August

Empty Chair Recording Studios was founded by a rap artist from Los Angeles, who took the advantages of his meteoric rise and parlayed them into an entire empire. Clothing endorsements, a line of Adidas sneakers named after him, the occasional HuffPo article, movie walk-ons, multiple walks on the red carpet. Your fairytale rags to riches story, personified.

Since you can't swing a dead cat without hitting a recording studio in LA, he decided to distribute his home base all over the United States. He founded several discreet recording spaces in secret locations, letting people in on the secret one by one.

Outside of Chicago and Minneapolis, I know there are three more scattered around the southern United States. This is the only one on the eastern seaboard. It's one of those secret locations that everybody seems to know about, but nobody seems to have all the right information.

From the outside, it looks like it might even be a parking garage. It's a four-story structure, with geometric concrete lines fitted into each other. It almost looks like one of those Soviet-era constructions, or maybe a private prison. Windows are small and inset, like the archery outposts in medieval castles. From the ground level, a casual passerby wouldn’t even be able to find the way inside.

There’s no sound, no lights, no way to know even if there are hundreds of people in the building. It’s a fortress. I really do admire this building quite a bit. Couldn't have designed it better myself.

After punching an access code into the hidden gate, I roll my BMW into the underground parking garage. There are two vehicles in here that I don't recognize, indicating that Kirkman has been distributing the security code to visitors, which he is not supposed to do. Anyone who's brought in is supposed to go through the metal detector and retinal scanner, as well as being checked by a security guard against the manifest of approved persons. They're certainly not supposed to be given any of the codes. I'm going to have to remember to change those.

The building is four stories, plus the basement which houses the swimming pool as well as the parking garage. The first floor is a large performance space, complete with a fully stocked bar and closed-circuit video displays. There is luxurious stadium seating as well as a lighted dance floor. That was installed after Prince performed here the second time. Prince always loved for people to dance at his shows.

The second two floors are all recording studios. From what I understand, they are state-of-the-art, with rooms designed in various sizes for the kinds of artists that are going to be recorded. There are tiny, coffin like rooms for particular kinds of singers, then slightly larger rooms for groups, then cavernous spaces for ensembles to play while they stare at each other, like an old-fashioned theater arrangement.

The mixing boards are extravagant, with thousands of knobs and dials. There are two qualified sound engineers that I'm aware of. Two of them are on the personnel profiles that I received, anyway. Kirkman bought his own, but he left shortly after, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the task.

And then the top floor is the matching penthouse suites. That's where I need to go first. That's why I received a phone call at five-thirty this morning.

I thumb the button for the penthouse and wait for the elevator to shoot silently to that level. I know instantly which one I'm supposed to investigate: the door is still ajar.

I don't see Kirkman. As I walk quietly from room to room, careful not to disturb anything, I take mental notes. Sofa cushions are strewn on the floor, two end tables lay on their sides with the contents spilled.

The granite countertops in the kitchen are littered with near-empty glasses and bottles, even red plastic cups for some reason. Looks like they attempted a game of beer pong at some point. One of the light fixtures flickers erratically.

But Kirkman is not present. I head back for the elevator and decide to try the second floor. As soon as enter the hallway, I see a light is on in one of the control booths. Clenching my jaw, I head that way.

Kirkman East sits — or rather, lays — across a lilac leather sofa, the heels of his boots digging dents into the cushions that I hope will eventually reinflate. It’s not my sofa,or I would tell him to move his feet.

When I walk into the studio, he throws one hand into the air, holding up a single finger, telling me to wait. The white leather headphones that clap over his ears make him look like some kind of bug as he bounces his head back and forth, his eyes closed, his lips moving over the words like he's whispering into somebody's ear.

God, I hate musicians.

To be fair, I don’t think he actually is a musician. I think he is a singer of unremarkable talent with a lot of incredibly talented people behind him that nobody's ever going to hear about. They’ll fall into the shadows while he sucks up the limelight.

But he does look like the part. He’s in skinny jeans, two belts for no reason, and a silk shirt that's unbuttoned practically to his navel like nobody ever taught him how to button up a goddamn shirt. He is probably the least motherfucking talented person in this entire building, and he's the one who constantly gets his picture taken. He's the one with the two dozen unconscious girls draped over the furniture in the next room. He's the one who gets to buy three-thousand-dollar bottles of champagne and then forget them on the table at the bar when he wanders off to go chat up somebody else.

Seriously, this guy.

His fingers continue to bounce in the air, ticking back and forth as though conducting, finally shivering as though holding out one long, excruciating note. After way too long, he sits up, pushing the headphones down so that they circle his neck. He looks me over from top to bottom.

“You needed me?” he asks me.

“What gave it away?” I retort.

“Don’t be a smartass,” he sneers, sucking his teeth dramatically. “You came to me, so you must need something. I'm working, as you can see. What is it?”

So, that's working: laying on a sofa in a ridiculous outfit, pretending to listen to music. I want to say something else, but this guy really is overpaying me. I should probably try to be nice.

“I wasn't aware that you were also a sound engineer,” I comment.

He takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling.

“I have to review the mix,” he explains as though my intrusion irritates him. “It's good. These guys are good. It only needs a few things.”

“Where's your guy? Is he coming in to work on this?”

Kirkman looks me up and down.

“He's on the schedule,” he reminds me, scowling.

“Oh, you're right… the schedule. He is on it.”

Pressing the button, I bring my iPad to life and pull up the schedule, holding it out in front of me so Kirkman can see it. He's too far away to read the entries, but he nods anyway.

“Like I said,” he says.

“Good,” I reply. “I'm glad to see you do read the schedule. You know what's on the schedule, all the approved people, everything we put together.”

Closing his eyes, he cups the headphones as though is going to put them back over his ears. “Okay, I see you are trying to make a point,” he sighs dramatically. “So, what is it, August? What can I do for you?”

“I was just upstairs,” I start.

“So?”

“So, there are sixteen women in the penthouse,” I tell him.

He raises his eyebrows and stares at me. I count to eight in my mind, calming myself.

“So?” he finally says. “What’s your point? Sixteen women isn’t a record for me or anything.”

He smirks, as though I should be impressed and wondering what he would do with sixteen women. I’m not impressed.

“How many women are on the manifest, Kirk?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

I pull up the manifest on my iPad and then hold it out so he can see it.

“You don't know how many women are on the manifest, Kirk?”

He rolls his eyes at me and then lays back down, dramatically kicking his heels back up onto the arm of the sofa. His eyes close and he crosses his hands over his dick protectively for no apparent reason. In fact, I hadn't actually even thought about punching him in the dick until he made that stupid move right there.

I hate musicians. Hate them.

“Kirk?”

“That's not my name,” he groans. “Kirkman. My name is Kirkman. Use it.”

I shake my head, taking deep breaths. This little wiener mobile is not worth getting my blood pressure up. He would be impossible to reeducate, and it would be beneath me to try to deflate his swollen head even a little bit. There's no point.

“Kirkman, there are only fourteen women on the manifest. That's all that are ever supposed to be in this building, assuming every single one of them is here at the same time. Now, I haven't bothered trying to wake them because I don't think all of them will be able to be awoken at this time. But how many of the women who are actually on the manifest are supposed to be in the penthouse?”

He shrugs. “Things got crazy last night, man.”

“Okay, just try to remember. To the best of your recollection?”

“Dude… I don't even know,” he sighs irritably. “Why don’t you just fucking tell me? Okay? I know you are trying to make a point here, but I really don't get what it is. So can you just tell me?”

He crosses his feet the other way, not even caring that his boots are scuffing the leather sofa arm. That’s not going to come out.

But it’s not my job to point that out.

Then again, wouldn’t I be doing the world a favor? Just to take him down a peg or two? I could teach him some manners. Teach him some Marines-style restraint and respect. Teach him the basics on being a real man, assuming he has the potential to learn even that much.

Alternatively, I could kick his ass. I could dangle him by his ankles out the penthouse window until the TV crew got here. Of course, then everyone would know this location and it would no longer be a secret.

The easiest thing to do would be to simply allow this morning to unfold the way it naturally would without my intervention, let the women sleep, and assume he won’t do it again now that I have pointed it out.

Of course, then I wouldn't be doing my job, now would I?

“To be honest, Kirkman,” I begin again, “the point is that there are definitely at least two unauthorized visitors in the penthouse, but maybe more. I don't actually know yet. I'm about to find out, but before I do… I just wanted to alert you to what your lapse in judgment has brought you.”

I find the picture on my iPad, blowing it up real big and holding it out to him. He finally rolls his head toward me, squinting.

“I don't what that is,” he huffs.

I rotate it back so I can look at it. He's got a point. Doesn't really look like much of anything to me either.

“That's your dick, Kirkman,” I inform him. “On Instagram. At five AM.”

He sits up suddenly, his eyes wide. “What… wait, are you fucking kidding me?”

“That's what I was going ask you,” I reply, tapping the power button and tucking the iPad back under my arm. “After all the shit that I did to get you set up here. After explaining the protocols to you and giving you the manifest, plus giving the manifest to those two stoner halfwits that you call bouncers, I thought we were totally clear on this.”

He’s got his phone out, frantically scrolling through some app, then opening another.

“That's my dick! Oh my God, I'm trending on Twitter too!”

“Yeah, I already sent this to Melanie. She’s on it.”

“Why would you do that?? She's going to be so pissed at me!”

“Well, that's what marketing people are for, right? So she will pissed at you for little while, but she’ll also kind of love it. You probably just made the Ugly Little Wiener Hall of Fame.”

“Shit! Shit!”

He scrolls through his phone, looking for more mentions of his name. I know he is not thrilled, but then he sort of likes it too. These douchebags, they don't even care how their name gets out there, just as long as it gets out there.

“Do you know who did this to me?”

“Well, I would, if I had some idea of who you were with last night! That's why we have the manifest, Kirkman. That's why we have approved visitors!”

“Shit!”

“So, think,” I tell him calmly. “Does anything about the picture jog your memory? Do you remember who was on that blue chaise with you? Do you remember her?”

He scrunches up his face, trying to think. I hope he doesn't give himself an aneurysm.

“Becky… Betty… fuck. Barbara?”

“Nice. So do you just show everybody your dick? Did you just get a first initial?”

“It's the gig, man,” he informs me snidely. “Getting with ladies is part of what I do. It's part of my process…”

“Yeah, fuck your process. We had an agreement, Kirkman. If I was going to work for you, you were going to stick to certain protocols —”

“— just find out,” he groans, staring at the front of his phone. I see Melanie's face, pinched and pink, as her call comes through. She'll give him way more hell than I am, just for doing this without her approval. So at least I got that going for me, which is good.

I just back out the door, leaving him with her wrath. There's no point in even trying to sort out the women who already submitted to background checks, and whoever else he picked up last night. I’m not going to find the culprit in the penthouse. Anybody who was bold enough to do that was not going to hang around.

But I am thinking that his reaction was genuine. He really did seem surprised and upset. So maybe he’s not just an attention-whore inventing “leaked” photos to keep himself in the news. Someone really did do this to him, even if it’s a one-off.

When I got this detail, I thought it was all bullshit. I figured it was all just some marketer’s cynical plan to get him on the news, and he was playing along. But I don't think he's playing along. Somebody actually is doing this to him. Now I’ve got a whole hell of a lot more work to do.