Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  “W-why, thank you.” The voice was soft and hesitant, with a slight stammer.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “Mr. Driscoll, I don’t know if there’s any t-truth to this, but I’ve heard that Dean Hardeman is going to write a book about the young rock musician who was k-killed, Billy Lockett. I understand you’re involved in the thing somehow.”

  “Your information is correct,” Driscoll said, pleased that his rumor network was operating efficiently. “The fact is that Dean called me the day after Billy’s death and told me he was so moved by the tragedy that he wanted to do a book on Billy.”

  “You know Dean Hardeman?”

  “Oh, yes, we’ve been friends for some time. Naturally, I told Dean I’d give him any assistance I could.”

  “N-naturally,” said the book editor. “It’s really remarkable that he would come out of semiretirement after so many years to do something … well, something so different from what he’s done in the past.”

  “Yes, remarkable,” Driscoll agreed. “We’re really excited and gratified to have an author of Dean’s stature take an interest.”

  “I hope you won’t mind my asking, Mr. Driscoll, but what, exactly, is your connection with the book?”

  “I don’t mind at all,” Driscoll said, putting a smile in his voice. “I’m working with Billy Lockett’s personal manager, and that puts me in a good position to supply Dean with any background material he needs. I’m a glorified researcher, really.”

  There was a hesitation before Vernon Karp spoke again. “I-I wonder if it would be possible to have an interview with Mr. Hardeman. I know he doesn’t usually give interviews, but p-perhaps …”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Vernon,” said Driscoll, “but I doubt very much if Dean will be spending any time out here. As you probably know, he does all his work at his home on Long Island.”

  “Yes, I’d heard that.”

  “But I’ll tell you what, if there’s any chance at all, I’ll see that you get first crack at him.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. D-Driscoll. I certainly do appreciate that.”

  “Not at all. And make that Conn, okay?”

  “Okay … Conn.”

  Too bad they aren’t all as easy as that, Driscoll thought as he hung up the phone. All in all, though, things were not going too badly. He would have time this afternoon to go through the carton of Billy pictures he’d had sent over to pick out the best ones for the book. He hoped there would be no more surprises today.

  The intercom beeped at him again. By this time he had the thing figured out and pressed down the lever with the little light over it.

  The secretary’s filtered voice spoke to him. “Mr. and Mrs. Lockett are here.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Lockett … Billy’s parents.”

  CHAPTER 7

  He should have known, thought Conn Driscoll, that things were going altogether too smoothly. Hell, of course Billy Lockett would have to have parents somewhere. Since they were not a part of Driscoll’s plans, he had never given them a thought. But now here they were, right outside his door, and they had to be dealt with.

  Driscoll put on what he hoped was a sympathetic expression and walked out to the anteroom. The couple standing by the secretary’s desk turned to face him. The man was in his early fifties with pale, thinning hair — blond going to gray. His dark blue, off-the-rack suit showed travel wrinkles. The man held himself very straight, almost standing at attention. The woman was soft and plump with a pretty face that looked like it smiled often. Her hair was dark with only a few wisps of gray.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Lockett, I’m Conn Driscoll. I want you to know how terribly sorry I am, how sorry we all are, about Billy.”

  “Where’s Fessler?” said Mr. Lockett. He was not smiling.

  “He’s staying home for a few days,” Driscoll said. “This thing has hit him pretty hard.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Billy’s father.

  Driscoll knew then he was going to have a problem here. “I’m filling in for Mr. Fessler this week,” he went on, “and if there’s anything I can do for you …”

  “For one thing, you can explain why my wife and I had to hear of our son’s death on the television news. Why nobody out here took the trouble to contact us personally.”

  “Do you mean you never got our message?” Driscoll said, feigning surprise.

  “The only message we got was a telegram from the San Bernardino County Sheriffs Office telling us our son was dead. And we didn’t get that until Tuesday, two days after Billy was killed.”

  “Why that’s terrible, Mr. Lockett,” Driscoll said. “Believe me, I would never in this world have let a thing like that happen. I guess things were in such a turmoil that we just had a breakdown in communication somewhere. I’m really deeply sorry.”

  “That helps a lot,” the man said.

  Billy’s mother spoke for the first time. “Tom, there’s nothing this young man can do now. It was a mistake, that’s all.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Lockett, it was a mistake,” Driscoll said, “but I’m certainly willing to take my share of the blame.”

  “Never mind about that now,” said Thomas Lockett. “It doesn’t matter who’s to blame or who’s not to blame. They told us at the sheriff’s office that Al Fessler was taking care of Billy’s funeral.”

  “That’s right,” Driscoll said. “Actually, I’m handling the arrangements. We want to be sure — ”

  “You can forget about your arrangements. We’re taking Billy home with us.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said we’re taking Billy home with us to Belford. That’s in Indiana, Mr. Driscoll.”

  “Yes, of course it is, but the funeral … the memorial service … the plans are all made.”

  “You can unmake them,” said Mr. Lockett.

  Billy’s mother put a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. To Driscoll she said, “Mr. Lockett’s parents are buried in Bedford. My husband and I have our own plots there. We want our Billy to be there too. You can understand that.”

  Conn Driscoll could not understand it at all. Why would it make a damn bit of difference where anybody was buried? What he did understand was that he was in danger of losing the big funeral, the opening gun of his campaign to promote Billy Lives!

  He said, “Yes, I can certainly understand that, Mrs. Lockett. I’ll tell you what — let’s take a run out and see Mr. Fessler. He’s really the one who ought to make these decisions.”

  Mrs. Lockett looked to her husband.

  “That’s fine with me,” he said. “Just so we get it settled today.”

  “My car is outside in the lot,” Driscoll said. “If you want to ride with me, we’ll go out and see him right away.”

  The Locketts nodded their assent, and Driscoll ushered them out of the office. Once outside, he snapped his fingers as though he had just remembered something.

  “Oh, darn it, I’ve got one phone call I absolutely have to make. It will just take a minute, and I’ll be with you.”

  Mrs. Lockett smiled at him as he stepped back into the office. Mr. Lockett did not.

  “Get Al on the line,” Driscoll told the secretary. “I’ll take it at his desk.” He went into the inner office and closed the door in case the Locketts should come back into the anteroom.

  After a minute the phone beeped at him and Driscoll picked it up. Al Fessler was on the other end.

  “We’ve got a little hitch in the operation,” Driscoll said.

  “Hitch?”

  “Billy’s parents are here.”

  “What parents?”

  “You know, father and mother.”

  “I know what parents are, I mean where the hell did they come from?”

  “Someplace called Belford. That’s in Indiana, according to the father. They got a telegram from the Sheriff’s Office about Billy’s death.”

  “So offer them our sympathy. What’s the hitch?”

  “They w
ant to take Billy home with them and bury him in Belford.”

  There was brief pause before Fessler answered. “They can’t do that.”

  “Yes, they can. And if they do, it wipes out our Saturday show at Greenacre.”

  “Well, do something, for Christ sake. Buy ’em off.”

  “Al, I’m bringing them out to your place.”

  “My place? What the fuck for?”

  “Because I can’t buy them off, and they want to talk to you anyway.”

  “Jesus.”

  “The mother can be handled, I think, but the father is a tough bird and no dummy.”

  “So what am I supposed to do?”

  “Back my play. Help me try to sell them on burying Billy out here where he belongs. Maybe the two of us together can put it across.”

  “Okay, bring them out,” Fessler said unhappily. “How’s everything else going?”

  “Everything else is fine, but we need this funeral. We need it bad.”

  Driscoll rejoined the Locketts out in the courtyard of Crossroads of the World. They walked back under the eucalyptus tree that shaded the court and found Driscoll’s Firebird in the parking lot. They all climbed in, Mr. Lockett taking the cramped back seat, and Driscoll headed up Sunset toward the Hollywood Freeway.

  “How long has it been since you folks saw Billy?” Driscoll asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

  When her husband did not answer, Mrs. Lockett spoke up. “Four years. It’s been almost four years. Billy came home and told us he’d signed a contract for Mr. Fessler to be his manager. He was so excited. He was sure good things were going to start happening for him.”

  “He never came home again,” Mr. Lockett said.

  “I’m sure he was awfully busy,” said Billy’s mother.

  “Oh, he was,” Driscoll agreed quickly. You can’t imagine the demands on a performer’s time, the obligations he has to meet.”

  “He could have written a letter once in a while,” Mr. Lockett said.

  Driscoll swung north onto the freeway for the short drive to Sherman Oaks. He felt at a loss for words to say to these solid, honest, middle-American people. They were outside his experience. Driscoll had spent so many years dealing with sharpshooters and hustlers, he did not know what approach to take when he came face to face with honesty.

  He took the Sepulveda off ramp and swung into the block where Al and Madeline Fessler lived. He was relieved that the comfortable looking, tree-shaded house did not look like a Kodachrome California postcard. The low, wide Spanish architecture was typically Los Angeles; nevertheless, the house had the look of being lived in, of being somehow Midwest. The look was deceptive, Driscoll knew, but he felt the Thomas Locketts of Belford, Indiana, would be more comfortable talking here than, say, at a beach house in Malibu.

  Al and Madeline Fessler came to the door together to meet them. When Driscoll had made the introductions, Madeline reached out and took Mrs. Lockett’s hands in her own.

  “I’m so glad to meet Billy’s parents,” she said. “What a shame it has to be under such tragic circumstances. Won’t you both please come in?”

  Driscoll shot a glance at Al, who answered with a fractional shrug.

  Madeline, showing a warmth and sensitivity Driscoll had never seen in her, seated Mr. and Mrs. Lockett comfortably in the living room and produced big cups of hot coffee for everyone. For the first time Billy’s father allowed himself a small smile.

  “About this funeral business …” Al Fessler blurted, immediately killing Mr. Lockett’s smile.

  “Billy’s funeral is our business,” said Thomas Lockett. “We’re taking him back to Bedford with us to be buried there.”

  “Can we talk about that a little?” Al said.

  “There’s nothing to talk about. Where do you have him?”

  Al looked to Driscoll for help.

  Driscoll said, “Billy’s out at Greenacre Memorial Park now. It’s really a lovely place. Maybe you’d like to take a drive through the grounds?”

  “To my way of thinking, cemeteries are no place for sightseeing,” said Mr. Lockett.

  Madeline spoke up. “I can understand how you feel, Mr. Lockett. I came from a small town myself, and I lost my parents when I was quite young. I know what a comfort it can be to have them nearby.”

  Mr. Lockett nodded. His wife reached over to pat Madeline’s hand.

  Driscoll gave Al a what-is-she-trying-to-do-to-us? look. Again, Al had only a shrug for an answer.

  “But don’t you agree, Madeline,” Driscoll said carefully, “that Billy’s being a celebrity makes a difference?”

  Madeline looked at Driscoll, and there was a message in the pale eyes he could not read.

  She said, “Yes, Billy was a celebrity. But first and most important, he was a son.”

  The Locketts glanced at each other and exchanged sad smiles.

  “And yet,” Madeline continued, “Conn is right in a way. Billy was not just another young man who died tragically. Heaven knows we’ve seen enough of those in recent years. Billy was a special person. He had a talent — a gift, even — that could reach millions of young people. To them Billy was a friend, a brother, maybe even an image of themselves — the person they would be if they had the talent. And Billy reached some people who are not so young too. To them he was a son. The son they never had, or perhaps the son they’d lost.”

  Driscoll listened, spellbound. In the dozen or so times he had visited Al at home, he had never heard Madeline speak more than two sentences in succession. Mr. Lockett was leaning forward in rapt attention. Mrs. Lockett dabbed at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. Al Fessler stared open-mouthed at his wife.

  Madeline continued, “It would mean so much to all these people to be able to say goodbye to Billy in their own way. Each of them must feel a little of your own pain and loss. No one could blame you, of course, for wanting to take Billy home with you and say goodbye to him in privacy. I’m sure Billy’s fans would understand.”

  Mr. Lockett cleared his throat. “Let me be sure I get the picture here. What you want is to have Billy’s funeral at this Greenacre place, right?”

  Driscoll spoke up quickly. “Yes, sir. I’ve had some preliminary talks with the people out there, and I can assure you the service would be in the very best taste.”

  “Yeah, and it won’t cost you a dime,” Al Fessler put in.

  Driscoll groaned inwardly.

  Al blundered on. “We’re paying for the whole thing. Everything first class.”

  Billy’s father fixed Al with a glare. “Mr. Fessler, the cost is not at issue. We may not be a part of the rich Hollywood crowd, but I own my own business in Belford, and I can well afford to pay for my son’s funeral.”

  “There’s no question of that,” Driscoll said. “Mr. Fessler just meant that if you should decide to leave the arrangements up to us, we’ll do all we can to make sure that Billy has a fitting ceremony.”

  Mr. Lockett searched Driscoll’s face. With an effort the PR man met his gaze.

  “What do you think, Helen?” Mr. Lockett asked, turning to his wife.

  “I … I think Mrs. Fessler is right, dear.”

  “Call me Madeline, please.”

  Mrs. Lockett smiled at her and went on. “After all, Billy hasn’t belonged to us, not really, since he left home to become a singer. In the years since then he’s come to mean something to all those people Mrs…. Madeline talked about. I think they should have a chance to be with Billy this one last time.”

  Thomas Lockett looked steadily at Driscoll, then at Al Fessler. “All right,” he said, “go ahead and make the arrangements. When will the services be held?”

  “Saturday,” Driscoll said quickly, before Al could open his mouth again. “I’ll see that a car is sent for you.”

  “We’ll stay in town, then, until after the weekend. I want your promise, though, that Billy’s funeral won’t be turned into a Hollywood circus.”

  “You don’t have to worry about tha
t,” Al said. “Everything will be strictly refined. Conn here and myself will see to that personally.”

  Thomas Lockett’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but he gave them a curt nod. “We’re staying at the Airport International.”

  “A fine hotel,” Driscoll said. “If there’s anything you want in the next few days, don’t hesitate to call the office. Anything at all.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Mrs. Lockett.

  “Not at all,” Driscoll said modestly.

  Everyone stood up then and said goodbyes all around.

  At the door Driscoll lagged behind the others and spoke in a low voice to Madeline. “You were wonderful. I didn’t know you could do it.”

  “Really? There might be a number of things you don’t know about me.”

  She was the old Madeline again — cool voice, distant manner. Driscoll met her eyes for a moment but could read nothing there. He turned away and hurried after Billy’s parents.

  CHAPTER 8

  Larry Unger, the manager of radio station KOSA, was a hunched-over man of forty-three, who looked an easy ten years older. He worked in a windowless office that overflowed with newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, record lists, trade publications, charts, scripts, time logs, schedules, memos, and the rest of the sea of paper that keeps a radio station afloat.

  A space at the edge of Unger’s desk had been cleared by Conn Driscoll, who perched there talking earnestly to the station manager.

  Unger said, “You’re wasting your time, Driscoll. We’re a middle-of-the-road station. We don’t play half a dozen of your top-40 rock records in a week.”

  “I’m not talking about acid rock or the shriekers,” Driscoll said. “You play Elton John, right? And Paul Simon? Billy Lockett’s in their class, Larry.”

  “Like hell he is. Billy Lockett’s dead.”

  “What of it? You still play Glenn Miller records.”

  “Sure, on our Saturday night Golden Years show. When your boy Lockett is considered an old timer, come around and try me again.”

  Driscoll offered the station manager a cigar. When Unger declined, he unwrapped it and lit it himself. He said, “Look, you can level with me, Larry. I know the reason you don’t play a lot of the pop groups is because of Owen Satterlee.”