A young man standing behind the camera tore the earphones from his head and stepped angrily forward. “Goddammit, we can’t use that. Why can’t you keep these people in line, Wally?”
The newsman turned a cold eye on the speaker. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what they’re going to say?” Then to the girl, “Iris, honey, we’re taping this to show on television during the family hour. We don’t want that crap about your sex life. Now I’ll ask you the question again and you tell me how you remember Billy’s generosity or the way he loved animals or some shit like that. Got it?”
“Okay,” the girl said, unflustered. “For a minute I forgot we were on television.”
Hardeman smiled and started to walk away as Wally Mayor resumed his on-camera smile and picked up the interview again.
Someone moved up alongside him. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Dean Hardeman?”
“Yes, I am.” Hardeman studied the young man who had spoken. He wore a neatly trimmed black beard and a yellow blazer that identified him as a member of the Channel Six news team.
“I’m Stan Yarborough,” he said, “Wally Mayor’s director.”
“Glad to meet you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been recognized in public.”
“There was a picture of you last year in the alumni newsletter.”
“You went to Columbia?”
“Class of ’62.”
“Journalism?”
“That was it. I read all three of your books. Enjoyed them a lot.”
“Thank you,” Hardeman said. He glanced over to where Wally Mayor had wrapped up the interview. The blond girl looked back at him. “I was watching your man work.”
Stan Yarborough lowered his voice. “In real life Wally Mayor is a certified son of a bitch, but he’s got the kind of charisma that comes out through a television screen and grabs the viewers. We’re a small independent in a seven-channel market, but our late news rates right up there with the networks.”
“Congratulations.”
Yarborough grinned. “I didn’t intend to deliver a sales pitch for Channel Six. What I wanted to ask is whether you’d mind doing a short interview with Wally. I understand you’re writing a book on Billy Lockett.”
“Sure, I guess so.”
“That’s great. I’ll make sure we get in a good plug for the book.”
“It couldn’t hurt,” Hardeman said.
“I’ll go set things up and get back to you in a few minutes.”
As Stan Yarborough walked over to talk to his newscaster, the blond girl from the earlier interview came over to where Hardeman was standing.
“Hi, I hear you’re a book writer.”
“Don’t tell me you read the Columbia alumni news too?”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. A bad joke.”
“Are you a very famous writer?”
“Not so very.”
“You must be, or they wouldn’t be putting you on television.”
“They put you on television. Are you famous?”
“That’s different. They just put me on because I’m pretty and because I knew Billy. You didn’t know Billy, did you?”
“No.”
“And you’re not pretty, so you must be famous.”
Hardeman chuckled. “I was once, I guess.”
“I knew it,” said the girl. “I love writers. They’re so intelligent.”
“Do you know a lot of writers?”
“I don’t know any writers, but I’ve always wanted to. Now I know one. Almost.”
“Let’s make it official. I’m Dean Hardeman.”
“Hi, Dean. I’m Iris Ames. You’re not from out here, are you?”
“No, I’m from New York. How did you know?”
“You look kind of, well, formal for California. That vest and everything.”
“Too stuffy?”
“A little. People are more laid back in California. If you were going to be around for a while, I could show you the kind of clothes you ought to wear.”
“I might just take you up on that offer.”
“Well …?”
“Well what?”
“Aren’t you going to write down my number?”
“Oh, sure.” Hardeman pulled out a folded sheet of paper and wrote down the telephone number Iris gave him.
“Don’t call too early. I like to sleep in.”
“I’ll remember that.”
A group of young people came by and called to Iris to come and get in line with them. She waved and started toward them, then turned back to give Hardeman a look that he could only interpret as raw sexuality.
By God, he thought, do you suppose I’ve just acquired my first groupie?
Stan Yarborough came back and told him they were ready for the interview. Down the slope people were coming out of the chapel and the line of youngsters began to file in.
• • •
“He did look nice, didn’t he, Tom?” said Mrs. Lockett as she and her husband came out into the sunlight.
“Yes, Helen, he looked fine.” Thomas Lockett put an arm around his wife and steered her onto the lawn in front of the chapel, away from the chattering line of people who were waiting to go inside and look at their son’s body.
“I had no idea there would be so many people here,” said Billy’s mother.
“Neither did I. Helen, what would you think about leaving right now? Going straight back to the hotel and taking the first plane home?”
“You mean not wait for the graveside ceremony?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“Yes, I suppose that might be best. There’s nothing more we can do here.”
“I’ll go and find our driver and tell him we’re ready to leave.”
Thomas Lockett started to walk away but stopped short when he saw Conn Driscoll coming toward them from the direction of the television truck.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lockett,” Driscoll said, “I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”
“What for?” said Billy’s father. “Do you want to put us on television?”
“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am that — ”
“Spare us your sympathy,” Thomas Lockett said. “My wife and I are leaving now. I’m sure you and Fessler can carry on without us.”
Mr. Lockett spotted the driver of their Greenacre limousine then and waved him over. He took his wife’s arm and escorted her to the waiting automobile without looking again at Conn Driscoll.
• • •
Standing in the line of chattering young rock fans filing in to view the body of Billy Lockett, Rick Girodian found himself feeling steadily more depressed. He was not pleased about giving out that crap on television about what great buddies he and Billy were. Also, he did not want to be associated with these juveniles who were treating the funeral like some kind of rock-culture happening.
“I hear they had to rebuild his whole face.”
Rick shook off his own thoughts and turned to look at the boy who had spoken. “What’s that?”
“Billy’s face. I heard it was so smashed up they had to work from photographs and make the whole thing over out of wax. Dished out his skull, I guess, and laid the new face in there so he’d look presentable in the coffin.”
Rick tried to turn away, but the boy clutched at his sleeve to hold his attention.
“Hitting the ground the way he did will split you open like a watermelon. I’d like to see what’s left down below the neck, but you can bet they’ll keep that covered up.”
Rick pulled his arm away from the young man and stepped out of line. He walked slowly across the grass toward the grave site, breathing deeply. The scent of flowers was in the morning air, along with the tang of burning marijuana.
• • •
Driscoll watched uncomfortably as Dean Hardeman walked up the slope toward him. He realized he had been avoiding the author all morning. He just could not feel easy talking to a man whose wife he had screwed the night befo
re. Ex-wife, even.
“How’s it going, Conn?” Hardeman said when he reached Driscoll’s side.
“So far, so good.”
“Wasn’t that Billy’s mother and father I saw leaving in the limousine?”
“That was them.”
“How come they left early?”
“I got the impression they weren’t too happy about the sendoff Billy is getting.”
Hardeman looked around at the colorful young crowd swarming over the cemetery. “You’ve got to admit that this isn’t everybody’s idea of what a funeral ought to be.”
“I admit it,” Driscoll said. What the hell, he thought, might as well get to it. “I saw Joyce yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“She says she’ll see you if you still want to.”
“Hey, nice going, Conn. Er, what do you think … I mean, what was her general attitude?”
“I really couldn’t say, Dean. You’ll have to check that out for yourself.”
“Yeah, sure I will. I really sound like a love-struck high school kid, don’t I.” He glanced up the slope toward the fence where a boy and girl lay on a blanket, their bodies pressed close together. “No, I take that back. Today’s high school kids have a lot more poise than I’ve shown. Anyway, thanks for playing John Alden for me, Conn. I appreciate it.”
John Alden, Driscoll thought sourly, a hell of an appropriate allusion. He said, “Don’t mention it. Who’s that Wally Mayor is interviewing now?”
Hardeman followed Driscoll’s eyes to where the newsman stood before a low hedge talking to a rangy man with a bony face and thinning brown hair. “I don’t know. Let’s walk over and listen.”
As they drew near, Stan Yarborough pointed his finger and Wally Mayor began to speak earnestly to the camera.
“I’m talking now to Nat Spieth, the jumpmaster who was in the airplane with Billy Lockett last Sunday, the day of the fateful jump.” He turned to the other man. “Mr. Spieth, what were your thoughts up there alone in the sky with Billy Lockett? Was there any premonition of trouble?”
“No, none at all. Everything was going smooth.”
“What kind of a person was Billy Lockett?”
“Just a nice, normal kid, that’s all I can say. He was a big star and all, but you’d never know it to talk to him. He was just like anybody else. He was a good jumper too. A natural. One of the best I’ve ever seen.”
“Did Billy say anything to you just before he took that last jump?”
Nat Spieth seemed to search his memory. “There was just the usual kidding around we always did, Billy and me.”
“Billy wasn’t nervous about jumping?”
“No, never. If you know what you’re doing up there, there’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“The reports say Billy apparently struck some part of the airplane as he jumped. How could that have happened to an experienced jumper?”
“What I figure is a freak air current caught him just as he pushed off. One of those things. People can get killed in their own bathrooms.”
Wally Mayor’s eyes flicked over to his director, who was gesturing toward some activity outside the chapel. “Thank you, Mr. Spieth,” he said wrapping the interview up quickly. He beckoned to the cameramen. “Let’s go, they’re getting ready to carry out the coffin. I want shots of the pallbearers and some reactions from the crowd.”
As the Channel Six crew moved away, a group of teenagers stepped in to get Nat Spieth’s autograph.
• • •
Al Fessler trudged along the path leading from the chapel up to the canopy-covered grave. He gripped the cold brass handle of Billy’s casket and wished it were all over. He suspected, despite Conn Driscoll’s assurances, that the three musicians serving as pallbearers were on something. They had the typical droop-eyed, slack-lipped look of pill heads. Al just hoped they didn’t freak out and drop the coffin or something. Luckily, two Greenacre employees were serving as anchor men, one on either side.
The shaggy rock group waiting at the grave with plugged-in instruments watched impatiently as the procession approached.
“Why are they draggin’ it out that way?” the bass player muttered.
“Dignity, man, it’s a funeral,” explained the drummer.
They all giggled at that.
One of the television crew came up the slope pointing his camera at them. The group took this as a signal to begin and whanged into their latest hit.
The crowd surged forward.
At his vantage point up near the fence, Conn Driscoll winced and turned away.
Somehow the pallbearers made their way through the crowd and deposited the casket safely beside the open grave. The sounds blasting from the amplifiers seemed to grow even louder. The crowd responded with enthusiastic screams. Driscoll pushed his way close enough to tell the scheduled graveside speakers to forget it. Nobody here was going to listen to eulogies.
As Driscoll retreated to a safe distance, a pale girl with stringy black hair dashed from the crowd and threw herself across Billy’s coffin, screaming hysterically. The television cameras recorded her grief happily, and Driscoll had to admit it was effective even though he hadn’t staged it.
After about half an hour of graveside entertainment the crew from Channel Six loaded their equipment on the truck and moved out. Wally Mayor had long since departed in his sports car. With nobody filming their efforts, the musicians soon packed it in. In a surprisingly short time the cemetery was empty and quiet. The crowd was gone, but the youngsters had left their mark.
The neat green lawn with its tasteful bronze plaques was littered in all directions with wine bottles, Coke bottles, beer cans, Pepsi cans, Big Mac wrappers, Colonel Sanders buckets, paper napkins, wax cups, plastic straws, odds and ends of clothing, and bits of food. As soon as the last of the Billy Lockett fans had gone, the Greenacre cleanup crew moved in and began restoring the memorial park to something near its former condition.
Not quite everybody had left with the crowd. Conn Driscoll stood with his back against the iron fence at the top of the slope. Kitty Girodian stood beside him. Below them workmen lowered the casket into the grave. When that was done they pulled the bright green Astroturf carpet off the mound of dirt and began to shovel it in on Billy Lockett.
Kitty was watching Driscoll’s face. She said, “Is there any reason you have to stick around now?”
Driscoll’s eyes ranged over the clutter left by the funeral fans. “I suppose not,” he said. “There are some details to be wrapped up with the funeral director, but I’m not really in the mood to talk to him now. I imagine he feels the same way.”
“You know what I’d like to do?” Kitty said. “If you’re not busy with something else?”
“What?”
“Go for a drive. Up into the mountains.”
“What for?”
“I just feel like it. There’s something about being up in the mountains with the crisp cool air and the tangy smell of the evergreens that makes you feel so …”
“Clean?” Driscoll suggested.
Kitty smiled at him. “That’s it. Clean. What do you say?”
“I say let’s go.”
Driscoll took the girl’s arm and they headed for the parking lot, not looking back at the grave.
CHAPTER 19
The funeral of Billy Lockett, in terms of results, was everything its promoters could have hoped for. Coverage by the media was excellent. Both Los Angeles papers gave the story a featured position, complete with photos. Both the AP and UPI had a staffer on the scene. Channel Six gave the funeral generous air time on all of its weekend news shows. On Monday, ten seconds of film showing the groupie throwing herself across the coffin appeared on CBS’s Walter Cronkite broadcast.
Interest generated by Billy’s spectacular death and nearly as spectacular funeral sent sales of his records zooming. This provided a windfall for his old company, Gamma Records, which was quick to re-release everything from its inventory with Billy Lockett’s n
ame on it. Al Fessler, for whom Billy would now never record, was pained to see the profits going to Gamma, but he reminded himself that eventually he would reap his reward.
A number of well-known rock groups who had previously been noncommittal suddenly found they would be available for the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert in September. Conn Driscoll enjoyed the rare luxury of sitting back while the managers of the groups came to him. Overnight the name Billy Lockett had become pure gold, and everybody was eager to stake out a little piece of the claim.
Two movie producers were vying for the chance to make a movie based on Billy’s life and death. Driscoll stalled them both, waiting for their bids to go up, as he knew they would. Meanwhile, he gave the go-ahead for an animated series to be shown on Saturday morning television.
In supermarkets and sidewalk newsstands across the country multiple Billy Locketts smiled out from the covers of fan magazines. The garish titles — I Was Billy’s Last Love, Billy Lockett’s Forgotten Child, Billy’s Incurable Disease — and the pallid articles inside had little to do with reality, but they would sell T-shirts and trinkets and tickets to the concert.
More thoughtful articles appeared in magazines like New Times and Esquire and Rolling Stone. These largely condemned the Billy Lives! phenomenon as a ripoff, yet each did its part to help build the Billy myth. Radio talk shows in Los Angeles and other cities filled many hours with pro-Billy and anti-Billy phone callers.
The posters, the lockets, the T-shirts, and the other official Billy Lockett merchandise was selling at a rate that gladdened the heart of Conn Driscoll. At first he tried to discourage the pirates who were cranking out their own schlock with Billy’s name or likeness on it, but he was soon overwhelmed. The stores were full of unauthorized Billy trinkets like a plaster Billy death mask to hang on the wall, and a see-through Billy jockstrap that was popular in the gay men’s shops. Even the Billy Skydiver Doll that Driscoll had nixed originally was in the stores now, a hot item with the five-to-twelve age group. Driscoll had given up trying to collect a fee from any of these unsanctioned items and settled for the added free publicity.
Another unexpected phenomenon was the Billy Lockett fan clubs that had sprung into existence all over the country. They already had a national newsletter (Billygram) and were adding chapters in foreign countries. Their main activity seemed to be writing fan letters to Billy Lockett, eerily ignoring the fact that he was dead. The letters were delivered to Al Fessler, who turned them over unread to Conn Driscoll. Driscoll found that reading the childish messages (“… and please send me something you wear close to your body …”) made him feel creepy. He dumped the lot with a mailing service, giving instructions to send a wallet-size picture of Billy to everyone who enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope.
Billy Lives Page 15
