.

“The entertainment shows and the papers have been saying that you and Matt Tisdale are possibly going to take the stage together tomorrow and do some Intemperance tunes. Any truth to that?”

That rumor had, in fact, been floating around for the past month now. Pauline and Matt had both denied it vehemently but still it persisted. “No,” Jake said simply. “There is absolutely no truth to that.”

“Oh,” she said, visibly disappointed. “That’s too bad.”

Meanwhile, less than a mile away at the Mirage Hotel and Casino, Matt Tisdale was in his suite on the top floor, drinking a Jack and Coke. Jerry Stillson, the CEO of Music Alive and the driving force behind the TSF, was not an unintelligent man. He was not up there with Nerdly or even Jake in the smarts department, but he had been wise enough to know that housing Jake Kingsley and Matt Tisdale in separate hotels was in everyone’s best interest.

While Matt’s band and his paramedic were downstairs playing various casino games and losing a good portion of their recent earnings in the process, Matt sat alone. As someone who had always had more money than he knew what to do with (until now anyway), he had never quite understood the appeal of gambling, so he had no real urge to engage in the activity. To him, Vegas was about partying and gash, not about games of chance played for money. And even if he were into gambling, he likely would not have been in the mood. He and the boys had gotten in at nine this morning after a long, overnight flying marathon from Rio de Janeiro to Houston and then from Houston to Las Vegas. He was tired, jetlagged, and out-of-sorts despite the nearly eight hours of sleep he’d gotten since arrival. And, to top it all off, he was now getting some less than welcome news about his financial situation.

“Will you be able to come to Los Angeles for at least a day after your performances?” asked Wesley Brimm, his tax lawyer, shortly after Matt got him on the phone.

“I guess,” Matt said. “What for?”

“I have dozens of documents that need your signature,” Wesley told him. “And there are some aspects of the case that we should really go over in person, instead of on the phone.”

“What kind of aspects?” Matt asked.

“As I said,” Wesley told him, “most are things too complex to go into on the phone, thus the reason I am requesting a personal meeting. But, in any case, I now have preliminary numbers from both the IRS and California Franchise Tax Board as to what you will owe in back taxes, interest, and penalties.”

Matt took a deep breath. “I see,” he said.

“Would you like to hear them?” Wesley asked.

“Yeah, but ... uh ... give me a minute here. I’m going to put the phone down.”

“Uh ... okay, but...”

Matt did not hear the rest of what he said because the phone was now sitting on the bar. After putting the phone down, he picked up his drink and downed the rest of it and dumped the ice out. He then picked up the bottle of Jack Daniels and poured a healthy shot that filled the glass halfway. This, he downed in one slug, feeling the warmth exploding through his body. He took a few deep breaths and then picked up the pipe and the bag of genuine California greenbud he had scored from the hotel’s concierge. He pulled off a healthy pinch, stuffed it into the pipe, put the pipe to his lips, picked up the lighter next to his cigarettes, and then fired up. He took a long healthy rip of the pot, holding the smoke deeply for nearly thirty seconds before blowing it back out. He then repeated the procedure one more time. After this, he pulled a cigarette from the pack and lit that up. He took two healthy drags. Only then did he pick the phone back up and put it to his ear.

“All right,” he said. “I’m properly braced now. Lay it on me.”

Wesley, who was by now used to dealing with Matt, simply laid it on him. “The California FTB has come to the figure of eight million, four hundred and sixteen thousand, two hundred and thirty-four dollars,” he said. “The IRS has come to the figure of twenty-six million, nine hundred twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and eleven dollars. Of course, the interest accrual on both of these amounts will continue to rise at the prime rate the longer you go without paying them.”

“Fuck me,” Matt said, shaking his head. More than thirty-four million dollars! It was worse than he had thought.

“As of this moment in time,” Wesley went on, “your yacht, your helicopter, and your Los Angeles domicile are all in escrow. When escrow closes and funding occurs, that will give you four million, sixty-three thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars to pay toward the debt. In addition, we have firm bids on most of your guitar collection that will add another two hundred and eighteen thousand or so to that amount. And liquidation of some of your stocks, bonds, and certificates of deposit will add another two million, two hundred and twelve thousand to that, although you must remember that you will be responsible for capital gains taxes on the sale of the domicile and the investment gains on the stocks, bonds, and CDs.”

“That still leaves an assload to pay off,” Matt said.

“It does,” Wesley agreed. “And the IRS is already making preparations to garnish your royalty checks, your endorsement income checks, and to start seizing some of your other assets. Are you sure you won’t reconsider your decision not to put your house and property in Mexico up for sale?”

“I’m not selling my Cabo pad!” Matt insisted. “Christ, dude. Don’t you ever have anything good to say?”

“Well ... the income you’ll be receiving from this music festival you’re playing tomorrow will help pay the debt down even more.” He paused. “After taxes are considered, of course.”

“Yeah,” Matt said bitterly. “Of course.”

“And the judge has agreed to not allow the IRS to seize your primary guitar or any of the secondary guitars you use in the actual production or performance of your music.”

“Very fuckin’ big of him,” Matt said.

“It was a her, actually,” Wesley said.

“Whatever,” Matt spat.

“I’m doing the best I can here, Matt,” Wesley said. “You didn’t give me much to work with though. You can’t just not pay taxes on income like yours for four years and not expect any consequences.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I guess I kind of understand that shit now.”

“Is there anything else I can answer for you at this time?” the lawyer asked.

“Naw,” Matt said. “I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll have some shit to ask then.”

“I’ll look forward to the meeting,” Wesley told him. “Does nine o’clock work for you?”

“In the morning?”

“Uh ... yes, in the morning.”

“I don’t do nine o’clock in the fuckin’ morning,” Matt told him. “How about three?”

“Three it is,” Wesley said.

“All right. Book it.”

“There is one thing I would like to ask, Matt,” Wesley said before Matt could hang up.

“What’s that?”

“Now ... I’m not a fan of your music. I told you that before, during our first conversation. I listen primarily to jazz.”

“Yeah? So what? I don’t see that shit as a problem. In fact, I’m not sure I would want a fan of mine working on my fucking legal problems.”

“Right,” Wesley said. “I understand that point of view. I’m not a fan of Jake Kingsley or Intemperance either.”

“What is your fuckin’ point, dude?” Matt asked, more than tired of this conversation, particularly now that Kingsley’s name had been invoked.

“Well, a few of the paralegals that work in my department are fans of yours,” Wesley said.

“Is this about tickets to the TSF?” he asked. “You want to score yourself some paralegal gash and the way to make the deal go down is to give her a couple of VIP tickets to the show? Sure! I can make that shit happen. I’m all about helping my fellow man score some gash. How many you want?”

“Uh ... no, that’s not where I was going with that,” Wesley said.

“It’s not?” he asked, actually a little disappointed.

“No ... but ... well, now that you bring it up, maybe I could find good use for two VIP tickets.”

“Which night?” Matt asked.

“Both, if you can arrange it,” he said.

“They’ll be at will call under your name,” Matt promised. “Now, what were you actually talking about if it wasn’t tickets for gash?”

“I was just going to say that the paralegals were talking about this rumor going around. The one about how you and Jake Kingsley will do some Intemperance material at the show.”