Different Circles

“I’m not selling my Cabo pad!” Matt insisted. “Christ, dude. Don’t you ever have anything good to say?”

“Well ... the income you’ll be receiving from this music festival you’re playing tomorrow will help pay the debt down even more.” He paused. “After taxes are considered, of course.”

“Yeah,” Matt said bitterly. “Of course.”

“And the judge has agreed to not allow the IRS to seize your primary guitar or any of the secondary guitars you use in the actual production or performance of your music.”

“Very fuckin’ big of him,” Matt said.

“It was a her, actually,” Wesley said.

“Whatever,” Matt spat.

“I’m doing the best I can here, Matt,” Wesley said. “You didn’t give me much to work with though. You can’t just not pay taxes on income like yours for four years and not expect any consequences.”

“Yeah,” Matt said. “I guess I kind of understand that shit now.”

“Is there anything else I can answer for you at this time?” the lawyer asked.

“Naw,” Matt said. “I guess I’ll see you on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll have some shit to ask then.”

“I’ll look forward to the meeting,” Wesley told him. “Does nine o’clock work for you?”

“In the morning?”

“Uh ... yes, in the morning.”

“I don’t do nine o’clock in the fuckin’ morning,” Matt told him. “How about three?”

“Three it is,” Wesley said.

“All right. Book it.”

“There is one thing I would like to ask, Matt,” Wesley said before Matt could hang up.

“What’s that?”

“Now ... I’m not a fan of your music. I told you that before, during our first conversation. I listen primarily to jazz.”

“Yeah? So what? I don’t see that shit as a problem. In fact, I’m not sure I would want a fan of mine working on my fucking legal problems.”

“Right,” Wesley said. “I understand that point of view. I’m not a fan of Jake Kingsley or Intemperance either.”

“What is your fuckin’ point, dude?” Matt asked, more than tired of this conversation, particularly now that Kingsley’s name had been invoked.

“Well, a few of the paralegals that work in my department are fans of yours,” Wesley said.

“Is this about tickets to the TSF?” he asked. “You want to score yourself some paralegal gash and the way to make the deal go down is to give her a couple of VIP tickets to the show? Sure! I can make that shit happen. I’m all about helping my fellow man score some gash. How many you want?”

“Uh ... no, that’s not where I was going with that,” Wesley said.

“It’s not?” he asked, actually a little disappointed.

“No ... but ... well, now that you bring it up, maybe I could find good use for two VIP tickets.”

“Which night?” Matt asked.

“Both, if you can arrange it,” he said.

“They’ll be at will call under your name,” Matt promised. “Now, what were you actually talking about if it wasn’t tickets for gash?”

“I was just going to say that the paralegals were talking about this rumor going around. The one about how you and Jake Kingsley will do some Intemperance material at the show.”

“That fuckin’ rumor?” Matt said in disgust. “There’s nothing to it. No way in hell it’s going to happen. That rumor got started by the media fucks who speculated that since Kingsley and I were both performing at the TSF then we might be reuniting. Those fuckheads at Music Alive have been encouraging the rumor because it’s helping them sell tickets at more than a hundred a pop. But it ain’t happening. That’s God’s fuckin’ truth there, dude.”

“Oh, I see,” Wesley said. “That’s too bad.”

“Why would you give a shit if me and Jake were getting back together if you’re not a fan of either one of us?” Matt wanted to know.

“I really do not,” Wesley told him. “I was just going to suggest to you that if the rumor were true, you are not asking for nearly enough money. Any form of Intemperance reunion would be worth some serious bank for all concerned with it.”

And, approximately 1600 miles to the east northeast, at thirty-eight thousand feet above sea level and traveling at four hundred thirty knots actual, Laura Kingsley and Celia Valdez were in first class seats of a United Airlines 767 flying from John F. Kennedy International in New York to McCarran International in Las Vegas. This was the third aircraft they had been on since leaving their Warsaw Hilton hotel room well before sunrise, some thirteen hours before. From Warsaw International they had flown to Charles de Gaulle International in Paris aboard an Air France A-320. From there they had climbed aboard the Concorde and flown for three and a half hours across the Atlantic to New York City, actually landing forty-five minutes before they had left Paris thanks to the speed of the aircraft and the time zone changes. After a two-hour layover in New York, they boarded their current plane, which was now more than an hour into its journey.