Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  Iris took off the S-M outfit and got back into her jeans and shirt. She waited until she was sure Oscar Pincus had time to get dressed, then went out to the living room to join him.

  Pincus was standing at the window, looking down at the lights of the Sunset Strip. He was fully clothed, smoking a long brown cigarette. He did not turn around when Iris came into the room.

  “Nice view,” he said.

  “I like it,” Iris answered.

  “Who pays the rent?”

  “I do,” she lied.

  “From now on it will be taken care of.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned from the window to face her. His color was back to normal, his expression bland. “There’s something for you on the coffee table.”

  Iris looked down and saw a plush jeweler’s box that hadn’t been there before. She opened the hinged lid and drew out a fine gold chain on which was mounted a single small diamond. At intervals along the chain were gold-filled studs where more diamonds could be added.

  “Honey, it’s fantastic,” Iris said.

  “We’ll add to it from time to time,” said Pincus.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Probably not before next Thursday. I’ll let you know if I can get away before then. I’d like you to be dressed when I get here from now on.”

  “I will be.”

  “Good.” With no move to kiss her or even touch her hand, Oscar Pincus nodded goodbye and went out the door.

  Iris looked down again at the gold neck chain with the diamond. She was no expert, but it had to be worth two or three hundred dollars. Tomorrow she would take it to a jeweler and have it appraised.

  She dropped the chain back into the plush box and walked over to the window. Down on the street Oscar Pincus’ blue Mercedes was pulling away. She supposed that she ought to feel some sense of accomplishment. After all, she had got what she wanted. She could probably hang onto Pincus as long as she was willing to whack him on the ass with the bamboo rod. There would be more diamonds added to the golden chain, and Pincus would probably come up with cash too. Still, she felt restless. Disappointed.

  It was not the kinky sex that turned her off. She had done much wilder things with the rock stars during her groupie days. Especially with the English boys. They were unusually inventive. No, the reason for her dissatisfaction was that Oscar Pincus, for all his diamonds and his Mercedes and his position at Gamma Records, was a nobody. His name probably meant nothing once he was off his own floor in his own office building. Whom could Iris tell that she had balled Oscar Pincus? Who would give a damn if she did tell? If he was a good lover it wouldn’t matter so much, but that little thing of his was never going to get her off.

  Oh well, the little man would do for now. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about the rent. And it was not like Pincus would make a lot of demands or tie up a lot of her time. There would be plenty of chances to scout around for somebody else. Maybe tonight she would take a walk down to the Strip; see what they had going at the Baked Potato. Maybe Trina and some of the kids would be there.

  Humming to herself, Iris danced off to the bedroom to brush her hair.

  CHAPTER 15

  Friday morning in Los Angeles was cold, damp, and gray. A suitable day, thought Conn Driscoll, for visiting a cemetery. He drove in through the tall gates of Greenacre Memorial Park and followed the curving roadway through the pine trees to the tasteful white building that housed the business office, chapel, and casket display room.

  The building had pillars at the entrance, giving it a dignified Grecian look. On a brighter day the scene would be idyllic, with the sheltering Hollywood Hills behind and the San Fernando Valley spread out before. Today, with the sun out of sight behind ragged gray clouds, it was dismal.

  Driscoll parked his car and went into the office. He was met by the funeral director, a man named James Walraven whom Driscoll had dealt with over the telephone in setting up arrangements for Billy’s funeral. Walraven was a medium-sized man in his early fifties with just the right amount of gray in his hair and a face that was sober but not gloomy.

  Walraven came around the desk to shake Driscoll’s hand. The director’s clothes had been carefully chosen. They were light enough to avoid the cliché of the somber black-clad undertaker, yet they maintained the dignity expected of his profession. Walraven’s handclasp was warm and dry.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Driscoll said. “I’d like to eyeball your setup, make sure everything will go smoothly tomorrow.”

  “I think you’ll be satisfied with the arrangements,” said Walraven. His voice was resonant and reassuring but not sincere in the overdone manner that could be so off-putting in this business. The man was good at his job, Driscoll decided. He liked that.

  “Where is the body?”

  Walraven blinked but did not lose his composure. “We have your Mr. Lockett in a special cold room behind the chapel. Would you like to see him?”

  “No,” Driscoll said quickly.

  “It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

  “Not for you, maybe. In my opinion the idiotic custom of walking past a coffin to look at a prettied-up corpse is barbaric. In this case it’s necessary for publicity purposes, but that doesn’t mean I have to look at it. No offense.”

  Walraven gave him a small smile. “No offense. I understand.”

  “When do you take Billy off the ice?”

  “He’ll be placed in the casket and brought into the chapel half an hour before the services.”

  “About these services,” Driscoll said, “I did make it plain, I hope, that there are to be no religious trappings of any kind?”

  “Yes, I only used the term for lack of a better one. We will have removed any of the chapel furnishings that suggest religion. That will be no problem. We use interchangeable … props, I guess you’d call them, to suit the tastes of our clients.”

  The two men walked through a curtained door from the office into the chapel.

  “We’ll take down the cross,” Walraven continued, “and switch the paintings of saints for something secular. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about the stained-glass window.”

  Driscoll looked up at the colored panes of leaded glass over the entrance. It was a modern design that suggested a star and an open book. No angels, saints, holy family, or anything that might bug Billy’s irreverent fans. After the effort Driscoll had expended to establish a Christlike image of Billy Lockett, he wanted no competition from the original.

  Driscoll lowered his gaze to the double-door entrance. “Will you be able to funnel people in and out through there for the casket viewing?”

  “We’ll set up poles and guide ropes after the services.”

  “Like at Disneyland.”

  “If you insist.”

  “Okay. Now, these services, as you keep calling them, are going to be brief. Just a few simple words. Most of the action will be out by the grave. This place can’t seat more than forty, so the bulk of our crowd will be outside. We don’t want them getting restless.”

  “This crowd,” said Walraven uneasily, “how many, exactly, are you expecting?”

  “I can’t give you a firm estimate,” Driscoll said, “but for our purposes, the more the merrier. In a manner of speaking.”

  Walraven winced.

  “I mean the whole idea of this funeral is to get a good turnout and make sure everybody knows who’s being buried here. I explained that to you.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Walraven, “but I still had some difficulty convincing the board of directors that it is in our best interests to stage this kind of a funeral. Especially since we’re giving it to you at cost.”

  “Mr. Walraven, remember that the publicity Greenacre will get out of burying Billy Lockett could not be bought for many times the cost of this funeral. Young people of Billy’s generation are becoming death-conscious. Death is In. These are your clients of the future, Mr. Walraven. After tomorrow, when they think of dying,
they’ll think of Greenacre.”

  The funeral director hitched his shoulders uncomfortably. “I doubt that the board of directors would care for your choice of a slogan.”

  “That was just off the top,” Driscoll said. “Seriously, if you people are ever interested in a promotional campaign, give me a call. When I put my mind to it I can be as tasteful as anybody.”

  “I’m sure you can, and I’ll mention it to the board. Right now my concern is that any publicity coming out of tomorrow’s funeral presents us in a positive light. No trouble, in other words.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ve touched base with the L.A.P.D., and they’ll have a specially trained squad here to see that nobody gets out of line.”

  “Police? Here?”

  “Sure. I could have hired a motorcycle gang to keep order, but they get a little raucous.”

  “Don’t you think that having police on the premises could be, well, unsettling?”

  “No problem, these cops know how to keep a low profile. After all, we don’t want our mourners rousted just for the hell of it.”

  “I suppose not,” said Walraven.

  Driscoll led the way down the center aisle of the small chapel and stepped out onto the pillared portico. The funeral director stepped up beside him.

  “Okay,” said Driscoll, “once we’ve hustled everybody through for a look at the remains we close up the box and carry it out this way. Where’s the grave from here?”

  “The memorial crypt is on the slope over there across the road. It’s a very nice section of the park called Sheltering Faith.”

  “Balls.”

  “Little touches like that can be comforting to some people,” Walraven said.

  “I suppose so. Let’s go take a look.”

  The two men walked through the parking lot and across the roadway to a gently banked section of the cemetery. In the modern fashion, Greenacre did not use upright tombstones. The graves were marked with bronze plaques set flush with the ground. The thoughtfully placed trees and the white stone benches indeed gave the place a park-like atmosphere. Driscoll half-expected to come upon a set of swings or a softball diamond.

  Here and there among the bronze plaques a decorous marble statue marked the resting place of some more prominent client. Usually it was an angel or some other devout figure, stony eyes turned optimistically upward. It would have been a nice touch, Driscoll thought, to have a statue of Billy and his guitar out here to mark the grave. Maybe wired for sound. Ah well, there was no time for such flourishes now.

  They came to the raw hole in the earth that would tomorrow receive the mortal remains of Billy Lockett. A canopy covered the open grave. The mound of earth beside it was poorly disguised with a carpet of Astroturf. The color reminded Driscoll of the shredded green paper in Easter baskets.

  Between the grave and the iron fence that marked the border of the cemetery was a broad, gentle slope of lawn. A good vantage point for the spectators, Driscoll thought approvingly.

  “Is there electricity out here?” he asked, turning back to James Walraven.

  The funeral director answered guardedly. “There are soft floodlights in the trees for night services. Why?”

  “We’ll need outlets for the musicians.”

  “What musicians?”

  Driscoll laid a friendly hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Jim, Billy Lockett was a singer and a guitar player. We could hardly stage his funeral without music, could we?”

  “Well, I guess it will be all right … but why electrical outlets?”

  “We’re not dealing with Dixieland honkers, you know. These boys need someplace to plug in their instruments and their amplifiers.”

  “Amplifiers?”

  “Sure. An electric guitar sounds like nothing without an amplifier. Look, Jim, it will be all right. Everything in good taste.”

  “I hope so. I really went out on a limb for you with the board.”

  “And I really appreciate it,” Driscoll said. “Will there be somebody here to show the television crew where the action is going to be? They’ll want to take measurements and get set up early.”

  “Television?”

  “They can park the truck on the road there between the chapel and the grave. We won’t do any shooting inside, of course, but they’ll want to follow the procession as we carry the box up the hill. Then there’ll be the graveside interviews and commentary.”

  James Walraven began to look ill.

  Driscoll squeezed his arm. “Hey, don’t worry. This operation is going to put Greenacre on the map. Once Billy’s in the ground here, other celebrities will follow. They’ll be dying to get in.”

  Walraven turned to look directly at him. “Mr. Driscoll, at the risk of sounding stuffy, I’d better tell you that I take my job here quite seriously. I’d appreciate it if you’d cut out the jokes. Especially that joke.”

  “Sorry,” Driscoll said: “It’s a way of keeping my spirits up. Sort of whistling past the … oh-oh.”

  The funeral director held his disapproving expression for a moment but finally could not suppress a smile. The two men left the open grave and walked back toward the office.

  “I hope the weather is better tomorrow,” Driscoll remarked, peering up at the drab clouds. “Nobody likes a dreary funeral.”

  Walraven pointedly ignored him, and they went inside to complete the necessary paper work. When it was done they shook hands and Driscoll turned to leave.

  “One thing more, Mr. Driscoll,” said Walraven from his desk.

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering, have you made any arrangements for yourself?”

  “Arrangements?”

  “A plot. For when your own time comes. ‘In the midst of life …’ and all that.”

  Driscoll stared hard at the other man for a moment before he recognized the faint twinkle in Walraven’s eye.

  “Not yet, Jim, not yet,” he said. “But you have my word Greenacre gets first crack at me.”

  • • •

  Driscoll was out in the parking lot and about to get into his car when the sun finally burned through the cloud cover. He looked around and saw the cemetery transformed by the pale sunlight. There really was a sense of peace and serenity about the place. It was in the rich green lawn, the dignified pine trees, the splashes of color where fresh flowers had been left on a grave. Driscoll dropped the car key into his pocket and walked back across the grass toward the hills.

  James Walraven’s last remark had gotten to him. All of his glib chatter in the chapel and out here among the dead had been a screen to block out any real thoughts. Thinking of death was distasteful to Conn Driscoll. Hell, when you’re thirty years old and you have plenty of money and your health is good, there is no death. And yet … and yet, an instant of lapsed attention on the freeway, and he, Conn Driscoll, could be as dead as any of the boxed piles of bones lying here beneath his feet.

  As he walked, Driscoll’s eyes were drawn to the bronze plaques set into the earth. Juanita Burrack, 1941-1971, Beloved Wife and Mother … Donald Mabrey, 1889-1970, Beloved Husband … Barry Endicott, 1953-1972, Beloved Son …

  Reading the names of the people buried there seemed to give them an existence in Driscoll’s mind where before they had been merely bones, or less.

  Did you know at thirty, Juanita Burrack, that death was so terribly near? Did it hurt, Donald Mabrey, to grow old? What was it, Barry Endicott, that killed you at nineteen?

  Driscoll sat down on one of the stone benches. He listened to the songs of the birds, who seemed to have come out with the sun. On the roadway below him a shiny old Plymouth pulled to a stop. An old man in a neatly pressed suit got out of the car and walked carefully across the grass to one of the grave markers. He laid a small bunch of orange flowers on the plaque, stood silently for a moment looking down, then turned and went back to his car. Watching the old man made Driscoll feel uncomfortably like a trespasser.

  I am not harming anyone, he told himself. I am only doing my job.
I mean no disrespect to the dead in this place, nor to the living who mourn for them.

  But what, after all, did he really know about death? Conn Driscoll’s life had been touched very little by death. The first time had been his grandfather. He was a gruff, humorous man who always smelled nicely of the farm where he spent his life. He had treated the little boy with a grownup dignity, talking to him exactly the way he talked to adults. This deep-voiced, gentle man in overalls had no connection with the pink-faced stranger Conn saw lying in a coffin, immaculate white hands clasped across white-shirted breast.

  The second time it was a fifth-grade classmate, Fred Cleary, drowned swimming in the Willamette River. Fred had not been a particular friend, but for days the boy Conn had a hushed, creepy feeling, as though some stranger watched him from just out of sight.

  The third time, and the closest yet, was the sudden loss of his mother four years ago. An open, loving woman, she had gone to the hospital for a minor operation and had never come out of the anaesthetic. Driscoll’s father, who had always seemed the strong one of the family, had been crippled with grief. He had never fully recovered and now seemed merely to be waiting out his time in the big empty house in Portland. Driscoll’s older brother and his wife had flown in briefly for the funeral, leaving all the arrangements to Conn, who simplified everything as far as possible. His mother’s ashes had been shipped to her home town in Michigan, to be joined there eventually by his father’s.

  As for his own mortal remains, Driscoll had never given the matter a moment’s thought. The funeral director’s half-serious question had caught him by surprise. As a nonpracticing agnostic, Driscoll had no illusions of an afterlife. Now, for the first time, he wondered if anyone in this life would truly care when he checked out. Would anyone even notice?

  With a sudden exclamation Driscoll jumped to his feet. Enough of these morbid meanderings, he told himself. He marched back across the cemetery lawn to his car. This time he was careful not to read any of the names on the plaques. Dead, dry bones, that’s all they were. Anything they had once been was gone like yesterday’s laughter.

  He slid in behind the wheel and fired the engine with an angry twist of the key. He had to get out of this park for dead people. He needed to go where there was life.