Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  “I don’t want a performance, I want a shared experience. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

  “Who says I’m trying to prove something?” He was up on an elbow now, anger overcoming his desire.

  Joyce rolled her head on the pillow and fixed him with a level gaze. “Aren’t you?”

  “I am not. I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.” For a moment he glared at her, then the anger drained away. He let his breath out in a long sigh and fell back on the pillow. When he spoke again his voice was subdued. “No, that’s a lie. I am always having to prove myself to everybody. I have to prove I’m clever, I have to prove I’m tough, I have to prove I can hold my liquor, I have to prove I’m virile. And I have to keep proving it over and over again.”

  “Who says so?”

  “I say so. Nobody but me.”

  “Okay, you have just met one human being you don’t have to prove a damn thing to. You wanted to take me to bed, I wanted you to. So here we are. It happened. Things that are supposed to happen do happen. If you let them.”

  “You’re very philosophical today.”

  “Not really. Perceptive, maybe.”

  “Compared to the women I’m used to down at the marina, you’re philosophical.”

  “I’m older than you are, remember?”

  “I remember. Eight years. You’re not going to tell me I’m looking for a mother, I hope.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it. Are you?”

  “No.”

  “That settles that. Am I the first older woman you’ve been to bed with?”

  “‘Older woman.’ You make me sound like John-Boy Walton.”

  “Am I?” she persisted.

  “No, you’re not, if you have to know. While I was at USC I fell in love with an actress who was, I guess, about thirty. She was also married, which made it even more exciting and sophisticated. We had a steamy affair that lasted almost six months.”

  “What happened?”

  “After a while she started talking about leaving her husband.”

  “And scared you off?”

  “No, I wanted her to. I was in love. I was shattered when I realized she was just talking. She had no intention of dumping a perfectly good husband for some halfass college kid. I was used and cast aside like an old shoe.”

  “Poor Conn.”

  “Poor me.” He looked over at the woman lying next to him and laughed. He laughed at himself, his first honest, happy reaction of the day.

  “There, you see, isn’t it better to relax a little than to leap instantly into a performance?”

  “It’s better,” he agreed. “What do I do next?”

  “Uh-uh. From this point you’re on your own.”

  Driscoll pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. The kiss was long and sweet. Her body moved against him, and his arousal was instant and complete. So accustomed was he to the energetic coupling of the beach bunnies that the gentle, knowledgeable lovemaking of Joyce Hardeman was a revelation. She stroked his skin and kissed him and touched him with her body in a slow, delicious dance. The tempo built up slowly until the shuddering climax drained him of the day’s frustrations and dammed-up emotions.

  Afterwards they lay for a long time in each other’s arms.

  “You know,” Driscoll said, “usually I can’t wait to get dressed and get out.”

  “Having completed the performance.”

  “Something like that.”

  “And this time it’s different?”

  “I don’t want to leave at all.”

  She kissed him. Her lips were cool against his eyelids

  “Can I see you again?” he said.

  “Of course.”

  “I’d better get your phone number.”

  “Yes.”

  At last, reluctantly, he got out of bed and pulled on his clothes. Joyce watched him, smiling. The sheet molded itself to the dips and rises of her long, lush body.

  “You wouldn’t want to go to a funeral with me tomorrow?” he said.

  “No, thanks.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Joyce swung out of bed and crossed the bedroom to get a robe from the closet. She put it on and tied the belt at her waist. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  They said goodbye and Joyce kissed him lightly on the mouth. He pulled her close and kissed her more emphatically. His hands slid down the velour robe to caress the firm mound of her buttocks.

  “Call me,” she said.

  “I will.”

  Driscoll walked out of the building and up the street to his car feeling so good he laughed aloud. An elderly woman walking her dog in the other direction looked at him strangely. He gave her a big pleasant smile and got into his car.

  Not until he pulled onto the freeway several minutes later did the smile fade. He had just remembered Dean Hardeman.

  CHAPTER 18

  They started showing up at six o’clock Saturday morning. By eight the road past the front gate of Greenacre Memorial Park was lined on both sides with parked vehicles. Prominent were curtained and carpeted vans, little Japanese pickups, and flowered Volkswagens. The day was bright and sparkling with a fresh wind off the mountains. Perfect weather, thought Conn Driscoll, for a funeral.

  Most of the growing crowd ranged in age from mid-teens to early twenties. They brought blankets and jugs of wine and transistor radios and plastic bags of marijuana. Many of the boys, and a few of the girls, took off their shirts to enjoy the sun. They sprawled on the grass and threw Frisbees and started a softball game. The scene was like a swinging high school picnic or an outdoor rock festival.

  Driscoll was there with the earliest arrivals, moving around constantly, seeing that everything stayed cool. The police, true to their word, were keeping a low profile. The special rock squad, put together after fans of Pink Floyd had ripped up the Sports Arena, lounged around the perimeter of the cemetery dressed in jeans and cotton shirts, wearing moustaches and hair in un-coplike styles. Everybody knew a little grass was being smoked by the mourners, but no arrests were planned unless the smokers became unruly.

  • • •

  When James Walraven arrived, the memorial park had taken on the look of a youth fair. The funeral director took a quick disapproving look around and set out to find Conn Driscoll.

  Driscoll was, at the moment, arguing with a vendor of fruit drinks in souvenir plastic cups printed with Billy Lockett’s likeness. Since the juice vendor had no authorization from him, Driscoll was telling the man to move his operation outside the gates. When he saw Walraven coming Driscoll hastily concluded a compromise whereby the juice wagon could stay inside the cemetery, but would move far enough away from the action so it would not appear to be an official part of the ceremonies.

  The funeral director, wearing a slate gray suit with a blue and silver tie, threw an angry glance at the departing juice wagon, then turned to face Driscoll. “This place looks like a hippie convention,” he said. “Why are all those blankets spread on the grass?”

  “It gives the kids a place to sit down,” Driscoll said. “I didn’t think you’d want us to erect bleachers.”

  “Very amusing.”

  “Jim, believe me, you don’t have to worry about a thing. I am personally keeping an eye on the action, and the cops are here in case of emergency.”

  “This is going to be the longest day of my life.”

  “You go ahead and check out the chapel. I’ve got things under control out here.”

  Walraven shook his head sadly and made his way toward the chapel. He kept looking around with the expression of a man whose garden had been invaded by loathsome insects.

  • • •

  Al Fessler’s Cadillac was waved through the gates by the security guard, and Al drove slowly along the curving road that led to the chapel parking lot. Madeline sat beside her husband in the front seat looking pale and ill at ease. “So many people,” she said.

  “I’ll say,” Al agreed happily. “One t
hing you can say for Conn Driscoll, he delivers.”

  • • •

  When Driscoll saw the Fesslers drive in he started toward them but was diverted by a commotion at the gate. The mobile unit from Channel Six had arrived, and a curious crowd was gathering around it. Driscoll gave Al an I’ll-see-you-later wave and took off for the gate. He showed the driver of the truck where he wanted him to go while the Channel Six technical crew strolled around looking bored. TV technicians always looked bored. Driscoll thought it might be a reaction to the manic good cheer displayed by most of the on-camera talent.

  A representative of the talent end of the business arrived in the person of Wally Mayor, who roared into the parking lot in his wedge-shaped TR-7. The newsman sat there gunning the engine, waiting for someone to recognize him. Conn Driscoll hurried over to oblige.

  “Hey, glad to see you, Wally. Everything here is moving on schedule.”

  “Is the truck here?”

  “Just moving into position over there by the tree. Your director’s there and the cameramen are ready to go any time you are.”

  Mayor checked himself over in the rearview mirror before climbing out of the sports car. He gave his scissor-styled hair a touch with the comb. His healthy California tan had already been applied by the makeup people at the studio.

  “Many celebrities yet?” he asked.

  “We’re expecting some really big names, but so far these are mostly fans of Billy’s.”

  “Who cares about fans? My audience will want to see celebrities.”

  Looking around anxiously, Driscoll spotted a familiar face. “There’s Rick Girodian standing over by the fruit juice wagon. He used to be Billy’s partner. That ought to be good for an interview.”

  “I already used him as a voice-over when we did the death story. Who’s the cupcake with him?”

  “That’s his sister, Kitty.”

  “Is she anybody?”

  “No, she’s not in show business.”

  “Too bad. Where’s the corpse?”

  “In the chapel over there. They’ll have a very short ceremony inside, then the procession up to the grave. You can see the grave up there with the striped canopy over it. That’s where you ought to get some good shots — the pallbearers and all that.”

  “Driscoll, I’ve been in this business long enough to know where the good shots are.”

  “Sure, Wally. If there’s anything you need, just say the word.”

  “Some coffee. I’ll be up at the truck.”

  “I’ll have it sent up.”

  • • •

  Thomas Lockett and his wife sat silently in the deep back seat as the Greenacre limousine rolled through the gates into the memorial park where their son’s remains would be laid to rest. On the other side of the blue-tinted glass hundreds of young people sprawled on the lawn and wandered among the grave markers.

  The limousine pulled up in front of the chapel, and the driver got out and came back to open the door for Helen Lockett.

  “You go on inside,” her husband said. “First there’s a man I want to talk to.”

  • • •

  Having arranged coffee for Wally Mayor and the Channel Six crew, Conn Driscoll had moved on to join the rock group that would entertain at graveside. The young musicians were intrigued by the electrical outlets.

  “Oh-wow, far out!” enthused the Fender-bass player. “Plug right into the trees!”

  “Outasight!” agreed the lead guitarist.

  “Electric trees, man,” commented the drummer, and they all laughed immoderately.

  Driscoll eyed the group closely. “What do you say we play it semi-straight, men, at least until after the ceremony?”

  “Oh-wow!” the bass player said again, and they were off into new gales of laughter.

  Driscoll turned away with a sigh and concentrated on showing the eager volunteer helpers where to set up the amplifiers.

  “I want to talk to you, Driscoll.”

  The tone of tightly suppressed anger made Driscoll turn at once toward the speaker. He flashed on his welcoming smile, then, remembering the occasion, switched to a look of warm sympathy.

  “Mr. Lockett, hello. I didn’t see you drive in. Have you been to the chapel?”

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “This … this open air zoo! Is this the ‘fitting ceremony’ you promised me my son would have?”

  “Mr. Lockett, these people are Billy’s fans. It wouldn’t be fair to lock them out.”

  “Let’s get something straight, Driscoll. I am a small businessman from a small town in the Middle West, but I am not stupid. I understood from the beginning that the reason you and Al Fessler wanted Billy’s funeral held out here was to squeeze whatever capital you still could out of his name. I knew what you were doing, but I didn’t know it would turn into as shoddy a performance as this. My wife is a dear, good-hearted woman, and she believed that phony line of yours. For her sake I did not make an issue of it. And for her sake I hope this debacle is over with as quickly as possible. However, I do want you to know that you are as corrupt an excuse for a man as it has ever been my bad luck to meet. If it is ever possible for me to give back to you some of the hurt you have caused my family, I will do so gladly. That’s all.”

  Thomas Lockett turned his back on Driscoll and walked erect and square-shouldered through the milling crowd of young people to the chapel.

  For several minutes Conn Driscoll stood where he was, looking after Billy’s father, oblivious to the confusion around him.

  “Want a cup of coffee?”

  Startled, he looked down to see Kitty Girodian holding two Styrofoam cups. She offered one to him and he took it.

  “Thanks. Right now I could use something stronger.”

  “You aren’t the only one.” Kitty gestured with her cup toward a group of teenagers seated in a circle around an angel statue. They were passing a marijuana joint from hand to hand.

  Driscoll closed his eyes and opened them slowly. “Alcohol is more my style. After all, I’m thirty years old.”

  “Are you all right, Conn? You look a little sick.”

  “It’ll pass. Where’s your brother?”

  “Some smoothie in a blazer and pancake makeup took him away to be interviewed on television.”

  “That would be Wally Mayor.”

  “Whoever. I left them together.”

  “Did you hear what Rick was telling him?”

  “A bunch of lies about how much he thought of Billy Lockett and respected him as a musician.”

  “Good, I was a little worried, knowing the trouble between Rick and Billy.”

  “You needn’t have been. My brother is a professional.”

  “I know he is.” Driscoll was silent for a moment. “Tell me something, Kitty, do you think I’m corrupt?”

  “Why?”

  Driscoll waved an arm taking in the scene where more gallon wine bottles were showing up all the time and some of the young people were trying out new dance steps on the grave markers. “All this. I’m pretty much responsible for it.”

  “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “I thought it was at the time. Right now I’m having painful second thoughts.”

  “Conn, it’s your job. It won’t make any difference to Billy whether he’s buried here like this or with some solemn church ritual. After all, these are his people. They are the ones who made Billy what he was. So it’s not terribly dignified. No one is really being hurt.”

  Driscoll let his eyes roam down across the crowded green lawn to the chapel where Thomas Lockett was going in to join his wife.

  “I wonder,” he said.

  Rick Girodian approached them, jogging up from the direction of the television truck. “Come on, Kitty,” he said, “they’re getting in line to view the body.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” Kitty said. “You go ahead.”

  Rick shrugged and glanced coolly at Driscoll, the
n joined the general movement of the crowd toward the chapel. Driscoll reflected that he had never seen Rick Girodian look happier.

  • • •

  At the rear of the chapel Dean Hardeman, his hands jammed into his pockets, leaned against the wall as inconspicuously as possible. Up in front, standing by the head of Billy Lockett’s coffin, the long-haired young editor of a local fan magazine was delivering what passed for a eulogy. His speech was so studded with you know’s and I mean’s as to numb the mind of the most dedicated listener. Hardeman had given up early trying to follow the sense of what was being said and busied himself looking around at the people seated in the chapel.

  They were an older crowd than the merrymakers outside on the cemetery lawn, and a few of them at least seemed to have some legitimate connection with the deceased. Hardeman figured the middle-aged couple who kept themselves apart from the others had to be the parents. The mother cried quietly while the young editor mumbled on. The father looked like he wanted to leap from his seat and hit the mindless kid in the mouth.

  When the speaker’s tone seemed to indicate he was drawing to a close, Hardeman eased out through the door and stepped off the Grecian portico onto the lawn in front of the chapel. Out here the celebrants — Hardeman could not think of them in any other way — were lining up to go inside and take a look at the body of their hero.

  Off to one side a television reporter was interviewing an eye-popping blond girl in an India-print dress. Hardeman sidled over to listen.

  “Just what was the relationship between you and Billy Lockett, Iris?” the reporter was saying.

  “We were, oh, very close. Billy was a really special person to me. I didn’t need anybody else, and he felt the same way.”

  “Would you and Billy have gotten married if he had lived?”

  “That’s something we never talked about. I mean, we didn’t have to have any piece of paper saying we were committed to each other. We were together. That’s all that mattered.”

  “Is there any special memory of Billy you’d like to share with us today?”

  The girl smiled and her eyes looked off somewhere. “There’s one thing I’ll bet a lot of girls are wondering about that I can clear up for them. Billy was dynamite in the sack.”