October 1, 1981 - Hollywood, California
Ronald Shaver's office sat on the twenty-second floor of the Hedgerow Building, a polished glass tower with fake prestige and real money running through its veins. The room screamed excess. Floor-to-ceiling window with a panoramic view of the Hollywood Hills. A real oak desk the size of a dining table. Leather couch. Fully stocked wet bar. A wall mirror so clean it practically begged for narcissism.
And in the middle of it all, sitting on a custom blotter atop the desk, was a jeweled-frame mirror with two razor-perfect lines of Bolivian flake. The good stuff. $150 a gram. Laid out neat. A hundred-dollar bill rolled tight like a sniper barrel hovered over the first rail, connected to Ronald's nostril.
He snorted.
Shaver wasn't just a user. He was a believer. In drugs. In power. In the gospel of clout. At forty-two, he had survived the tail end of disco and clawed his way into hard rock and punk. His client list wasn't top-shelf, but it wasn't bottom-shelf either. Earthstone, a dependable if uninspired hard rock act. The Two Lips, a punk band riding their one platinum wave as far as it would carry them. Neither would make him a legend. But they paid the bills.
What he wanted - what he needed - was something bigger. A once-in-a-decade act. Something with flash and staying power. The next Van Halen. Hell, even the next Hall & fucking Oates. At this point, he wasn't picky.
He sat back, waiting for the rush to hit. It came with a warm tingle behind his eyes and a sharp clarity in his thoughts.
That was when Trina strolled in.
"Hey, Ronnie," she said, hips swaying in her tight skirt, nylons hugging her legs like they were painted on. She was twenty-two, blonde, and completely aware of the power she held over her boss.
He didn't move the mirror. Didn't even pretend to hide what he was doing.
"Mail's here," she said, setting two envelopes on the desk.
He sniffed again. "Care for a toot?"
"Sure," she said with a smile, like he was offering her a Tic Tac. She made the line vanish in one practiced inhale, sniffed, then handed everything back. "We still on for tonight?"
"Aces and Spades. Dinner and dancing. Pick you up at eight."
"Bitchin'. Should I call your wife and tell her you'll be working late?"
"No need. She's in Palm Springs with Loretta."
"Still with the LPGA chick, huh? Does she know you know?"
He shook his head. "She's dumber than dirt. That's why I married her. Didn't even have her lawyer check the prenup."
They both laughed. Cruel laughter. The kind reserved for people too rich to feel guilt.
"She's good breeding stock though," Shaver said, turning his attention to the mail. "So what do we got?"
"New prelim for Earthstone's next album," Trina said. "Same as the last one, mostly. Except they axed the limo clause and shaved ten percent off the advance."
Shaver sighed. Tim Johnson from Business Affairs was screwing him again. A typical pencil-pusher trying to squeeze profit by gutting artist perks. And Earthstone wasn't even worth fighting for.
"I'll deal with that bean-counting fuckstick later. After a little more blow. What else?"
"This." She handed over a large brown envelope, stamped to hell. "Came from Heritage."
He wrinkled his nose. "Heritage? What the hell is that, a hick town?"
"Addressed to you. Says Personal and Confidential."
He felt the shape through the paper and immediately knew what it was. A cassette tape. "Fucking demo," he muttered. "Unsolicited. Probably some garage band that read my name in a magazine."
"You don't open Personal and Confidential," she said coolly.
"And you know I don't take cold demos."
"Well, bitch me out for doing my job, why don't you?"
She had a point. "Fine. Sorry. You're right. I'll give it my undivided attention," he said, voice laced with sarcasm.
She smirked. "Glad to hear it."
The envelope landed in the trash without ever being opened. Right next to a dozen just like it.
Unbeknownst to both of them, it was one of only two Matt Tisdale had mailed that had even made it into the right office. Not that it helped.
"So anyway," Shaver said, "grab those Earthstone video contracts for me. Galahad's coming in at ten, and I don't want that clown screwing us over on The Two Lips."
Steve Galahad was head of New Media at Pacifica Records. A true believer in the rising video era. He and his ilk thought MTV would change music forever. Shaver wasn't so sure. He still saw music videos as a time-sucking, budget-draining nightmare. But he played the game.
"I'll have them and your notes ready by 9:30," Trina said. "Need anything else?"
"A blowjob?"
She giggled. "How about in the car on the way to Aces and Spades?"
"Deal."
She left, shutting the door behind her.
Alone again, Shaver pulled open his drawer and took out a sterling silver case. Inside was more coke. He dumped a fresh line, chopped it neat, and snorted it with ritualistic precision. Then cleaned up.
Before the high could fully settle, the door cracked open again.
"Galahad canceled," Trina said, poking her head in. "One of his artists showed up hammered and tried to assault a dancer at a shoot. He's got a fire to put out."
Shaver didn't even blink. "Is he rescheduling?"
"His secretary said she'd get back to us. Might be early next week."
"Lovely." He leaned back, staring out at the hills. "So I'm free now?"
"Looks like it."
"Bitchin'," he said, though he wasn't feeling it. For a moment he thought about calling Trina back in for a round on the couch, but the mood was already gone.
He reached for the mirror again.