Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  Al’s mouth worked, and the muscles of his throat contracted as he struggled to get the words out. “But … Why, Madeline? Why?”

  “Because Billy Lockett was the only man who ever treated me the way I wanted to be treated. He made me feel all woman. I loved him.”

  An agonized groan came from deep in Al Fessler’s chest. He slumped back in the seat and stared up at the curtained stage without seeing it.

  “I’m going home now,” Madeline said. “Goodbye, Al.”

  She rose gracefully and made her way back to the exit. Al did not turn to see her go.

  The curtain moved at the side of the stage and Joel Nimmo came out. He was dressed in slacks and a sport shirt and carried the guitar in a case. He looked surprised to see Al Fessler sitting alone.

  “I’m ready to go, Mr. Fessler,” the boy said.

  Al answered with an effort to keep his voice level. “Look, why don’t you go on back to the hotel. I’ll meet you there in a while.”

  “I thought we were going to your place,” Joel said.

  “There’s been a change in plans. Go on, I’ll see you later. Don’t forget the hat and shades.”

  Joel Nimmo looked at Al questioningly for a moment, but he obediently pulled on a stocking cap and tucked his blond hair out of sight. He put on the dark glasses, and the resemblance to Billy Lockett was gone. When he saw that Al had nothing more to say, the boy left.

  Al Fessler sat alone with his head bowed for a long time.

  CHAPTER 30

  Joyce Hardeman’s smile faded when she opened the door to her apartment and saw Conn Driscoll’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” she said at once.

  “What’s right?” he countered. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course.” She stood aside, and Driscoll walked past her and dropped heavily onto the couch.

  “Is there any Scotch left?” he said.

  “I’ll mix you one.”

  Driscoll lit a cigarette, found it bitter, and ground it out immediately in the ash tray.

  Joyce returned carrying his drink. “Want to tell me about it?”

  Before Driscoll could speak, the telephone rang. He looked at Joyce, and she shook her head. They stayed motionless while the phone rang six times, then stopped.

  “How can you do that?” Driscoll said.

  “It’s easy once you’ve determined who’s going to be master in the house, you or the telephone.” Joyce walked over and lifted the receiver. She listened for a moment, then laid it down gently next to the base. “Now we won’t be interrupted. You were about to say …?”

  “For one thing, Al Fessler is missing,” he said.

  “Missing?”

  “Nobody has seen him since last Friday. The concert is the day after tomorrow, there are ten million details to take care of, and nobody to take care of them but me.”

  “I don’t understand,” Joyce said. “Al Fessler missing? What happened?”

  Driscoll took a long swallow of the drink and smiled gratefully at Joyce. “It happened last Friday. Al asked me and Madeline, that’s his wife, to come to a recording studio for a preview of the big mystery act he’s had me promoting for weeks. Al does the whole number on us with a stage, curtain, lights, and loudspeakers. You’ll never guess what he had for us.”

  “I’m sure I won’t,” Joyce said.

  “He had a kid who looked almost exactly like Billy Lockett. The kid sang Billy’s songs in Billy’s voice, wearing a Billy jumpsuit. This is the big surprise Al is going to spring at the concert.”

  “My God, that’s appalling.”

  “I’ve been in this business a long time,” Driscoll said, “and I’ve built up a high tolerance for hype, but this was too much even for me. What Al wants to do is send this kid, this Billy lookalike, on a tour right after the concert and milk all the dollars he can out of the publicity.”

  Joyce Hardeman was watching him carefully. “That certainly makes Al Fessler out to be a son of a bitch, but really, what does it have to do with you?”

  “Al asked me to sign on as a flack for the kid’s tour. Offered me a piece of the action.”

  “And?”

  “And I didn’t have the guts to tell him no. As disgusted as I was by the idea, I began to see all that money flowing in, and even though I wanted to tell Al Fessler to go to hell, I couldn’t do it.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him I’d think it over. Good old wishy-washy Conn Driscoll.”

  “All this was last Friday?”

  “Yes, and now I can’t find him. He hasn’t been in his office since, and according to Madeline, he hasn’t been home either.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Right now I’m working out of Al’s office, trying to hold everything together until the damn concert is over.”

  “Couldn’t you just … walk away from it?”

  Driscoll looked down into his glass for a long moment before answering. “No, I couldn’t. The word sounds strange coming from me, I suppose, but I have a responsibility to Al and to this damn concert. For better or worse, I’m part of it to the bitter end.”

  Driscoll swallowed what was left of his Scotch. “Can I have another?”

  Joyce took his glass and went behind the breakfast bar. While she was mixing the drink, Driscoll saw a copy of Billy Lives! by Dean Hardeman on an end table. He picked it up and was leafing through it when she returned.

  “I see you got the book,” he said.

  “Yes. It’s quite good. I guess I didn’t really believe Dean could still write until I read it. How is it selling?”

  “Like crazy. They’re already into the second printing.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “Have you seen him? Dean?”

  “Not since our disastrous dinner at Henri’s. Have you?”

  “A few times. California seems to agree with him. He’s swimming every day, developing a nice tan, and looks in great shape.”

  “Swimming?” she said. “He didn’t even know how when I knew him.”

  “He must have learned somewhere. He’s writing too. Already making notes on a new book, he tells me.”

  “He isn’t planning to stay out here, is he?”

  “I asked him that,” Driscoll said. “He says not a chance. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. He’s going back right after the concert.”

  Joyce nodded slowly. “Yes, I think that’s where Dean belongs.

  Driscoll sat for a moment playing with his drink. Then he got up and walked over to Joyce’s chair. He took her hands and pulled her up to stand facing him.

  “Let’s go to bed,” he said.

  “Just like that? No sweet talk? No flowers? No muted violins?”

  “I’m not in a mood for games today, Joyce.”

  She regarded him levelly. “All right. You know the way.”

  Always before, their lovemaking had been a relaxed, shared experience in which they delighted in discovering each other. This time Driscoll’s need was too urgent for sharing. He used the woman’s body to calm his own tensions. He took her quickly and roughly.

  Afterward they lay side by side in the bed. Driscoll felt loose and relaxed, as though the wires holding him together had been slackened.

  “I didn’t intend it to be like that,” he said. “I just seemed to lose control of everything. Next time, I promise, it’ll be your turn.”

  Several minutes passed with neither of them speaking. Then Joyce said, very softly, “Conn, there isn’t going to be a next time.”

  Her words did not register immediately. “What?”

  “This is the end of it for us.”

  He sat up in bed and looked at her, serene and beautiful on the satin pillow. “Just because we miss connections one time in bed, you’re going to call the whole thing off?”

  “It’s not that,” she said. “You and I are great in bed, but aside from that we haven’t a whole lot in common.”

  “How the hell wo
uld you know?” he said, getting angry. “You’ve never wanted to do anything else.”

  “I have my reasons,” she said.

  “Am I going to hear what they are, or do I have to guess?”

  “I’ll tell you if you insist. You awaken too many memories in me, Conn — the way you talk, the way you think, yes, even the way you make love. You’re like a younger Dean Hardeman. Today you came to me not out of love, but for sustenance. That’s what Dean used to do — try to suck the strength out of me when he felt his own going. I am not a fountain of strength, Conn. I have my own needs, and I want them satisfied.”

  “Joyce, you’re wrong about me. I never thought of you like that. I found you the most exciting, stimulating woman I’ve ever met.” Driscoll continued to argue, but his words lacked conviction, and at last even he could hear it. He lapsed into a gloomy silence.

  “You’re romanticizing us, Conn,” Joyce said softly. “I was a good lay, which is not all that hard to find in Hollywood. And I was able to talk to you in grammatical English, which is somewhat rarer, but hardly unique. I found the same qualities in you. You’re a good lover and a good talker. But you know in your heart that it was never going to be a long-term arrangement. I’ll even bet you had started to worry a little about how you were going to break it off when the time came without hurting me. Well, the time has come, and you’re off the hook.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Driscoll kept the hurt expression on his face. He was damned if he would give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right. He would hold on to what remained of his dignity. Walk away wounded but upright.

  He got out of bed and dressed quickly. Joyce slipped on her robe and went into the living room. Driscoll walked past her, then paused in the doorway and turned back.

  “Are you sure this is the way you want it?” he said.

  She stood across the room, back straight, arms at her sides. “Yes, Conn. This is the way it has to be.”

  For a moment Driscoll thought he saw a shadow of mockery in Joyce’s sad smile. Something about the scene … the dialog … Abruptly, a picture from the Late Late Show flashed across his mind. George Brent walking away from Bette Davis. He turned away quickly, afraid he would smile and break the mood, and closed the door behind him.

  Riding the elevator down to the lobby, Driscoll did allow himself to smile. The woman had read him like a showdown poker hand. And, yes, he had begun to wonder lately how he was going to ease out of the relationship. In a few days he would send her a huge bunch of flowers along with a note. Say goodbye properly to a truly remarkable woman.

  Driscoll was still smiling when he stepped out of the elevator, crossed the lobby toward the building entrance, and almost ran into Dean Hardeman.

  The smile congealed on his face. His throat clamped shut as though someone had grabbed him by the windpipe. “Hello, Dean,” he got out finally.

  Hardeman’s eyes met his, then ranged upward. “Hello, Conn.”

  For one of the few times in his life, Conn Driscoll was speechless. He could only nod dumbly and continue out of the building and down the walk.

  • • •

  Dean Hardeman watched the younger man walk stiffly away, a small smile on his lips. He understood now some things that had puzzled him. He turned away from the glass door and crossed to the security guard’s desk.

  “Will you ring Mrs. Hardeman’s apartment, please.”

  “You can use the house phone, sir, there on the wall.”

  “I think her telephone is out of order,” Hardeman said.

  The guard jabbed a button on a panel before him, and in a moment Joyce’s voice came over the speaker. He handed the microphone to Hardeman.

  “Joyce, this is Dean. Can I see you for a few minutes?”

  “Dean? I … I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I know,” he said. “This won’t take long.”

  “All right. Give me a minute, then come up.”

  When she opened the door for him Joyce was wearing a soft white sweater and black pants. Her hair had a disarranged look, as though she hadn’t brushed it out thoroughly after pulling on the sweater. The door to the bedroom was closed, Hardeman noted. On an end table was his book, next to it a glass with ice melting into a half-inch of whisky.

  Hardeman walked across the room and picked up the telephone receiver. He set it back in the cradle. “I tried to call you,” he said.

  “I must have knocked it off while I was cleaning,” Joyce said, watching him warily.

  “There are a couple of things I wanted to say to you, Joyce, and since I’m going back to New York Sunday, I thought I’d better get them said.”

  She nodded, not completely trusting him.

  “The first thing is an apology. A specific apology for being an asshole at the restaurant the other night, and a blanket apology for all the other times I’ve been an asshole in the last five years. Better make that the last sixteen years to include the time we were married.”

  “Dean, it’s not necessary …” she began.

  He held up a hand. “I know an apology is pretty cheap payment for some of the stunts I pulled, but at least it’s something. The second thing I’m here to do is make you a promise. There won’t be any more stunts. Ever.”

  “I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”

  “What I mean is I’m finally straight in my head about you and me, Joyce. I had a make-believe world for myself, and I wanted to fit you into it. When you didn’t always fit, I tried to force you. I hurt you badly, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do. When I lost you, I would not believe it was really over. I thought I could get back my whole make-believe world if I could just get you back. I know now it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t ever have worked. It’s time for me to live in the real world.”

  When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet with tears. “Dean … oh, Dean, why couldn’t we ever talk this way before?”

  “Maybe it just wasn’t time before. Now it is. I’m saying goodbye for real, Joyce, and you know something? I feel closer to you than I ever did.”

  Joyce looked over at the unfinished drink sitting on the end table, then back at Hardeman. “You know something else? So do I. Would a kiss be out of order?”

  “A kiss would be much appreciated.”

  She moved into his arms, and he kissed her. The kiss was soft and gentle, and it said some of the things they could not put into words.

  They stepped apart.

  “Goodbye, Joyce,” he said.

  “Goodbye, Dean. I’ll be looking for your next book.”

  “It’ll be along.” He looked her over one last time, smiled at her, and walked away.

  CHAPTER 31

  On the morning of the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert Conn Driscoll was in the office early, feverishly working to untangle all the last-minute lashups. By this time he had expected to be finished with his part of the job and to be taking it easy for the first time in months. The sudden disappearance of Al Fessler had drastically changed the picture. Driscoll was winding up a full week in Al’s office handling all the late details that he would much rather have ignored. But somebody had to handle them.

  After the first couple of hours, he began to feel that the telephone was permanently attached to his ear. Many of the incoming calls were people pleading for freebies. There was a very limited number of complimentary concert tickets to be passed out, and most of these went to members of the media. It was left to Driscoll to deal with all the actors, politicians, athletes, socialites, and old pals who felt that for one reason or another they should be let in free to the sold-out concert. For a very few of the callers, the ones Driscoll could count on for a return favor, he managed to dig up a comp ticket. For all the rest, he simply said that Al Fessler had sole control of the ticket distribution (a lie), and that Al could not be reached (true).

  There were other problems such as a threatened strike by the Forum concessionaires at the last minute. This Driscoll averted simply by giving in to the union
’s demands. It would cut deeply into Fessler’s share of the concession profits, but if Al wanted to argue about it, he should have been there.

  Driscoll was still having trouble working out the logistics to squeeze Al’s new act, Joel Nimmo, into the concert lineup. Although he had not heard from Al since the big unveiling at the recording studio, Driscoll had to assume the boy would go on as scheduled. He had better go on, as the big Mystery Act had become the focal point of the advertising.

  With a felt-tip pen Driscoll marked up a seating diagram of the Forum. The stage would be set up in the middle of what was normally the basketball floor when the Lakers played there. The performers would enter and exit through aisles leading to the dressing rooms under the stands. In order to save the time needed for the new act, one group would have to be waiting, ready to charge on stage as the other came off. There would be no time for encores. Driscoll had briefed the stage manager, a nervous man named McGee, who promised to do his best to keep them moving. The master of ceremonies was to be a hyperactive disk jockey from a local rock station who called himself Tiger Pawes. Driscoll had urged him to keep the introductions short and snappy. The Tiger yeah-yeah’d him, but Driscoll was not sure he’d been listening.

  As if he didn’t have enough problems, an organization calling itself the Third World Liberation Front was threatening to demonstrate outside the Forum the night of the concert. As nearly as Driscoll could make out, their complaint was that no American Indian groups were included in the lineup of talent for the concert. Whenever Driscoll pointed out the scarcity of authentic Indian rock groups, the TWLF spokesperson (as she insisted on being called) would switch the subject to Rhodesia or Panama or Attica. Driscoll never did figure out what the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert had to do with any of these causes. He referred the whole matter to the Inglewood Police, whose jurisdiction included the Forum.

  In one way, Driscoll was thankful for the chaotic activity. It kept his mind off Joyce Hardeman. Even though he saw the wisdom of breaking it off now, he saw it with his mind. His body missed Joyce painfully.