Roth was smiling as he arrived at the office. Roth never smiled. Today, though, he was going to get what he was after — a big, fat contract on his terms — and Venom Records would be back.
He’d stopped on the way in for a bagel and a coffee. The office was quiet, and he enjoyed his breakfast in peace. Then the phone rang, jarring him back to reality. The reality that he needed a new receptionist.
Where was he gonna find another dumb blonde like Tammy who’d work for the peanuts he paid? he thought. Then again, maybe another dumb blonde like Tammy wasn’t what he needed after all. Maybe a dumb brunette? Definitely not a fiery redhead. Maybe he’d get himself an immigrant who didn’t speak much English and was being deported. He could control her. Treat her badly if he needed to.
No — that wouldn’t work. She’d still have to answer the phones, and listening to her talk like that all day would annoy him too much.
Roth could’ve been Archie Bunker. Except at one time, Roth had been highly successful — kind to everyone and charming. He’d been screwed over, and he vowed never to let that happen again. So he became bitter, self-absorbed, and guarded. It was why he smoked so much. Why he drank in private. Why he was alone.
His wife had died early in his career, when everything was going well. When things went south, he shut everyone out. Now he played the game for the thrill of annihilating his enemies — not merely defeating them, but shaming them in the process. Venom paid the price.
But today, baby… everything was gonna be alright.
Tammy came through the door alone.
The band had complete confidence in her, even if she didn’t have that same self-assurance right now. Roth smiled when he saw her standing there — alone, vulnerable, and in his mind ready to grovel.
“We have the band’s first album,” Tammy said cheerfully, “and the second of the two promotional songs required by the contract, Mr. Roth.”
She sounded confident. She wasn’t.
Roth, stunned by the news, dropped the ever-present Camel from his mouth into his lap, jumped up, and stomped it out on the carpet.
“Where did you get twelve recordings that fast?” he demanded.
“Same place you did, Mr. Roth,” Tammy replied evenly. “You recorded the band’s performance surreptitiously before they were under contract and without their permission. Those tapes belong to the band.”
She continued, finding her footing.
“We are submitting eleven songs per the contract as our first album. The remaining songs will be held for a future release. And since we only have a one-album deal with you, we’ll be shopping them elsewhere once the first album is released.”
She finally stopped and took a breath, nearly choking on the secondhand smoke filling the office as Roth lit another cigarette.
Before he could speak, she pressed on.
“We’ve fulfilled our obligation to Venom Records. We’re free to pursue other deals if we choose. We’ll be sending an invoice reflecting full royalty rates for the song you released without our permission, along with royalties owed on the completed album.”
Roth raised a hand.
“I admire your spunk, young lady,” he said, “but you’ve forgotten one key ingredient. In order to release your album, you must have artwork — artwork approved by the label.”
He leaned back.
“Since you have no artwork, your album is not finished. And we will not approve anything not produced in-house, at our sole discretion.”
He smiled thinly.
“So here’s how this works. I approve the artwork from our design staff and release your album. The cost of that approval will be an additional twenty-five percent of the royalties, bringing Venom’s share to seventy-five percent total.”
He paused.
“You’ll also forfeit royalties from the first promotional single, and I’ll take seventy-five percent of the second.”
Roth stood.
“You can purchase the remaining songs for one thousand dollars each — payable in cash or from future royalties. Then they’re yours to use as you see fit.”
He left the office.
Tammy had seen him do this before — giving his prey time to make peace with surrender. But she wasn’t about to give up. The band trusted her, and she was going to fight for what was fair.
By the time Roth returned, she knew exactly what she’d do.
It felt like an hour, but it was barely ten minutes.
Roth sat behind his desk, lit another Camel, blew a smoke ring, and asked, “Well? What’s it gonna be?”
Expecting tears, he was shocked when Tammy stood.
“Here’s what it’s gonna be,” she said. “You get seventy-five percent on royalties, and we forfeit royalties on the first single — as long as that song counts as track twelve.”
Roth frowned.
“We do not sell you the remaining songs. At any price. And you will release our album with artwork per the agreement.”
She sat back down.
“Well?” she asked. “What’s it gonna be? We have a deal, or I walk — with all the songs — and sue you for back royalties on the track you stole.”
Roth thought long and hard. Losing the band would kill Venom Records, already gasping for air.
He’d get seventy-five percent of the album. He’d keep everything from the first single.
“Okay,” he said finally, giving nothing away. “You have a deal.”
He scribbled out a handwritten amendment.
“Pleasure doing business with Venom Records, Mr. Roth,” Tammy said.
She walked toward the freight elevator — old habits dying hard.
Once she was far enough away, Roth flicked his finished cigarette at her.
“Well,” he muttered, “it could’ve been worse.”
He picked up the phone and called Jenkins.