Chapter 5a

Los Angeles, California

September 18, 1987

10:30 AM

Jake sat shirtless in one of the chairs adjacent to the wet bar out on his patio. Sitting on the bar next to him was an ashtray that contained half a dozen cigarette butts and half of a joint he'd lit earlier. There was also a potent rum and coke sitting there — his third of the day even though it was only 10:30 in the morning. Sitting next to the drink was a notebook and a pen he was using to transcribe lyrics from his head onto paper. In his lap was the battered Fender six-string he used to compose music with. He had been working on a new song for more than an hour now, not because he had a deadline to meet but simply because the art of composition was something he enjoyed doing, something that soothed his brain and his soul.

He lit a fresh cigarette, took a few drags off it, and then set it down in the ashtray. He swigged a little more of his latest drink and then picked up the guitar pick. He strummed out the rhythm he'd come up with and then sang the chorus of his song — the first part he'd composed.

She cut me loose, she's out the door

She made it very clear that she don't want me anymore

But I'll survive, I always do

It won't be long, baby, 'til I find somebody new

She cut me loose, she stopped the game

Haven't seen her since, does she curse my very name?

But life goes on, that's what they say

I'll just have another drink and those feelings go away

She cut me loose

He stopped playing and took another drag from his smoke. "It's good," he mumbled. "Maybe a little too good."

The lyrics he was composing were, of course, more than a little autobiographical. It had been just over two weeks since Rachel had thrown the credit card down on the table and walked out the door — had 'cut him loose', as it were. The lyrics were a direct reflection of his thoughts and feelings since then. He hadn't seen her since the break-up, nor had he heard from her. He thought it very likely that she was indeed cursing his very name.

The National Watcher article and photographs had come out four days after Rachel had left. Rachel's only comment to the reporter who'd done the story was "Jake and I are no longer seeing each other and that's all I have to say". Since then various other entertainment tabloids, magazines, and television shows had tried to interview her — no doubt hoping for a lurid story about how she was regularly beaten and raped — but her only quotes had been "no comment", no matter what they asked. So at least she wasn't being vindictive in the manner of Michelle Rourke (formerly Borrows).

Jake had finally allowed Elsa to clean out his closets and remove all of the expensive clothing Rachel had purchased while they were together. Most were being donated to various charities to be re-sold in thrift stores although a few of the outfits Elsa had kept and given to her granddaughter, who was sixteen and about Rachel's size. Seeing the half-empty closet and the empty drawers had helped convince Jake that she really wasn't coming back, that she really didn't 'want him anymore'.

This concept had been something he had been unable to accept at first. He was Jake Kingsley, millionaire, rock god, and famous celebrity. Women did not break up with Jake Kingsley. Jake Kingsley broke up with them. What woman in her right mind would walk away from the lifestyle he'd been providing Rachel with? She had been pissed off about his public indiscretion in Mexico, that was true, but once she got over that she would forgive and then come back, wouldn't she? Wouldn't she?

She didn't. Once Jake came to accept that fact he was forced to do a little self-examination — a post-mortem of the relationship if you will — and he was shocked to discover that Rachel had been right. He had treated her like an employee, he had, in effect, hired himself a girlfriend when he needed that particular service in his life. The most damning evidence of this realization came from the fact that he didn't miss Rachel after she was gone. He missed the companionship she'd represented, he missed having someone to talk to, someone to accompany him the places he wanted to go, someone to sleep in his bed with him at night, but he didn't miss Rachel the person. Any woman could have filled the role of his girlfriend as long as she was nice, attractive, and reasonably good at conversation. If he hadn't found Rachel he would have found someone else.

It was this epiphany that bothered him more than the actual break-up, more than the hole in his life her departure represented. He had treated a woman badly, not on purpose, but that hardly mattered to the woman in question. Jake was blessed, or cursed if you looked at it a different way, with a great deal of empathy for other people. He knew everyone had their own views and perceptions of things and he could usually put himself in their shoes with little effort. Once he did that with Rachel he was actually ashamed of himself and more than a little surprised that she'd put up with his shit for as long as she had.

And so, since the break-up and the loss of the domestic tranquility that had gone with the relationship, Jake had been staying home as much as possible. He started drinking usually before 10:00 AM each morning and kept it up throughout the day. He never became shitfaced drunk, but he maintained a strong buzz that, as his lyrics suggested, made 'those feelings go away'.

He puffed his cigarette again and then strummed out the opening of the song. Now that the chorus was pretty much nailed down it was time to start working on the verses. He was just getting the first line together when Elsa appeared at his side, holding the cordless phone in her hands.

"It's Mr. Tisdale for you, Jake," she said. "He says it is an urgent matter."

"Thanks, Elsa," he said, taking the phone from her. She smiled and then proceeded to empty his ashtray into the garbage can behind the bar (carefully keeping the half joint out of the garbage can — she had learned that Jake didn't like it when she threw perfectly good pot away).

"What's up, Matt?" Jake asked.

"I think we got trouble," Matt said.

"Great," Jake mumbled. "I hate it when people say that to me."

"Yeah, it's a blowjob with broken braces, that's for damn sure."

"All right, lay it on me."

"It's about Darren," Matt said. "I think he might be on the shit again."

"Fuckin' wonderful," Jake said, knowing, of course, that by 'the shit', Matt meant heroin. "And right before we start putting the tour together too. What makes you think that?"

"Ever since we finished the album he hasn't come out of his house for anything," Matt told him. "I've called him half a dozen times these past few weeks trying to get him to go out to the Flamingo or fishing with me and he always says he has something else to do. The last few days, he hasn't even been taking my phone calls at all. Every time I call there I get that asshole Cedric who says Darren ain't feeling good or he's napping or he ain't there, even though I know he is there because I called Buxfield and asked if he'd gotten a limo. Buxfield says Darren hasn't ordered a limo for more than three weeks now."

Jake nodded. "So he's shut himself up in his condo. What else?"

"I went over there today, just so I could see what's up with him. I didn't call first, I just showed up. Fuckin' Cedric wouldn't let me in the house. He said that Darren's sick and not accepting any visitors. I threatened to kick his fucking ass if he didn't let me in but he didn't budge."

"Sick, huh?" Jake asked. "Did he say with what?"

"The flu," Matt said.

"The flu?" Jake said. "Yes, there's certainly a lot of flu going around Los Angeles in September, isn't there?"

"Exactly," Matt said.

"So what are we going to do about this?"

"I think we need to go talk to Crow," Matt suggested. "Cedric's his little spy and you can bet your sacred sack that if Darren's on the horse again Crow knows about it. We need to find out how bad it is and try to get his ass back in rehab before the tour."

"Okay," Jake said. "Should we have Pauline come with us?"

"Yeah. Nerdly too. How about we head down there at about three o'clock today? We'll storm his fuckin' office and lay into him."

"Sounds like a plan," Jake said. "I'll call Pauline and make sure she's there."

"Right," Matt said. "I'll call Nerdly. Three o'clock, the National Records Building. I'll see you there."

Jake hung up the phone and put his guitar up on the bar. It seemed that his creative mood had just been effectively cancelled.

"You can't go in there!" Crow's secretary cried when Jake, Matt, Nerdly, and Pauline came bursting into the office just after three o'clock. "Mr. Crow is in a meeting right now!"

"He can postpone his meeting for a while," Matt said, walking around her desk. "We're his most important band and we need to talk to him."

"No!" the secretary cried. "You don't understand. He's in a very... private meeting."

"Well, it's about to become a public one," Matt said. He grabbed the door handle and threw open the door to Crow's office. Jake, Pauline, and Nerdly were right behind him.

"Holy shit," Jake said as he got a good look at what was going on.

"Oh... my God," Pauline said, wanting to turn her eyes away but unable.

"Maybe we should have knocked first," said Nerdly.

Crow was sitting in his desk chair, just like expected, but the chair had been pushed away from the desk and over by the window. Crow's pants were down around his ankles and a dark haired man was kneeling on the floor between his legs, orally servicing him.

"What in the hell?" Crow grunted at them.

The figure between his legs raised his head up and looked at them, startled, scared. They saw that it was Mikey Garcia — the nineteen-year-old teen heartthrob who was the lead singer of the popular boy-band Urbano, which National had signed the year before.

"I knew you was a fuckin' faggot, Garcia," Matt said, shaking his head in disgust. "What a fuckin' waste. All that teenage poon dying to get a piece of you and all you wanna do is smoke somebody's joystick."

"Uh... this isn't what it looks like," Garcia said.

Jake chuckled. "I said something like that not too long ago," he said. "But it really was what it looked like."

"Should we... uh... let them finish their business?" Pauline asked softly. "I mean, I'm sure we could spare a few..."

"Fuck that," Matt said, stepping forward. He grabbed Garcia by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "Out. We got some serious shit to talk. You can finish him off later."

"Now wait just a minute!" Crow said.

"Out," Matt repeated, pushing the young kid toward the door. Garcia didn't need to be told twice. He fled like the building was on fire.

"How dare you come in here while I'm in a private meeting," Crow said.

"Why don't you pull up your pants, Crow?" Matt told him. "I don't think any of us really wanna look at your shit."

Crow frowned and then reached down and grabbed his pants. He stood and pulled them up, re-covering his equipment.

"You're not even Garcia's A&R guy, are you?" Matt asked. "What do you guys do? Pass him around like a joint?"

"What we do or do not do is not your concern," Crow said, still quite flustered from the interruption. "Now would you mind telling me why you all came busting in here without an appointment, or even a call to say you were coming?"

"Sure," Matt said. "Why don't you grab a seat?"

Crow pushed his chair over to his desk — upon which sat a mirror with a razor blade and a rolled up hundred dollar bill — and sat down. Jake, Matt, Pauline, and Nerdly all grabbed seats at the chairs in front of his desk.

"Now tell me what's going on," Crow said.

"Is Darren back on the heroin?" Matt asked.

Crow licked his lips a little. "Why... uh... would you ask that?"

"Because I strongly suspect that he is," Matt said.

"And what makes you think I would know anything about that?"

"Cut the bullshit, Crow," Matt said menacingly. "You got a fuckin' spy living with him. You know every goddamn thing he does. You know when he takes a fuckin' shit and how much it weighs. So give it up. Is he back on the fuckin' horse, or what?"

Crow sighed. "Yeah," he said. "He's back on it."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," Matt said. "For how long?"

"He started doing it again back in December sometime," Crow said. "He..."

"December?" Matt nearly screamed. "Fucking December? He's been doing heroin for nine fucking months and you haven't told us about it?"

"He had it under control until just a few weeks ago," Crow said.

"Steve," Jake said, "we don't care if he had it under control or not. If you knew he was doing it you should have told us. We could have kept him from getting out of control."

"I'm assuming he's out of control now?" Nerdly asked.

"Yeah, he's out of control now," Crow said. "Look, guys, it really wasn't that big of a deal at first. He started scoring black tar heroin from some lowlife at the Flamingo."

"Black tar heroin?" Pauline asked. "What's that?"

"It's nasty shit that looks like a congealed black booger," Matt said. "It started popping up here a few years ago. They make it in Mexico by just mowing down a poppy field and mashing up the plants into a paste instead of processing them with chemicals and separating the good shit from the bad shit. It's got all kinds of impurities and dirt and grime and germs in it." He glared at Crow. "You didn't think that was a problem? That he was shooting that shit into his veins?"

"He wasn't shooting it into his veins," Crow said. "If he would've been doing that I would've intervened right away. All he was doing was smoking it at night before he went to bed."

"Smoking it?" Nerdly asked. "You can smoke heroin?"

"Black tar you can," Matt said. "It's basically like smoking opium in an opium bar, just not as clean."

"Right," Crow said. "And like I said, he had it under control for the longest time. He'd take a few hits at night and then go to sleep. The next morning he'd be fine. His musical productivity went up — you've all seen that — and he had a much better outlook on things. He stopped being so depressed."

"That's why he was so happy while we were working on the album," Jake said. "It wasn't our little speech on the airplane at all. He was just getting his fix again."

"That's why you didn't tell us," Matt accused. "You didn't want to fuck up productivity on the album."

"No," Crow denied, although he couldn't meet Matt's eyes as he did so. "That's not it at all. I just didn't see it as a problem. He was doing it once a day and not exhibiting any of the signs I associate with a problem. He didn't start shooting it, he didn't start using it before going to the jam sessions or the recording sessions. He was functioning just fine."

"Uh huh," Jake said. "And then what happened?"

"Well," Crow said, "once you were done recording and mixing the album, he suddenly found himself with a lot of time on his hands. He started smoking a lot more of it. Pretty soon he was keeping himself loaded up all day long. And then, about three weeks ago, Cedric started finding syringes in the garbage cans when he cleaned."

"And you still didn't think it was a problem?" Pauline asked. "When were you planning on telling us about this?"

"I was planning on an intervention soon," Crow said. "In fact, I meant to have done it by now. After all, we need to get him into rehab and dried out before the tour. But... well, he's been kind of sick the last few days so I've been putting if off until he gets better."

"Sick?" Jake asked. "What do you mean by that?"

"According to Cedric he's got a really bad case of the flu. It started three or four days ago and just keeps getting worse. He hasn't even been doing the heroin much any more. He's too sick to go out and get any."

Matt and Jake looked at each other. Pauline and Nerdly did the same.

"Has he seen a doctor for this?" Jake asked.

"No," Crow said. "According to Cedric it's just a nasty case of the flu. He'll shake it off in a few days and we'll get him into rehab. A month in there and he'll be clean enough to go on tour. That's probably the best for him if you think about it. He'll come out of rehab right into tour rehearsal. Once you guys head out, he won't have any access to heroin anymore. I'll make sure that Greg doesn't give him any."

Things suddenly became a lot clearer to Jake. "That was your plan all along, wasn't it?" he asked Crow. "Let him be a junkie until about a month before tour rehearsal starts and then stuff him in rehab. By the time he comes out there won't be enough time for him to lapse back."

"Well... it might've crossed my mind," Crow admitted.

"I oughtta twist your fuckin' head off and shit down your neck," Matt said, glaring. He stood up. "Come on," he told Jake, Pauline, and Nerdly. "Let's get over there."

"What are you going to do?" Crow asked.

"We're gonna see how bad off he is for one thing," Matt said. "Call up your little dick-smoking spy and tell him to let us in when we get there."

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Matt?" Crow asked. "I really think we should wait until he's better before we try an intervention."