Different Circles

“I understand,” Jake said.

“I thought you might.”

“That’s the primary reason,” Pauline said. “There’s a secondary reason as well.”

“What’s that?”

“You need musicians for the TSF,” she said. “In that room over there are four musicians, all of whom have played with you before, all of whom are veterans of live performance. If we told them that we would sign them to our label with the stipulation that they assist you with your TSF obligation prior to the recording of their own album, do you think they would agree to that?”

Jake thought about that for a moment and then smiled. “You know, I think they might; especially if we pay them what we were paying them back when we worked up and recorded the first albums.”

“Then you think it’s a good idea?” she asked.

“I’ll have to give them a good listen first,” he said. “I’ll go to their next gig, and I’ll take Nerdly with me. If they’re as good as you think and if Nerdly is onboard, we’ll talk to Celia. If she’s onboard as well ... well, I guess we do some paperwork.”

“All right then,” Pauline said with a smile. “I’ll hold off on telling them about the demo offers until next week.”

“Even if this works out,” Jake said, “I’ll still need a pianist and a violinist and probably a female backing singer for the TSF.”

“I understand,” she said. “And I’m confident we will be able to find such creatures.”

Chapter 3: Taxes, Trolls and Tribulations

Birmingham, United Kingdom

May 12, 1996

It was just past 11:00 PM in the Greenwich Mean Time Zone, which was defined by the planet Earth’s prime meridian. Just over an hour ago, the first of two Matt Tisdale concerts scheduled for Arena Birmingham had concluded. The band and Matt’s tour paramedic, Jim Ramos, had all had their post-performance food, their post-performance bonghits, and their post-performance blowjobs delivered by a gaggle of English groupies. They were now getting ready for some serious partying in Matt’s suite at the Hyatt Regency Hotel in the city center.

Nine groupies had accompanied them back to the hotel for the festivities, every last one of them hot, slutty, and dressed for easy access. Music was playing from the room’s sound system at a level that was undoubtedly disturbing other guests in the vicinity. Liquor was flowing freely from the room’s bar. Three joints were currently being passed around—Matt thought the English weed was pretty shitty compared to what he was used to—and two of the groupies were making out on the sitting room couch for the entertainment of all. Austin was getting a blowjob from the short-haired, punk looking groupie in the Metallica shirt. Matt himself was sitting between two of the groupies on the other couch, crunching up a healthy pile of cocaine on a mirror with his right hand while his left was feeling up the bare inner thigh of the groupie with the leather miniskirt.

The phone began to ring that shrill, rapid double ring that English phones were known for. Matt looked at the phone, which sat on the room’s writing desk, in annoyance. It was probably the manager wanting them to turn the music down. That happened quite frequently. Usually, if they called early enough in the festivities before Matt reached maximum belligerence, he would comply.

“Hey, Jimbo,” he barked at the medic, who was sitting in one of the chairs, his football on the floor next to him, watching the two groupies suck each other’s tongues. “Get that fuckin’ thing, will you?”

“Uh ... yeah, sure,” Jim said, reluctantly dragging his eyes away. “What’s your hotel name again?”

“Norm Worthington,” he said, telling Jim the diminutive of his middle name and the name of the street he had grown up on.

“Right,” Jim said, getting to his feet.

“Tell him we’ll turn the tunes down if he promises not to call up here again,” Matt said.

“Right,” Jim said again, heading over to the writing desk. He picked up the phone. “Norm Worthington’s room.” He listened for a moment. “What? Who?” A pause. “Oh ... hi, how are you?” Another pause. “Yeah ... he’s here. Just a minute.” He turned back to Matt. “It’s Kim.”

“Kim?” Matt asked. “What the fuck does she want?” Kim had never called him while he was on the road before.

“She didn’t tell me,” he said, “but she says it’s very important.”

“All right,” he sighed, wondering what kind of shit was hitting the fan now. “Tell her to hang on a second.”

Jim told her this and put the phone down on the desk. Matt quickly finished crunching up the cocaine and then expertly separated it into six fat rails. He picked up the mirror and then pulled his sterling silver straw from his shirt pocket. He snorted up two of the lines, one for each nostril, and then handed the mirror to the leather mini-skirt groupie.

“Here you go, hon,” he told her. “Fire up.”

She took the mirror and the straw from him. He got up, grabbed his Jack and Coke, and walked over to the desk. He picked up the phone and put it to his ear. “Hey,” he said. “What’s up?”