Jake's eyes widened.
"Last night? Are you talking about the parking lot party we had after work? Is that what you're talking about?"
Since they weren't allowed to work as musicians during the recording process and since the advance money barely kept them alive, everyone but Matt (whose parents sent him generous allowance checks) had been forced to get night jobs.
Jake's job was washing dishes at The Main Course, a trendy yuppie spot downtown. Five nights a week, minimum wage. On Wednesday nights, he and some of the staff would gather in the back parking lot after closing, drinking beer and passing a joint if someone brought one.
Last night, Jake had his old acoustic guitar in the car. On impulse, he'd pulled it out and played a few songs for his coworkers. It had been the first time he'd performed in front of a crowd, however small, since their last gig at D Street West.
It had felt good. Too good. Performance was a drug, and last night he'd gotten just enough of a fix to keep the withdrawal at bay.
That couldn't be what Acardio was talking about… could it?
"That's exactly what I'm talking about," Acardio confirmed. "You were in violation of your contract, Jake. This is a very serious matter."
"Max, I was playing my guitar for a couple of work friends. I hardly think that qualifies as a gig."
"You were performing live before an audience," Acardio said flatly.
"There were eight people!" Jake snapped. "We were drinking beer. Nobody paid me a dime."
"Nevertheless, that constitutes an audience. And I'm told you even performed copyrighted material from other acts. That's even more serious. You don't have permission to sing Led Zeppelin songs live. They're not on our label. Do you have any idea what kind of legal trouble we'd be in if word got out that one of our musicians was performing another label's songs without clearance?"
"Max, this wasn't a concert!" Jake nearly yelled. "I played Stairway to Heaven because one of the waitresses liked it! I was trying to get laid, for God's sake!" Then something clicked. His eyes narrowed.
"Wait a minute. How do you even know what I was playing in a parking lot last night? Who told you?"
"I see no reason for profanity," Acardio said. "And how I know is irrelevant. The fact is, you performed live before an audience in violation of your contract. We won't fine you this time, but if it happens again, we'll add a five-thousand-dollar penalty to your recoupable expenses. Do you understand?"
"You've got a spy at the restaurant," Jake said in disbelief. "A fucking spy. That's why you recommended that job to me. That's why I got hired so fast. They're on your payroll, aren't they?"
"The manager and I do have a certain arrangement," Acardio admitted. "He has people who keep him informed about the activities of certain individuals. But that's neither here nor there. What I want to know is: do you understand that you are not to do this again?"
Jake took a deep breath. Yelling would be pointless. "I understand," he said stiffly.
"Good. I'm glad we cleared this up. You may go."
Jake left, his anger and frustration following him down the hallway.
He made his way back to the cafeteria, where he sat with his sad little bologna sandwich and seethed.
As back in Heritage, Jake and Bill were roommates here in Los Angeles too, because neither of them could afford not to be. Their apartment cost nearly a hundred dollars a month more than the place back home, and calling it a dump was being kind.
The building was a grim, post-war tenement off Hollywood Boulevard. Just two miles from the glitter of the National Records building, but it might as well have been another planet.
The complex was home to parolees, registered sex offenders, off-duty hookers, and bitter failed actors. Outside, guys sold nickel bags to passing cars while others sat on the steps drinking malt liquor and smoking whatever brand of cigarettes was cheapest that week. Police helicopters and the occasional crack of gunfire were so common they hardly registered anymore.
Their unit was on the third floor, at the back. A two-bedroom squeezed into 642 square feet. The carpet was brown, threadbare, and smelled faintly of cat piss no matter how much they scrubbed. The bathroom was an embarrassment: a leaky toilet, a tub riddled with rust and mildew, and a shower that managed only a tepid trickle of water.
When they walked in that afternoon, the apartment was already stifling hot.
"Damn, I hate this place," Jake muttered. "Turn the fans on."
"Right," Bill said, setting down the twelve-pack they'd picked up on the way home.
They opened the windows and switched on the three battered fans they'd begged and borrowed when they moved in. The hot air started circulating, bringing in a fresh layer of smog.
Each grabbed a beer and collapsed onto their one piece of real furniture: a beat-up couch.
"I hate L.A.," Jake said, taking a long pull. "If we make it big, I'm living anywhere but here. Hell, I'm not even visiting this part of the state unless I have to."
"This is… a rather depressing existence," Bill agreed, cracking open his own can. "You really think we're gonna make it big?"
"Yeah," Jake said. "The question is, will we be rich as well as famous?"
"Not under this contract," Bill said flatly. "That's for damn sure."
"What do you mean?"
"I've been doing some calculations."
"You? Doing math?" Jake chuckled. "Who'd have guessed?"
Bill smirked faintly. "Laugh all you want. But we've been screwed."
"I already know that."
"You think you do," Bill countered. "But I don't think you fully grasp just how bad it is. Our royalties are ten percent, right?"
"Right."
"And that's on a retail rate of five bucks per album, not the full seven."
"Right." Jake already hated where this was going.
"So, let's pretend we go platinum. A million albums sold. That means we earn fifty cents per unit, or five hundred grand total."
"Okay."
"Now deduct the ten percent 'breakage' clause they shoved in there."
Jake grimaced. Breakage: the label's way of pretending ten percent of shipments were destroyed in transit, even though everyone knew it was bullshit.
"That knocks us down to $450,000," Bill continued. "Then there's the twenty-five percent packaging fee. Another $112,500 gone. Which leaves $337,500. Then there's the recoupable expenses."
"The fucking recoupables," Jake muttered.
"Yep. First, the $50,000 advance. Then $86,000 in studio costs. Another $52,000 for promo. That's $188,000. Then we're on the hook for half the tour costs and half the video production, another $61,000. Total recoupables? $249,000."
Jake winced.
"That leaves us with $88,500," Bill said. "But Shaver still takes his twenty-one percent. That's another $18,500 gone. Final pot for the five of us to split? $69,915."
Jake ran a hand through his hair. "Which comes out to…?"
"$13,983 apiece," Bill finished. "Assuming we go platinum. If we only go gold? Cut that in half. If we flop? We don't even pay off the recoupables."
"Fourteen grand," Jake said flatly, shaking his head. "That's not even a living wage."
"You and Matt get a little extra for songwriting," Bill conceded. "But not much. Maybe another grand or two. And that's before taxes. Though, technically, we'd still be below the poverty line."
"Jesus," Jake muttered. "All this work. All this sacrifice. Selling a million albums. And we walk away with fourteen grand?"
"Fourteen grand," Bill said, equally bitter. "Hardly seems worth it, does it?"