The limo's interior was clean, plush, and dimly lit, fitted with leather couch-like seating that wrapped around the cabin in a smooth curve. At the rear, reclining like he owned the damn world, sat a man in his forties. He wore a black suit and tie, his brown hair professionally styled, a pair of Vuarnet sunglasses covering his eyes despite the late hour. A bottle of Chivas Regal sat on the table in front of him, alongside a heavy glass full of ice and amber liquid.
"Gentlemen," he said, his voice smooth and cultured. "Get comfortable, please."
Matt and Jake exchanged a quick glance. Then, one after the other, they sank into the surprisingly comfortable seats along the side wall. Behind them, the door shut with a solid thump, Trina left outside.
"My name is Ronald Shaver," the man said, extending his hand to Jake. "You're Jake Kingsley, correct?"
"Yes," Jake said, shaking his hand.
Shaver turned to Matt. "And you're the venerable Mr. Tisdale, are you not?"
"Yeah," Matt said. "I am."
Shaver took a slow sip of his drink. He didn't offer them any. "I received your demo tape and resume last week, Mr. Tisdale," he said. "Didn't expect much. Honestly, I only opened it because a meeting cancelled and I had time to kill. But I did give it a listen."
"Did you like it?" Matt asked, leaning forward.
Shaver frowned slightly. "Terrible quality. Garage recording?"
"Something like that," Matt admitted. Bill had wired up their gear in his garage, fed everything through the soundboard into a pile of cassette recorders, and somehow managed to mix it into a halfway decent master.
"Thought so," Shaver said. "But even with the lousy sound, the music itself... wasn't awful. You've got a passable voice, Mr. Kingsley. And you, Mr. Tisdale, clearly know your way around a guitar. That piano player of yours adds something odd to the mix too. Not unpleasant. It was enough to keep me listening longer than I normally would."
He reached for another sip. "Seems you've built quite the little following in this... town."
"We're the most popular band in Heritage," Matt said proudly. "We sell out every show."
"Sure," Shaver said, shrugging. "But that's like being the best Chinese restaurant in Pocatello, Idaho. It doesn't exactly set the world on fire. Now, if you were the top spot in Beijing, that'd be something. You see the difference?"
Jake and Matt shared another glance, not sure if they'd been praised or insulted.
"Uh... look, Mr. Shaver—" Matt started.
"So anyway," Shaver cut in, waving him off. "After that, I tossed your tape in the trash. That's further than most unsolicited demos get, by the way. Forgot all about it. Then today, I'm in town on business, flipping through your joke of a local newspaper, and there you are. Big write-up in the entertainment section. No real competition in this town, so I figured why not drag my secretary out and see if you were any good live."
He took another drink, then nodded. "You put on a decent show. The crowd was into it. Maybe there's something there. Maybe I'm crazy or just bored, but I think you guys might have a shot at something bigger. Your sound isn't like everything else out there, and that's worth something."
Matt sat up straighter. "You're serious?"
"I'm offering to talk, not sign papers," Shaver said. "Meet me tomorrow morning at my hotel before I leave. We'll see if there's anything to work with."
"Fuckin-A," Matt said, before Jake shot him a look.
"Yes," Jake jumped in. "That sounds like a great opportunity."
"Wonderful," Shaver said. "How does eleven sound?"
"Perfect," Matt said.
"What hotel are you at?" Jake asked.
"It's downtown," Shaver said. "Give your address to Trina. Be ready at 10:30. The limo will pick you up."
"Yes sir!" Jake said.
"Thank you, Mr. Shaver," Matt added. "You won't regret it."
"Oh, I probably will," Shaver muttered. "But we'll see. Goodnight, gentlemen."
A moment later, they stepped out of the limo. Matt gave Trina his address. She didn't write it down, just nodded and repeated it back. Then she slipped inside the car and the door shut. The limo rolled off, disappearing into the night.
Right at 10:30 the next morning, the limo returned, gliding to a stop in front of Matt's place. Same driver, different attitude. He didn't wear his hat. Didn't call them sir. Just banged on the door and asked, impatiently, if they were ready to go. His gaze made it clear he wasn't impressed.
He didn't open the door for them either.
"Wipe your feet," he said. "And don't touch anything."
"Friendly guy," Jake muttered as they slid into the rear.
"Hey, Jeeves!" Matt called out. He eyed the bar - locked tight, a combo lock clamped across it. "What the fuck's with the bar? I need a drink!"
The front partition slid down. "The bar is for paying customers," the driver said. "You five don't qualify."
It slid shut again and the limo took off, jerking into motion hard enough to jostle them around.
The ride was rough - full of hard corners, sudden stops, and more bounce than necessary. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the Royal Gardens Hotel - the nicest place in Heritage County, at least for the next five years until the Stovington Suites opened up.
The partition dropped again. The driver, chewing on a deli sandwich, mumbled around a full mouth, "Hop out here. Wait by the service entrance. Shaver's secretary will get you."
He gave them a look. "If you tried the front, security'd probably mace you."
The partition snapped back up.
"Asshole," Matt said loudly.
Coop finally got the door open, and they piled out into the alley beside the hotel. Trina was waiting in loose blue jeans and a maroon sleeveless blouse, looking exhausted - maybe hungover.
"Hey, guys," she said, barely above a mumble. "Follow me."
They trailed behind her through a side door and into a service corridor that ran alongside security and housekeeping offices. Matt and Darren tried chatting her up, but she ignored them both flat-out.
They crammed into the elevator and rode it to the sixteenth floor. When the doors opened, a security guard stood at a podium, eyes going wide at the sight of them.
"Miss Allen," he said carefully. "Is... everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," she said with a dismissive wave. "Guests of Mr. Shaver. They won't be long."
The guard frowned, then glanced up and down the hallway. No other guests in sight. He gave a reluctant nod. "I guess it's okay then."
Trina smiled politely and led them onward. They reached room 1605. She unlocked the door.
They stepped into the Presidential Suite.
"Holy fuckin' shit," Matt breathed.
Jake silently agreed.
The place was massive. A marble foyer opened into a plush living room filled with luxury chairs. An oak bar stood off to the side. A hot tub bubbled near the balcony, which looked out over the Sacramento River. Closed doors hinted at a bedroom and private bath.
Ronald Shaver was lounging barefoot in a chair near an oversized table, jeans and a button-up shirt on, face unshaven. A cigar smoldered in an ashtray. A silver serving tray sat beside it. He had a phone to his ear and was ranting to someone named Gary about "those goddamn contract extension clauses."
He glanced up and waved them over.
They filed in and took seats, Matt and Jake at his sides, the rest spreading out. Trina sat apart, filing her nails like none of this was remotely interesting.