Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  There was also his unresolved business with Dean Hardeman. Driscoll had not seen or talked to the author since their embarrassing meeting in the lobby of Joyce’s apartment two days before. Driscoll felt that it was up to him to call Hardeman, but he did not know what he could possibly say. A number of plausible lies explaining his presence at Joyce’s popped into his mind, but popped quickly back out. Dean Hardeman was not a fool.

  But that was a problem he could set aside for now while he attended to the more immediate concerns of the concert.

  Driscoll buzzed the intercom for Al’s secretary. He had asked the girl to call hotels and motels in search of a clue to Al Fessler’s whereabouts. Al had mentioned that he had been keeping Joel Nimmo stashed in a hotel, but he hadn’t said which one. The secretary had been calling in ever-expanding circles from the Hollywood-Beverly Hills area, asking for an Al Fessler or a Joel Nimmo on the register. To cover a bizarre possibility that occured to him, Driscoll had her also ask for anybody called Billy Lockett.

  “Any luck?” he asked when the secretary answered his buzz.

  “Nothing. I’m in Pasadena now, but so far we’ve struck out.”

  “Keep trying,” Driscoll said.

  No sooner had he shut the intercom off than the thing beeped at him again.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Fessler is here.”

  Driscoll hurried to the doorway between the two offices and ushered Madeline Fessler in.

  “Have you heard something?” he asked.

  She shook her head. For the first time since Driscoll had known her, Madeline did not look like an ad out of Vogue. There were loose strands around her blond coiffure, and dark smudges under her eyes.

  “Can we talk privately?” she asked, glancing at the door to the outer office.

  “Sure,” Driscoll said. He walked over to the door and eased it closed, telling the secretary, “No calls for a while.”

  “I guess you haven’t heard anything from Al either,” Madeline said.

  “No.” Driscoll sat quietly, waiting for Madeline to get whatever it was off her chest. Finally he said, “Do you have an idea where he might have gone?”

  “No,” she said, “but I think I know why.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It’s my fault, really.”

  “In what way?” Driscoll prompted.

  She took a deep breath before continuing. “I told Al I was having an affair with Billy.”

  Driscoll sat for a moment letting the words sink in. The idea was outlandish coming from this cool, poised suburban matron seated so decorously with her knees properly together, hands folded in her lap.

  “The hell you were,” he said.

  “It’s true.” Madeline met his gaze without flinching.

  “Billy and I were lovers for four years.”

  “And you told Al about it.”

  “Yes. Last week at the recording studio, right after you left.”

  “Madeline, excuse me for saying so, but that is about the dumbest thing I ever heard. People don’t make damn fool confessions like that unless they want to hurt somebody. Did you want to hurt Al?”

  “No, I didn’t want to hurt him.”

  “Then, why?”

  “It’s all mixed up and hard to explain. I felt I couldn’t go on any longer living up to an unreal image Al had of me. It’s an image I’ve been stuck with since I was a little girl. Cool, aloof, ladylike. I have been told from as early as I can remember that I was all those things. The ice princess. My physiology had a lot to do with it, I suppose. I have delicate bone structure and this superfine blond hair. Maybe if I’d had thick brown hair, a dark complexion, and big boobs I could have acted out the sensuality I kept bottled up. But I didn’t have any of those things. I looked like a lady, so I was expected to be one. I played the part without even thinking about it. Then Billy Lockett, that young, beautiful, sensitive boy recognized the woman who was kept prisoner by the lady, and he set her free.”

  When she stopped talking for a moment, Driscoll spoke. “I still don’t understand why you had to spill the whole thing to Al. Especially at this particular time.”

  “Let me tell it my way,” Madeline said. “Al has always treated me like some sort of untouchable goddess. Oh, I don’t mean he never touched me, it’s just that he seemed to feel so guilty afterward, as though he’d left footprints on an expensive carpet. I think it was partially the guilt that made him keep wanting to give me things. Gifts. I was so deep into playing the part then, I couldn’t stop. Then the other day when I saw what he was trying to do — in a sense, give me another Billy — I had to stop it. I couldn’t go on pretending any longer.”

  Driscoll sat drumming his fingers on the desk blotter. Finally he said, “Madeline, I’m sorry about your troubles with your husband, but you really screwed things up by dumping the whole business on him the way you did at the time you did.”

  “I suppose I should have done it differently,” she said, “but don’t you see, I couldn’t let him bring another boy who was so much like Billy into our house. I don’t know what might have happened.”

  Driscoll was as sympathetic as he could manage with Madeline Fessler and eased her politely out of the office as soon as he could.

  Left alone once more, Driscoll was feeling gloomier than ever. Now he not only had Al Fessler’s whereabouts to worry about, he had the man’s state of mind. There is nothing like being cuckolded in your own home to jostle the molecules. Would Al show up tonight at the concert, Driscoll wondered? Would he bring the kid? What would be his mental condition? Driscoll pondered these new worries as he went through the motions of answering the calls that had come in while he was with Madeline.

  By four-thirty that afternoon his nerves were like broken glass. He stopped what he was doing for a moment and saw that his hands were trembling. He spread them out flat on the desk and willed them to keep still.

  Another beep from the intercom made him jump.

  “Miss Girodian to see you.”

  “Kitty? Tell her to come right in.”

  Kitty Girodian looked fresh and lovely, making Driscoll feel even more wilted by comparison. She waved him back into his chair and took a seat across the desk from him.

  “Hi,” she said. “I thought you might like some company on your way to the concert.”

  “Would I ever! Do you feel like driving?”

  “I can if you want me to.”

  Driscoll held out his shaking hands. “I think it would be a good idea.”

  “Poor baby, you must have had quite a day.”

  “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Is there any reason you have to stay around here any longer?”

  “Not really. Any problems that come up this late aren’t going to be solved anyway.”

  “In that case, I suggest we go somewhere and get you a relaxing martini, then I’ll drive us to the Forum.”

  “Lady,” said Driscoll with heartfelt gratitude, “you got a deal.”

  CHAPTER 32

  It was six o’clock when Conn Driscoll and Kitty Girodian drove into the parking lot of the pillared, neo-Grecian building called the Inglewood Forum. The starting time for the concert was two hours away, but traffic already jammed the surrounding streets and the Forum parking lot. Driscoll saw with some concern that there were clusters of people milling about the closed ticket windows. When they discovered there were no more tickets available, it could mean trouble.

  Driscoll showed his pass to a uniformed security guard, and they were allowed into a chained-off section of the lot reserved for performers and others directly connected with the concert. Kitty parked the car, and they went into the building through an inconspicuous rear entrance.

  “I want to take a look down in the dressing rooms to see if everything’s all right,” Driscoll said. “Do you want to come?”

  “No, thanks,” Kitty said. “I’ll go on to our seats and wait for you.”

  Almost the first person Driscoll saw as
he walked down the ramp into the dressing room area was Al Fessler. Al’s clothes were wrinkled, his shave was a hit-or-miss job, and his eyes had a glazed, unfocused look. Driscoll hurried over to him.

  “Al, where the hell have you been?”

  “What? Oh, hello, Driscoll. It’s not important. Everything’s fine now.”

  “Are you sure?” Driscoll said. “What about the kid?”

  “The kid’s fine. I’ve got him in the trainer’s room with me. He’ll go on when he’s supposed to. Where’s that rock jockey we’ve got for an emcee? I want to be sure he knows I’m introducing the kid’s act.”

  “Al, I’ve got to talk to you,” Driscoll said.

  But Fessler was busy scanning the crowd. He spotted Tiger Pawes trying on his smile in front of a mirror and rushed off in that direction.

  Driscoll started to follow but lost sight of Al as one of the performing groups came galloping down the ramp loaded with electronic equipment and amphetamine. Driscoll gave up and walked back up the ramp into the arena. The floor area that was not taken up by the stage now held rows of temporary seats to augment the rising tiers of permanent theater-type seats that ringed the symmetrical building.

  The Forum management had apparently opened the gates ahead of schedule, and seats were filling up fast. Considering the jamup outside, Driscoll decided it was a wise move.

  Kitty Girodian was already in her seat — tenth row, second from the aisle. Driscoll dropped into the aisle seat next to her.

  “How’s everything downstairs?” she asked.

  “It’s a mess. No place for me.”

  “Can we relax then and enjoy the show?”

  “I hope so.”

  Looking over the crowd, Driscoll caught sight of Dean Hardeman. The seat Driscoll had got for the author was a couple of aisles away from him and Kitty, an accident for which Driscoll was now thankful. Sometime before Hardeman went back to New York Driscoll knew he was going to have to talk to him about Joyce, if only to ease his own mind. This, however, was not the time.

  He was surprised to see Madeline Fessler come in and take her seat. The one next to her, reserved for Al, remained empty.

  Half an hour before showtime the Forum was filled. The chatter of young voices was like a high-pitched electronic buzz.

  A tug at his sleeve drew Driscoll’s attention away from the crowd. He looked around to see McGee, the stage manager, crouched in the aisle next to his seat.

  “We’ve got a problem,” said McGee.

  “Why tell me about it? Al Fessler is here now. I’m just a publicity man again.”

  “Fessler’s locked himself in the trainer’s room with his mysterious act and says he’s not coming out until it’s time to go on. You ask me, I think the guy’s flipped out.”

  “Okay,” Driscoll said wearily, “what’s the problem?”

  “It’s outside. We got maybe a thousand kids out there without tickets, and they’re starting to get nasty.”

  “Any police in sight?”

  “A couple of black and whites, but they don’t like to move unless they have to. Every time they make a bust at a rock concert the papers jump on them for brutalizing the youth of America.”

  “What do you expect me to do?” Driscoll asked irritably.

  McGee shrugged. “Come up with an idea. My responsibility don’t go outside the building.”

  Driscoll raked a hand through his hair as though he might find inspiration there. He said, “Do you know if they keep extra speakers and electrical wiring somewhere in the building?”

  “There’s a storeroom full of electronic junk downstairs.”

  “Okay, send somebody out to tell the kids we’re piping the music out to them. Then get enough speakers wired up out there so everybody can hear.”

  “For free?”

  “Hell yes, for free, unless you want to go out there and personally collect their admissions.”

  McGee looked doubtful. “I don’t know as I can take the responsibility for that.”

  “I’ll take the responsibility,” Driscoll said. “Just do it.”

  The stage manager moved reluctantly away. Driscoll sighed and turned back to Kitty. “I wish I’d stayed home and watched a rerun of The Brady Bunch.”

  • • •

  The concert got underway at last, twenty minutes late — incredibly punctual by rock concert standards. The overhead lights dimmed, and a no-name house band struck up a thumping disco number. A spotlight hit the entrance to one of the tunnel ramps and picked up the dazzling smile of Tiger Pawes. The Tiger was colorfully turned out in a maroon velvet leisure suit, his hair freshly permed into a heap of bouncing curls. He boogied on up the aisle to the stage accompanied by a screeching ovation from his young fans.

  Once on stage he let the shrill acclaim wash over him for several minutes before holding up his hands for silence.

  “Alllll Rrriiiiight!” he shouted at the crowd, then stood aside as they shrieked it back at him.

  “Are you havin’ a good time?”

  “Yeaaah!”

  “Are you all with the Tiger?”

  “Yeaaah!”

  “Alllll Rrriiiiight! We gonna boogie tonight!”

  When the tumult finally subsided, the Tiger replaced his manic smile with the closest thing he could manage to a solemn expression. Taking their cue from the deejay, the crowd quieted down.

  “Before we start the happenings,” he said, his amplified voice surrounding them, “let’s take a minute to remember what tonight is all about. Last March a boy we all knew and loved stepped out of an airplane. That boy was just beginning to live. You know his name.”

  “Billy!” the crowd responded, picking up their cue.

  “That’s right. Billy Lockett. Tonight was supposed to be Billy’s night. This was going to be the climax of his career. But Fate stepped in that day in March and silenced Billy’s voice.”

  Driscoll turned a pained look on Kitty. “Fate?” he whispered.

  “Yes, Billy’s voice is stilled now,” the Tiger continued. “His guitar is gathering dust. Billy is gone, but he left us all a big part of himself. He left us his music.”

  “If he says Billy’s gone to the big discotheque in the sky,” Driscoll muttered, “I’m leaving.”

  “Ssssshhh,” Kitty hushed him.

  “Tonight the very best young talent in the world is right here at the Fabulous Forum to honor Billy’s memory. Before we bring on the first group, let’s have a moment of silence for the boy we knew and loved … Billy Lockett.”

  The lights went dim again, and the crowd kept relatively quiet for a moment. Then, at a signal from the emcee, the lights came back up.

  “Allllll Rrriiiiight!” shouted the Tiger.

  “Alllll Rrriiiiight!” responded the crowd.

  “You know why we’re here. We’re here for the sounds of today, and the Tiger’s bringin’ ’em to you. Now I want to hear it for the funky group that’s opening our show … Truckers Gap!”

  Four overweight teenagers with guitars ran up the aisle wearing a wild assortment of castoff clothing and flashing obscene gestures at the audience, to everyone’s wild delight.

  Driscoll settled lower in his seat and tuned out mentally. His attention wandered to one of the tunnels where Tiger Pawes had retreated when the performers took over the stage. The deejay was signing an autograph for a spectacularly built blond and gazing down the front of her peasant shirt at a pair of huge vanilla breasts.

  Back on stage Truckers Gap was followed by Maude, a group of minimal talent that tried to disguise the fact by performing in drag. Next up was Rikki Lee, a flowers-in-the-hair folk singer with a tiny, sweet voice that could barely be heard even with the high-wattage amplification.

  After Rikki came Black Dragon, an angry group of soul rockers who were signed mainly to qualify Al Fessler as an equal-opportunity employer. Dragon’s brand of social rage was received coolly by the Billy Lockett fans who packed the Forum.

  Driscoll noted with satisf
action that the Tiger was doing his part to move the acts along briskly. With luck, they would not run much overtime, even with the addition of Joel Nimmo. The thought of Al Fessler’s Billy impersonator depressed Driscoll again. He began to worry about what kind of response the boy would get here.

  Black Dragon glowered their way off stage, and Tiger Pawes sprang back to the microphone. “And now, direct from a dynamite two weeks at the Troubador, their records shooting up on the charts, let’s bring ’em on … the Peace Brothers!”

  Kitty nudged Driscoll back to attention. “Listen to these boys,” she said. “Rick’s been writing some material for them.”

  The Peace Brothers’ first song was a standard country rock number with little to recommend either the music or the lyrics.

  “Not that one,” Kitty said, “that’s their latest record they’re plugging.”

  “Good luck,” Driscoll muttered.

  The next song by the Peace Brothers was a complete change of style and mood. The lyrics told a story of young love and loss in words that were both meaningful and poetic. The intricate three-part harmony fit perfectly the just-adequate voices of the Brothers.

  “That’s one of Rick’s songs,” Kitty said.

  Driscoll nodded his approval.

  The response of the audience was unheard of at a rock concert for a song that was not presold as a top-40 record. There was a short, stunned silence when the Peace Brothers finished. The applause started slowly, then built with explosive power like a fire through dry chaparral. It climaxed in a standing, screaming ovation. Before the noise had quite died down the Brothers swung into a bouncing, up-tempo country-flavored number that had the crowd stomping the floor in time with the beat.

  “Rick wrote that one too,” Kitty said.

  “The kid’s got talent,” Driscoll admitted.

  The Peace Brothers went off to another crescendo of cheers. The next act, a pretentious group from England called Sand, suffered from having to follow the smash of the evening so far.

  After Sand had sneered their way back down the aisle, Tiger Pawes bounced back on stage with his tiresome “Allllll Rrriiiiight!” The echo from the fans was noticeably less enthusiastic this time.