For the first time since he answered the awful telephone call, Al Fessler tried to think of Billy Lockett as a person rather than a lost client. It was not easy. When you spend years hustling talent you soon learn that it is a big mistake to get personally involved. You’ve got to think of your clients as warm hunks of meat — some choicer cuts than others, but meat all the same. You start getting sentimental about one of them and you can’t make an objective judgement of his talent. In this business you could not afford an error like that.
Al tried to ask himself if he would miss Billy Lockett. Miss him as a human being. It was no good. He could not think of Billy right now with any emotion except anger at what the kid had done to him. Maybe later he could put him in focus. But then, why bother? Billy Lockett was cold and dead on the desert outside San Bernardino, while Al Fessler was alive here in Sherman Oaks. Alive, but dying inside.
• • •
The noonday sun, warm for March even in Southern California, brought people flocking to the beaches for a head start on their tans. Among the sun bathers on Will Rogers State Beach north of Santa Monica was Conn Driscoll. He lay prone on a beach towel while a full-breasted girl wearing a string bikini rubbed Bronztan into his lean back.
The girl was called either Lynda or Luci — one of those cutsey names that swapped i’s and y’s. Driscoll had been well along on martinis when he met her the night before, and there had been no occasion since to call her by name.
“How tall are you, anyway?” asked Lynda or Luci.
“Six feet even.”
“You seemed taller last night.”
“I was standing up.”
“No, I mean later too.”
“Optical illusion. It’s the vertical stripes in my pajamas.”
“But you didn’t wear … oh, I get it, you’re putting me on.”
“Yeah.”
The girl turned up the volume of a transistor radio playing music from a top-40 rock station. She squirted a trail of Bronztan down Driscoll’s leg and began to massage it in. “Can we go dancing tonight?”
“No.”
“Why not?” she complained in a little-girl voice that he probably found cute as hell last night.
“Because tomorrow is Monday and I have to go to work. I am thirty years old. I am a member of the Establishment. I have a job.”
“Last night you told me you were in show business.”
“Yeah, well, sort of.” It was stretching a point somewhat, but a freelance Hollywood publicity man might be said to be in show business.
“Well, I want to go dancing.”
Without looking at her, Driscoll could imagine the childish pout she was wearing. He said, “Forget it.”
“You’re mean.”
Driscoll was wishing he had gone home this morning instead of bringing the Barbie Doll to the beach. She was kicks last night, but sober he would rate her a solid nine on a boredom scale of ten.
“When will I see you again?”
“Hard to say. I’m going to be pretty busy for a few months.” That was true enough. The Billy Lockett assignment would consume most of his time and energy until the Forum concert in September. After that, he could afford a few weeks of goofing off before looking around for something else. Not a bad way to live, as long as security was not one of his hangups.
The wailing rock music faded, and a young man’s voice came on with the hourly news summary. With a little snort of annoyance the girl reached for the radio.
The sound of a familiar name snapped Driscoll out of his reverie. “Wait a minute,” he said, “I want to hear this.”
“What for, it’s just the news?”
“Shut up!”
As the girl sat back sulking, Driscoll pulled the little radio closer so he wouldn’t miss a word. The lead story was about Billy Lockett, rising young rock star, who had fallen to his death this morning in a skydiving accident outside San Bernardino. As a special tribute, radio station KKOL (K-Kool, where it’s happenin’, baby, 1290 on your ever-lovin’ AM dial) would present four solid hours of Billy’s hits later tonight.
Conn Driscoll groaned and let his head fall to the beach with a soft thud. He reached out a hand and killed the little radio. There went six months of top dollar he was going to get for building up the Billy Lockett concert. Out the window. Or out of an airplane. Now he would have to get out on the street and hustle up another assignment. His stake was getting low.
“What’s the matter, lover?” asked Lynda or Luci.
“I’m out of a job.”
“Did you know him or something?” the girl asked.
“Know who?”
“Billy Lockett.”
A good question, Driscoll thought. Did he really know Billy Lockett? He had talked to the kid a couple of times, listened to a few of his records, and that was it. He hadn’t needed to know Billy to promote his concert. He hadn’t wanted to. But maybe, just maybe, he should have tried.
“No,” he said, “I didn’t know him. Let’s go.”
With the girl hurrying to gather up the beach towel, radio, and Bronztan, Driscoll strode off across the sand toward the parking lot.
• • •
Rick Girodian’s apartment in the decaying heart of Hollywood was in an old wooden building that looked put together from leftover parts. It was three stories of gables, porches, balconies, railings, and staircases.
Although it was three in the afternoon, the shades were drawn in Rick’s apartment, and he slept fitfully in the sofa bed. For an entertainer three in the afternoon was like the middle of the night for normal people. And Rick Girodian was an entertainer. Currently he was on the small-club circuit, appearing in L.A.’s satellite cities like Downey and Bellflower and Redondo Beach. It was a long step down from the Troubador and the Roxy where Rick had played just a few months back.
The telephone rang five times before it woke him, and five times more before he moved to pick it up. He used to have an answering service to spare his sleep these painful interruptions and to handle the many calls he didn’t have time for. These days there were not so many calls.
Rick fumbled the receiver out of its cradle and over to his ear. His black hair was tangled from sleep, his black brows drawn together in a habitual scowl. He mumbled something into the mouthpiece.
“Is this Rick Girodian?” asked the filtered voice coming through the instrument.
“Yeah. Who did you expect?”
“This is Wally Mayor at Channel Six.”
The words did not immediately register on Rick’s still-groggy mind. “What’s that?”
“Wally Mayor, Channel Six News.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Have you heard the news yet?”
“News? What news?”
“About Billy Lockett?”
“Billy?” Instantly Rick Girodian was wide awake. “What is it?”
“He was killed this morning,” Wally Mayor said, trying unsuccessfully to achieve a solemn tone.
“Billy killed?” Rick’s voice was guarded. “How did it happen?”
“He was skydiving. Jumped out of an airplane out by San Bernardino. The chute didn’t open. Died instantly when he hit the ground.”
“Son of a bitch,” Rick said.
“Yeah, it’s tough. Listen, Rick, what I’d like to do is tape a comment from you about Billy, about the days when you and him were partners. I want to use yours, along with others I’m getting, over film clips of Billy on the six o’clock news. Okay?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Wonderful. When I say go you’ll be on tape. Give me about twenty seconds of talk.”
There was some clicking on the line as Mayor set up his equipment. Rick mentally sorted out what he was going to say.
“Go,” said Mayor.
When he spoke, Rick’s voice was husky with suppressed emotion. “It’s always a tragedy when someone so young dies. In Billy’s case it’s even more tragic. It’s the snuffing out of a talent that was just beginnin
g to reach its potential. His was the kind of a talent that comes along once in a generation. It’s a terrible loss to his fans, and to me a deep personal tragedy. Billy was my partner, yes, but he was more than that. Much more. He was my friend. The world will miss Billy Lockett, both as an entertainer and as a human being. No one will miss him more than I.”
For a moment there was silence on the other end of the phone, then Wally Mayor spoke. “Rick, that was beautiful. That was absolutely beautiful. Listen, we’ll super your name on the screen while we run the tape tonight. Catch the show. If it plays good we’ll repeat it at eleven.”
“I’ll try,” Rick said.
“Oh, and listen, I want you to know you have my deepest sympathy. That goes for me and all of us down here at Channel Six.
“Thanks,” Rick said.
After hanging up Rick sat for a minute on the edge of the bed, his head down, staring at the carpet. With a sigh he rose and walked over to the mirror above the dresser. To his reflected image he said, in the fulsome tones of Wally Mayor, “Rick that was absolutely beautiful.”
Gradually his frown relaxed into a smile, then a broad grin. You’re damn right it’s beautiful, he thought. It was beautiful when he wrote it a few years ago for an illiterate disk jockey to say about Jim Croce. That time it got him a few extra spins on the DJ’s show. This time it would at least get his name flashed on the screen during the six o’clock news. With maybe a repeat at eleven. Exposure like that couldn’t hurt.
He shifted his gaze to look over the shoulder of his mirror image. “Billy boy,” he said, “it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.”
Rick went back and picked up the telephone again. He wasn’t a bit sleepy now; he felt great. For weeks he had been promising to take his sister out for a seafood dinner, and now he had something to celebrate.
• • •
Iris Ames lounged in her airy apartment above the Sunset Strip and took small sips of a diet cola. Iris was bored. Bored, bored, bored. She wished Billy were here, but he said not to expect him before dark. If she had wanted to, Iris could have gone along with him to the desert, but what fun was there in standing around with a bunch of dull, dull people watching a parachute jump? It was just too stupid.
Iris sighed and stretched out on a sofa covered with orange synthetic fur. The apartment was a carnival of colors, all bright. The furniture, which came with the apartment, was Hollywood modern with emphasis on shiny synthetics. The pictures, which belonged to Iris, included a poster spelling out LOVE in block letters, and a poster-size print of a girl with flowers in her hair and nothing in her eyes.
There were a couple of rock posters — souvenirs of the days when she used to hang around the groups. The posters were just of the best, though, like the Stones and Alice Cooper. The rest she had given away. She had no use for them now that she had Billy. Well, she didn’t exactly have Billy Lockett, but he was paying for the apartment, and he was the only one she balled now.
It was a much better life, she told herself, than hanging around with the groupies. That was a drag sometimes — waiting outside in the grubby alleys behind the clubs and trying to sneak into the hotels where the groups were staying. Then sometimes it could be a groove too. Iris remembered the thrill when one of the stars looked directly at you, how it was heaven if one of them touched you, and the ultimate bliss of fucking a star. But there had been enough of that in her life. It was time to look ahead. After all, Iris was nineteen.
She looked down and admired her body. Really a super bod. Everybody said so. Iris took one of her breasts in each hand. Big and heavy, but firm. Not a bit of sag. The belly was flat, the waist narrow, flaring out in the rear to what a lead singer had called her million-dollar ass.
Iris worked her buttocks back and forth on the fake fur, rubbing her thighs together. She wore nothing under the tight denim shorts that were cut off right at the crotch. She hoped Billy would get away sooner than he planned. She felt like balling.
Without warning, the door flew open and Trina Cole, a girl Iris’s age, rushed breathlessly into the apartment. Billy was always telling Iris to lock the door, but Iris thought it was stupid. If anybody wanted to get in bad enough they could break it down. Besides, nobody ever walked in without knocking except Billy and Trina, who had been Iris’s roommate once.
As soon as Trina had her breath back she gasped out, “Iris, honey, did you hear?”
“Hear what?”
“About Billy … he’s dead.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No way. I just heard it on TV. the guy said something about Billy jumping out of an airplane and the parachute didn’t work. Something like that.”
“Well, goddamn it,” Iris said.
“Yeah, I mean, what a bummer,” Trina said.
Iris took a big swallow of her diet cola. She held up the can. “You want one?”
“No, no thanks. Iris, what are you going to do now? I mean, what are you going to do?”
Iris put a hand to her long silky hair and folded it back from the edge of her face like a golden curtain. She shrugged. “The rent’s paid here for the rest of this month and the next. After that I’ll, you know, see what happens.”
Trina sat for a long moment without speaking. Then she said, “Hey, I guess you’re feeling pretty bad now, right?”
“Well, you know, sure.”
“Yeah, a real bummer. You know what might help?”
“What?”
“Maybe if you and me went out together like we used to. Captain Hook is at the Whisky. What do you think?”
Iris chewed her pink, plump lower lip. “Gee, I don’t know.”
“It’s the last night.”
“Let me call you later, okay?”
“Sure. It might do you a lot of good. It’s best not to think too much about these things.” Trina let herself out.
With an angry gesture Iris threw the empty diet cola can into the kitchen where it clattered across the tile. Of all the rotten things to happen. What the fuck was she going to do now? One thing for sure, she was not going back to the groupie scene and hope to score with somebody else the way she had with Billy Lockett. That had been pure luck. She had caught Billy one night when he was feeling down, and she gave him just what he needed. Iris always had a feeling for what they needed. It was a case with Billy of being in the right place at the right time. It might not happen again in a hundred years.
No, goddamn it! Iris jumped to her feet and walked over to stand before the fake fireplace. She struck a pose — head up, belly in, boobs and ass out. She would not have to rely on luck. She would make things happen. With her face and her body, she would never be lonely.
But who …? Then she remembered. There was a fat little creep Billy introduced her to at a yacht party a month ago. What was his name? A funny name … Pincus, that was it. A biggie at some record company, Billy had told her. President, vice president, some damn thing. Anyway, Pincus liked her. He had danced with her, jiggling his fat little body through the latest disco steps, grabbing her ass every time he got a chance. At the time Iris was not interested. She had Billy. But now …
She went into the bedroom and rummaged through the dresser drawer where she kept all the cards and phone numbers men gave her. Men were always giving her their cards. She never threw any of them away. A girl never knew when she could use a contact.
After a minute Iris located the card she wanted. It had rough-cut edges, was printed in two colors with a wild mod logo. Oscar Pincus, Executive Vice President, Gamma Records.
An office number and a home number were given. Iris knew better than to call him at home. He wouldn’t be at the office today, a Sunday, but he would have an answering service. Iris dialed the office number and, as she expected, got an answering service. She left her own name and number, confident that Oscar Pincus would remember her. Men usually did.
After she hung up Iris began to feel better. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad scene after all. Mayb
e it was fate. She picked up the telephone again and dialed another number.
“Hi, Trina? Hey, I’ve thought about it, and you’re probably right. The best thing for me right now is to just get my mind off Billy. I’ll meet you at your place at nine.”
When she hung up Iris was smiling. Moving in a little dance step, she went out to the kitchen and got herself another diet cola. After all, Billy would have wanted it this way.
CHAPTER 3
Al Fessler twisted and turned and groaned and snorted in the king-size bed, but could not will himself to sleep. Every time he started to drift off he would be falling, falling, and there falling beside him, just out of reach, would be Billy Lockett. Each time, Al would be jerked awake to sit there in the dark, sweating and worrying.
This was not the first time Al had been in money trouble. Far from it. But never before had it been anything this heavy. What made this time different was that he had borrowed a bundle from some very questionable people. The kind of people who, if you didn’t get up a payment on time, might come around and break your arm. Or worse. Al had gone into it with his eyes open. He knew the risks, but he was already into all his legitimate sources to the limit.
A big chunk of the money had gone to buy up Billy’s recording contract from Gamma Records, the outfit that had released his early disks. At the time it seemed like a rock-solid investment. It would give Al Fessler control of all Billy’s future records, which would surely gross millions after the concert and subsequent TV special. That investment had stepped out of the airplane yesterday morning and smashed into more pieces than Billy himself on the San Bernardino flatlands.
Al groped at the night stand pointlessly for a cigarette. Madeline had cut off his smoking six years ago, but he still hadn’t lost the craving when he was nervous. Even when Madeline had moved into her own bedroom — his snoring kept her awake, she said — Al had not brought cigarettes in. Madeline could smell tobacco smoke a block away through concrete walls.
Billy Lives Page 2
