For nearly five minutes, they sat in silence, listening to Shaver argue on the phone about some cryptic contract extension clause. His voice was sharp, clipped, and pissed off.
"I'm telling you, Gary, this is not even remotely acceptable," Shaver barked. "If those fucksticks wanna play hardball, we'll see who ends up sucking whose asshole when this blows up. You hear me?"
Apparently, Gary did. Shaver slammed the phone down a moment later and exhaled hard.
"Goddamn accountants," he muttered, shaking his head. "Sometimes I think they're even worse than lawyers." He looked up at his guests and gave them a thin smile. "How you doing, boys? Glad you could make it."
They each mumbled greetings. Shaver took a moment to shake hands with Coop, Darren, and Bill before turning his attention to Trina, who looked like she was operating on two hours of sleep and a bottle of wine.
"Trina," he said. "Maybe these boys would like a drink. Set us up with some glasses and Chivas, please."
"Sure," she replied with a yawn and shuffled to the bar.
"Now then," Shaver said, as the sound of clinking ice filled the suite, "I understand you boys are looking for an agent. That right?"
"Yes," Matt confirmed.
"Well, I usually don't touch unsigned bands. Especially ones who mail in unsolicited demo tapes. But... every policy should have an exception clause. That mindset will take you far. And I might just invoke that clause with you gentlemen."
Trina came back with a tray, setting it down gently on the table. Five crystal glasses, each filled with Chivas on the rocks.
"You've got raw talent," Shaver continued. "Maybe, just maybe, with the right coaching, you could sell a couple of albums."
"Just give us that chance," Matt said. "You won't be sorry."
"We'll see." Shaver picked up his own drink but didn't sip. "Before we get ahead of ourselves, do you boys even know what an agent does?"
"You use your contacts to get us a recording contract," Matt said. "Without an agent, nobody hears us. With the right agent, like you? It's a done deal."
Shaver chuckled. "That's the cynical version, but not wrong. I also negotiate your contract, make sure you don't get locked into a slave deal. I'm your advocate. And I only get paid when you get paid."
Matt picked up his drink and sniffed. "You got any Coke to go with this?"
Shaver visibly flinched but kept it together. "Trina," he said tightly, "get them a few cans of Coke."
She returned with three red-and-white cans, and watched—along with Shaver—with thinly veiled horror as the boys proceeded to water down their top-shelf Scotch.
"Good hooch," Coop said, draining half of his.
"Fuckin' A," Matt agreed.
"I'm glad you like it," Shaver said. "Care for a line to go with your drinks?"
He lifted the lid from the silver tray, revealing a mirror lined with six thick rails of cocaine. He offered it to Matt with a practiced air.
"You're a good host, Mr. Shaver," Matt said, accepting the mirror.
Shaver rolled up a crisp hundred and handed it over. "Enjoy."
Matt snorted the first line and shuddered. "Wow," he muttered, eyes watering. "This is some killer blow."
"I'm sure you're used to cocaine that's mostly cut. This is pure Bolivian flake. Perhaps the best in the world."
"No shit?" Darren said, grabbing the mirror. "Gotta try that." He did a line and slapped his head like he'd just hit nirvana. "God-fucking-damn!"
The mirror made its way around the table. Even Jake, who hesitated longer than the rest, eventually gave in. Curiosity got the better of him. And yeah, he felt it almost instantly.
"Now then," Shaver said, once everyone was feeling buzzed and brilliant. "To business."
"Fuckin' A," Matt said. "You gonna be our agent, or what?"
"As I said, I'm willing to make an exception for you. I think you've got potential. I'm prepared to offer you a representation contract. The terms are straightforward: I'll try to get you a recording deal and negotiate for you. I'll handle all your business. In return, I get thirty percent of all advances, royalties, and revenue. Sound fair?"
He looked directly at Matt.
"Thirty percent, huh?" Matt glanced at Jake. They exchanged a long look. They both knew twenty percent was the industry standard. They'd agreed over beers and cigarettes on Matt's porch just last night not to go above that. No matter what.
Still, this was Ronald Shaver.
"Is that a problem, gentlemen?" Shaver asked, calm but pointed.
Jake and Matt stared at each other, eyes locking in silent debate.
It's just ten percent more, Matt's look said. Don't screw this up.
He's testing us, Jake's expression shot back. We said twenty. We hold the line.
"Matt?" Shaver asked.
Matt broke the stare. "Thirty percent is not a problem," he said finally.
"Good," Shaver said, extending a hand.
But Jake didn't take it.
"No," he said firmly. "Thirty percent is a problem."
The room went dead quiet. Matt's glare could've started a fire.
"Jake," he said through gritted teeth. "It's fair."
"Yeah," Darren chimed in. "Still leaves sixty percent for us."
"Seventy, you fuckin' moron," Coop corrected.
Jake shook his head. "Doesn't matter. That seventy percent covers five guys, plus our expenses. Twenty percent is the standard. Anything more is a bad precedent."
Shaver remained unreadable. "Yes, that's standard. For established acts. You're not there yet. I'm taking a risk."
"And we appreciate that," Jake said. "But if you really believe in us, you won't walk away over ten percent."
Matt looked like he wanted to kill him. Darren was ready to throw hands. But Jake didn't budge.
"This is the real world," he said. "If Matt won't say it, I will. We're not in a whorehouse, Mr. Shaver. Don't try to screw us on day one."
Shaver leaned back, still stone-faced. "You seem sure of yourself, Mr. Kingsley. Sure enough to bet your career on it?"
Jake didn't flinch. "Seems like that's exactly what I'm doing."