Different Circles

“Indeed, it is,” the agent agreed.

“Does him ripping me off get me off the hook for all those taxes I owe?” he asked next.

“No,” the agent said simply. “You will still be required to pay your back taxes. My understanding is that the IRS is already opening up their own audit on this situation.”

“That sucks rocks,” Matt said sourly.

“Indeed, it does,” the agent agreed once again.

And so, on June 16^th, after returning from the second show in Bremen, Matt made a phone call to a number in southern California. It was time to swallow a little more pride.

“Matt?” asked a used-car salesman voice when Matt finally managed to get him on the line.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Matt told Jerry Stillson of Music Alive Incorporated. “I’m calling about the fuckin’ Tsunami Sound Festival.”

“Have you changed your mind?” Stillson asked plainly. “Because we are still committed to having Jake Kingsley be the second-to-last act on both dates.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I’ve changed my fuckin’ mind. I’ll be there.”

“I’m really glad to hear that, Matt!” Stillson gushed. “I mean that most sincere.”

“Just keep fuckin’ Kingsley away from me, both at the venue and the hotel. You understand?”

“I understand,” Stillson said. “We’ll do everything in our power.”

Chapter 6: I Just Wanna Fly

Bogota, Colombia

July 1, 1996

“There’s our ride,” Jake told Laura as they stepped out of the international terminal of El Dorado International Airport after their five-hour flight from DFW. The loading and unloading area was very crowded, with taxicabs, a few limousines, and large SUV vehicles all vying for the limited parking spaces. Skycaps, passengers, and family and friends were everywhere, mostly speaking Spanish, but some speaking English or Portuguese.

Laura looked where he was pointing and saw a man in dress slacks and a white shirt holding up a sign with their names on it. He was standing next to a black SUV. “No limousine?” she asked, a little breathless from the elevation, which was actually three hundred feet higher than the aircraft they had flown on had been pressurized to.

“I learned a thing or two the last time I was here,” Jake said.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well ... uh ... it was suggested to me by the hotel staff and by Mr. Gomez himself that riding around in a limousine in Bogota is not a real good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Uh ... well ... Bogota is known for being the ... uh ... the kidnapping capital of the world.”

“Kidnapping?” she asked, her eyes widening.

“Yeah, you know, for ransom. Apparently, it’s a very lucrative business model that contributes considerably to the local economy. Anyway, riding around in a shiny-ass limo is apparently the equivalent of holding up a sign that says: ‘I’m a rich motherfucker, please kidnap me for ransom.’”

This information did not serve to comfort his wife. “Sweetie, are we safe here?”

He shrugged. “Almost as safe as we would be in Detroit or Baltimore,” he said.

“That does not make me feel better,” she said. She had been to both of those places, after all.

“We’ll be fine,” he assured her. “The guy picking us up works for the hotel and we’ll use him anytime we need to go anywhere. Besides, we’re not going to be here very long.”

Their driver’s English was heavily accented, but at least he spoke it. His name was Jorge, pronounced ‘Hore-hey’. He loaded their luggage into the back of the SUV and then held the doors open for them to climb into the back.

“Would you like to go to the hotel, Señor Kingsley?” he asked once he was behind the wheel.

He and Laura had talked about this on the plane. They were here to take possession of their new aircraft, which had closed escrow as of the opening of business hours Bogota time today. Though they did not plan to actually start the long journey home until tomorrow, both wanted to lay their eyes and hands on the plane as soon as possible.

“Actually,” Jake told the driver, “can you take us to Guaymaral Airport? Just for a few minutes?”

“As you wish, Señor,” he replied politely.

The ride to Guaymaral took about forty-five minutes, which brought them there just before sunset. Jorge said little during the trip, just drove and listened to a pop music station. All of the songs they played were in Spanish except for one: Celia Valdez’s latest release, Wounded Love, a moderately hard rocker that had a lot of Jake Kingsley on the distorted electric. Jorge made no mention of the tune, though he did sing along with the choruses.

He parked in front of the airport services building and opened the doors to let them out. They walked inside, finding the usual collection of pilots and their companions sitting at the desks and putting together their flight plans. Jake and Laura walked up to the counter and explained to the early twenties, limited English-speaking female who staffed it that they were here to take official possession of their new plane that was parked in Señor Gomez’s personal hangar.