“Now, Rick, I went over all that with you at the time. I had no choice, you know that.”
“We’ll let that go for now. What I want to talk about is the list of songs I’m supposed to sing at the concert.”
“What about them?”
“I’m not going to do them, that’s what. I don’t sing those chestnuts any more. They’re dated. I’ve got new material that says something about where I’m at today, and that’s what I’m going to do at the concert.”
Keep your temper, Al told himself. Remember, you do owe the kid something. He said, “Rick, the songs on that list, they’re the big ones you did when you were working with Billy.”
“Don’t you think I know that? I hear those songs in my sleep. I’m sick of them. What I’m telling you is that I don’t do them any more. I’ve got new material that’s better.”
“That may be, Rick, but new material ain’t what the kids are going to expect to hear from you. They want the golden oldies you did with Billy. Don’t forget, this is Billy’s concert.”
“The hell it is! Billy’s dead!”
Al Fessler’s expression hardened, the tone of his voice chilled. “That is not what it says on our concert posters. Take a look for yourself. Billy Lives!”
“I don’t care about that hype, I care about my career. I will not do those old songs.”
Fessler leaned across the desk, putting his face close to the younger man’s. His voice was cold as gunmetal. “All right, Rick, you don’t have to sing anything you don’t want to. You also don’t have to be in my concert. Maybe your career is going so great you don’t need the exposure. Okay. My concert don’t need you either.”
Although there was little change in Rick Girodian’s scowl, Fessler could sense that his rebellion was over.
“How about doing just one of my new ones?”
“You do your and Billy’s songs, just like on the list. If there’s time, maybe we can work something out.”
Rick’s dark eyes wavered, then looked away. He was beaten.
What the hell, Al thought, throw the kid a bone. “Listen, Rick, after this concert you’re going to be a hot property again. You’re bound to land a fat new record contract, and then you can cut all the new material you want to. Play ball with me now, and it will pay off for you later.”
Rick gave him a fractional nod, then got up and went out of the office.
Al drew a long, relieved breath. It would be all right now. He had no worries that Rick would doublecross him and pull some switches at the concert. The kid was hard to get along with sometimes, but he was a pro. He knew you didn’t cross a promoter unless you were such a big superstar that you didn’t need anybody. Rick Girodian was a long ways from being that big.
A commotion from the outer office brought Al out of his reverie. He walked over to the door to see what was happening. He stopped short when he saw five young girls and two boys, all wearing Billy T-shirts, kneeling on the carpet of the outer office. They were fingering their Billy Lockett lockets like crucifixes and mumbling incoherently. The only word Al could make out was the repeated name: “Billy.”
Al looked over at his secretary, who was watching the kneeling young people worriedly.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “They just came in, asked for Billy, and started … doing what they’re doing.”
Al took a firm stance. “Hey, you kids. You can’t stay in here. We have work to do.” As he spoke, the door opened and a half dozen more came in.
From outside in the courtyard a youthful voice began to call rhythmically, “Billy … Billy … Billy …” More voices took up the call, and soon it sounded like the cheering section at a high school basketball game. Only more ominous.
“Billy … Billy … We want Billy!”
The ones who had been kneeling had risen now and were facing him. Their faces were empty, their eyes bright and fastened on Al’s.
“Look, fun is fun, kids, but how about going somewhere else, okay?” Even in his own ears Al’s words had no conviction.
“We … want … Billy!”
More of them were coming into the office now, moving toward him.
“Billy … Billy … BILLY!”
Jesus Christ, thought Al, they were completely freaked out. Call the cops? No good. A rock promoter can in no way afford to become known as a friend of the police. Anyway, these crazies looked like they might tear him apart before the cops could get here.
“We want Billy! We want Billy!”
The outer office was jammed now, and still they kept pushing in from the courtyard. Al’s secretary had retreated into a corner behind her desk. Her eyes were wide, staring. She had both hands pressed to her mouth. Al was afraid she would scream and touch off a riot.
As the chanting youngsters kept coming relentlessly, Al backed into his own office. He held up his hands in a peacemaking gesture, talking all the while, saying anything that came into his head, trying to halt the oncoming surge of bodies.
“Billy … Billy … Billy … BILLY!”
Before he realized it, Al had backed into the wall opposite the office door. Something moved as his shoulder blades pushed into it. The plywood cutout. He whirled and seized the effigy in both hands, turning it around to face the chanting mass of young people who were flooding into his office.
“Here!” he shouted. “You want Billy? Here’s Billy. Take him!”
He thrust the wooden cutout forward. The surge of movement in the office and the chanting stopped as though a switch had been thrown.
“Go ahead,” said Al, speaking quietly, reasonably. “Take him.”
After a long ten seconds ticked by a thin girl in a Billy T-shirt stepped forward. She extended her arms slowly and took the wooden Billy gently, reverently from Al’s hands. She turned and walked slowly back out the door. The others parted for her like the Red Sea, filling in behind, and following her through the outer office, into the courtyard, and away. In minutes the office was empty and quiet, as though the terrible children had never been there.
Al looked down and saw his hands trembling. He gripped one hand with the other and held them until they were still. Then he went through the doorway to the outer office. His secretary was still standing backed into the corner where he had last seen her. Her eyes still held fear.
“Why don’t you go on home, honey,” Al said as gently as possible. “I’ll close up here.”
It took several seconds for his words to register. The girl looked at him, gave him an uneven smile, and nodded, unwilling to test her voice. She quickly straightened her desk, picked up her bag, and left him alone.
When the girl was gone, Al let himself relax. He walked back into his own office and dropped into the chair. He did not want to think about the deeper implications of what he had just seen. Put it down to a bunch of crazy kids. Nevertheless, it had left him shaken.
Had Conn Driscoll been here, thought Al, he probably would have gotten some publicity mileage out of the thing. Called the papers, got photographers over. Maybe even a television crew.
Or maybe even Driscoll, when he looked into the empty eyes of those children, would have felt the terror.
CHAPTER 24
The afternoon was bright and cheerful, but Conn Driscoll’s mood was dismal as he drove into Hollywood. This trip was one he would much rather have avoided. He had, in fact, been avoiding it for more than two weeks, ever since Joyce had told him of the disastrous dinner at Henri’s with Dean Hardeman. Driscoll had tried to telephone since then, but there had been no answer from the author. Maybe Hardeman had been so deeply involved in the book that he could not be bothered answering the phone. That was what Driscoll wanted to believe, but in his heart he knew better. After the call from Al Fessler yesterday, there could be no more avoiding the issue. Getting Dean Hardeman out here was Driscoll’s responsibility, and now he had to follow through.
He found a parking place on Franklin and walked the half block back to the apart
ment-hotel he had found for Hardeman. It was an L-shaped building, two floors with a small swimming pool tucked into the angle of the L. The manager was a friend of Driscoll’s.
Hardeman’s small apartment was on the second floor at the rear of the building. A good quiet place to work, so Driscoll had thought at the time.
He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. Across the railing and one floor down, sunlight danced off the surface of the pool. Driscoll hammered on the door with the meat end of his fist. There were vague rustling sounds inside but still no response. More hammering. Same indistinct sounds.
Driscoll went down to the manager’s apartment and got the key.
“Need any help?” asked his friend.
“I don’t think so.”
Driscoll climbed the stairs back up to the second floor and went down the walkway to Hardeman’s door. He caught himself almost wishing he would find Dean Hardeman murdered by some mysterious intruder. That would get everybody off the hook.
Shaking off the unworthy thought, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Something clunked against the base of the door and rolled silently away across the carpet. A whiskey bottle. One of several.
The room stank of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. Bottles and wadded paper littered the floor. The contents of a torn sack of Cheese Puffs were scattered across the room, some ground into the carpet. The sofa bed was pulled out, sheets and blanket twisted into a tangle. Dean Hardeman sprawled across the bed wearing only boxer shorts and a pair of blue socks. His face was dark with an uneven growth of beard. His mouth was open. He was snoring.
“Dean,” Driscoll called.
A slight shifting of the shoulders.
“Dean!” louder.
A muffled groan.
“Goddamn it,” Driscoll muttered through clenched teeth. He looked around and spotted the table with the typewriter on it. And another empty bottle. The table was covered with a profusion of papers. Driscoll poked through them gingerly. Notes, outlines, descriptions, manuscript pages. No semblance of order as far as he could see.
He turned and looked back at the prostrate author. “Goddamn it,” he said again. How the hell do you go about reviving a drunk. In the movies a dash of cold water in the face always seemed to do the trick. It was worth a try.
He went into the tiny kitchen and filled a tall glass with water from the tap, then carried it back to where Hardeman lay, now mumbling in his sleep. Driscoll held the glass out at arm’s length, then turned it upside down letting the water splash over Hardeman’s face and chest.
It worked just like in the movies. Hardeman jerked into a sitting position, spluttering and coughing up the water he had inhaled.
“What the hell? Who’s that?” Comprehension came slowly into the author’s face. He shook his head and blinked several times. “Hello, Conn.”
“You don’t look so good,” Driscoll said.
“I’ll tell you something, I probably look twice as good as I feel.” He touched his head where the hair was wet. “What did you hit me with?”
“A glass of water.”
“Thank God, I thought I was bleeding.” Holding his head with one hand, Hardeman groped on the floor and came up with a bottle. He scowled, seeing that it was empty. “How about a drink? There must be one around here somewhere with something left in it.”
“I don’t want a drink.” Driscoll said.
“What’s the matter, too early for you? What the hell, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”
“I haven’t got time for kidding around, Dean.”
“You’re not going to lecture me, are you?”
“Lecture you? Who the hell do you think I am, your father? I don’t give a damn what you do to yourself unless it concerns my job. Right now my job is to get the book out, and if I have to sober you up to do it, I will. But lectures? Forget it.”
“Wait a minute,” Hardeman said. He rose unsteadily to his feet and went into the bathroom. He closed the door and there was the sound of water running.
Driscoll walked over and pushed open the window that looked out over the walkway to the swimming pool. Pale gray smoke rolled out of the room through the open window. Driscoll leaned out and drew a deep breath of fresh air.
After several minutes Dean Hardeman came back from the bathroom. His eyes were red, his face pale. He seemed to have aged ten years.
“Have a seat,” he said. “If you can find one.”
Driscoll remained standing.
“Oh-oh,” Hardeman said with a shaky grin, “I think you’re mad at me.”
“Dean, we’ve got to talk seriously.”
“I knew it; here it comes. I’m going to get Sermon Number Nine, all about the evils of drink, with pointed references to the last years of Scott Fitzgerald.”
“Maybe that’s what you really want,” Driscoll said levelly, “but you’re not going to get it from me. I’m not interested in making moral judgements, so let’s knock off the bullshit and talk about the book.
Hardeman dropped any attempt at banter. “The book’s all right,” he said. “I’ll get it done.”
“How much have you got finished?”
“That’s hard to answer in actual numbers of pages. Part of it’s in marked up copy, some in rough draft, some still in outline.”
“That’s it on the table, I suppose.”
Hardeman looked over at the jumble of papers. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“It doesn’t look like much.”
“Don’t worry, it’s more than it looks like.”
Driscoll felt strange talking this way to a man who had been his idol, but it had to be done. “You’ve got two weeks to deliver it to the printer.”
“Two weeks! Be serious, man. I can’t possibly finish the thing in two weeks. What do you think I am?”
“I think you’re a professional, and now is the time to prove it.”
“But two weeks!”
Driscoll held his eye. “Dean, that is the latest possible date the publisher can take the manuscript and get a book on the stands in time to do us any good for the concert.”
“That’s right,” Hardeman said, “the whole purpose of writing this book is to sell tickets to your rock concert, isn’t it?”
“You’re damn right it is,” said Driscoll, “and don’t let’s forget it.”
“Okay, okay. But two weeks …”
“If you can’t do it, Dean, give me what you’ve got and I’ll finish the job. One way or another, the printer will get this book on schedule.”
Hardeman scrubbed his fingers through his short gray hair. “The book will be done on time,” he said quietly. “I can do it.”
“I’ve got to be sure,” Driscoll said.
“My word on it.”
Driscoll began to relax. “Thanks, Dean, that’s all I need. Now what do you say we go out and get something to eat?”
“Not a bad idea.”
“There’s a Denny’s two blocks from here. We can walk it, and I’ll buy.”
“You’re on.” Hardeman ran the back of a hand across his stubble of beard. “Let me shower and shave first. We might run into somebody you know.”
Driscoll grinned. “I think my reputation could survive that, but go ahead.”
Hardeman started for the bathroom, then hesitated and looked around at the shambles of the room. “I’d better get the maid up here,” he said. “I’ve kept the poor woman locked out for two weeks.”
“I’ll call down and pass the word,” Driscoll said. You go on and take your shower.”
Fifteen minutes later a much healthier looking Hardeman appeared, and the two men left the apartment together.
At the restaurant Hardeman put away a big plate of scrambled eggs along with a double order of ham and hash browns. Driscoll settled for a Reuben sandwich on toasted rye bread. After the meal they sat back with coffee and cigarettes.
“Pretty juvenile, isn’t it,” Hardeman said, “for a grown man — no, make that a middle-aged man — to go off on
a bender because a woman turns him down.”
“It’s as good a reason as any, I guess,” Driscoll said, not wanting to talk about it.
“She walked out on me, you know. Joyce.”
Driscoll sipped his coffee and said nothing.
“Conn, I sat there with Joyce in that little Frenchy restaurant, and I swear I had no control over the idiotic things that came out of my mouth. I couldn’t have done worse if I’d been trying to say everything wrong.”
“Yeah, well …”
“It’s been that way every damn time I’ve seen her since the divorce. Her cool and poised, me stumbling over my tongue. Grace Kelly and Huntz Hall. I simply could not get the idea out of my head that we were eventually going to get back together. This time, though, I think I finally got the message.”
“How so?” Driscoll asked, because he knew Hardeman wanted him to.
“It wasn’t easy, but at long last I got it through my head that it’s over. Reconciliations do not work. You can’t reheat an old soufflé.” He paused, staring down into his coffee. “Besides, she’s making it with somebody else.”
“Did Joyce say that?” Driscoll asked, keeping it casual.
“She didn’t have to. There are ways a man can tell. But why shouldn’t she? What the hell, Joyce is a healthy, good-looking woman. I never expected her to go into a convent.” He smiled without a lot of conviction. “You know, this is the first time I’ve been able to think lucidly about Joyce being with another man, let alone talk about it. A good sign, wouldn’t you say, doctor?”
“A good sign.” Driscoll stole a glance at his watch.
“Hey, if you’ve got to be somewhere, go ahead. I don’t need any more babysitting. I promise there are no bottles hidden in the chandelier.”
“I do have an appointment this afternoon with people from the Forum.”
“Take off. I’ll have another cup of coffee or two here to clear out the cobwebs and give the maid a chance to shovel the dirt out of my place.”
“If you don’t mind, then …”
“I don’t mind. And, Conn … thanks.”
“Forget it.”
“And don’t worry about the book. The publisher will have it in two weeks. There may be blood on the pages, but he’ll have it.”
Billy Lives Page 19
