The cocaine hit his brain like a tidal wave of clarity and cheer. The fatigue in Ronald Shaver's limbs vanished as euphoria settled in its place. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long, satisfied breath. Damn, that Bolivian flake never missed.
Feeling inspired, he decided it was time for a drink. Sure, it was only 9:15 AM, but hey—wasn't it already lunchtime in New York? And if America's cultural heartbeat thumped anywhere, it was in New York. That logic seemed perfectly sound to a man currently riding a stimulant high.
Shaver ambled to the wet bar, filled a tumbler with ice, and poured in four fingers of Chivas Regal without hesitation. He grabbed a Cuban from the humidor for good measure and returned to his desk like a king reclaiming his throne.
He took a slow sip, then sparked the cigar. Rich smoke curled upward as he puffed thoughtfully, not focused on anything in particular. The nicotine buzz and lingering coke rush blended into a perfect storm of contentment. For a few indulgent minutes, he just soaked it in.
When the ash began to droop, he reached to his desk drawer for the ashtray. Nothing. He blinked, annoyed, then hit the intercom.
"Trina?"
She didn't answer right away. The buzzer buzzed twice more before her voice crackled through.
"Yes?" she said, her tone flat and clearly irritated.
"I think you forgot to put my ashtray back after cleaning. Can you grab me one?"
"Can it wait a few?" she asked. "Galahad's secretary is on the line and we're juggling schedules."
"Oh, sure. Take your time."
"Thank you," she said with pointed sweetness.
Shaver flicked his cigar ash into the garbage can beside his desk. It landed right on top of that envelope—that envelope. The one from Heritage. The one labeled Personal and Confidential.
He eyed it for a moment, considered the risk of starting a trash fire, and plucked it out. After brushing off the ash, he set it on his desk. He figured he'd toss it back once Trina returned with the ashtray. Until then, why waste a perfectly good smoke?
Minutes passed. The drink stayed smooth. The cigar stayed lit. The envelope stayed visible.
Eventually, his eyes wandered back to it. A return address. No sender name. Just a word: Intemperance.
He snorted. "What a name." Then his gaze drifted to the location: Heritage, California.
"Fucking Heritage. What a dump." Not that he'd ever been—Shaver's version of "California" didn't stretch north of Santa Barbara—but a town with fewer than two million people? Might as well be the sticks.
Still, something made him reach for it. Normally, unsolicited demos got tossed without a second thought. But the drugs were mellowing him out, and unsolicited letters often came with laughable grammar and wild claims. If nothing else, it might be good for a chuckle.
He sliced it open with a switchblade letter opener and found not just a tape, but a whole packet of documents inside.
He glanced at the cover letter. To his surprise, it was properly formatted, professionally typed, and addressed to him by name. No generic "Dear Sir" garbage.
Dear Mr. Shaver, it began.
Huh.
The letter came from a guy named Matthew Tisdale. Claimed to be the lead guitarist for a band called The Saints (he chuckled—barely better than Intemperance) that had, according to him, become very popular in the Heritage scene. Tisdale mentioned consistent gigs, $500 per set, and sold-out shows.
"Five hundred?" Shaver muttered, raising an eyebrow. That wasn't chump change for a backwater club gig—especially not in a cow town. That kind of pay meant the band was drawing serious crowds.
The more he read, the more curious he got. Three shows a week minimum. Monthly new song debuts. The kicker? They had a classically trained pianist.
"A classical piano player in a hard rock band?" He puffed his cigar. "Jesus."
Insane? Absolutely. But sometimes, insane worked. A British colleague had said the same thing about flutes in hard rock once—then landed Jethro Tull and was laughing all the way to the bank.
Shaver flipped through the rest of the papers. There were local press clippings from The Heritage Register and Heritage Weekly Review. Glowing reviews. Descriptions of "soulful" vocals, "grinding" guitar solos, and "glorious" piano melodies. One review outright gushed about how proud it made the writer feel to be from Heritage.
A smirk tugged at his lips. This wasn't the usual demo garbage.
He scanned another review highlighting the band's lyrical range—songs about love, politics, excess. The writers even pointed out which songs were Jake Kingsley's and which were Tisdale's. The reviews weren't just fluff; they showed legit engagement with the band's material.
Next came the letters of recommendation. Club owners swore by The Saints, talking up their professionalism, crowd draw, and ability to pack a room. And they all backed that $500-per-set figure.
Now Shaver was intrigued.
Finally, he pulled out the cassette. Brand-name tape. On the front, someone had stenciled The Saints – Demo. A folded sheet listed the track titles.
Descent Into NothingWho Needs Love?Almost Too EasyLiving By The Law
Shaver studied the titles for a moment, lips pursed in mild amusement. Sounded like the usual angst-ridden rock garbage. Still, he took the tape out of its plastic case and crossed the office toward the stereo setup near the bar.
The Beatles tape he'd been listening to earlier got unceremoniously popped out. He slid the demo in, closed the compartment, and pressed play.
The moment the tape hissed to life, Shaver winced. Mono. Poorly mixed. He could tell immediately it had been recorded with whatever bargain-basement setup the band could scrape together—probably some rigged-up, duct-taped mess in someone's garage. Normally, that alone would've had him yanking the thing out and tossing it straight back into the trash.
But this time... he didn't.
Thirty seconds into "Descent Into Nothing," he leaned back in his chair and muttered aloud, "Holy shit."
The vocals were raw but magnetic. The guitar work? Shaver hadn't heard riffs that mean in years. There was energy here. Soul. Rage and precision, all knotted together in the best way. And the piano—God help him, the fucking piano actually worked. It didn't sound out of place. It lifted the whole thing, gave it depth he hadn't expected from a band claiming to play "hard rock."
By the time the tape clicked off at the end of the fourth track, he was still sitting, stunned.
Then he hit rewind.
And listened again.
When it was over for the second time, he stood up and walked straight to the office door. He opened it.
Trina was behind her desk, typing away on her IBM Selectric. She looked up when she heard the door, face going a little sheepish.
"Sorry," she said. "I was supposed to bring you an ashtray, wasn't I?"
He barely even registered the words.
"What are you doing this weekend?" he asked, tone casual but eyes laser-focused.
She blinked. "This weekend? I don't have any plans." A smile curled on her lips. "At least... not yet."
"How would you like to go up to Heritage with me?"
Her smile faltered into confusion. "Heritage?" she repeated. "What for?"
"There's something I need to look at."