Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  “He does own the station,” Unger said.

  “Right. And everybody knows he’s death on dopers. Any kind. I hear he won’t allow a record played on his station by anybody who’s even been rumored to smoke a little grass.”

  “What about it?”

  “Just this — Billy Lockett was clean as far as dope goes. There’s never been a whisper that he ever used anything stronger than beer.”

  “That’s not the reason we don’t play your boy,” Unger said. “He’s got no talent. That’s the reason we don’t play Billy Lockett.”

  “Are you kidding? Record sales — ”

  “Record sales don’t mean shit. Spend enough on promotion and you can put a record of a braying jackass on the charts.”

  Driscoll eased off the desk and flicked a cigar ash from his lapel. He gazed sadly down at Larry Unger. “I’m sorry you feel that way about it.”

  “Nothing personal, Conn. You can’t win ’em all.”

  “No hard feelings, Larry.” Driscoll started out the door, then turned back. “By the way, how’s your boy?”

  Unger’s face tightened. “What do you mean?”

  “Just asking. I heard he got into a little scrape at a house party in Santa Monica. Cops busted the place for LSD, angel dust, something like that.”

  “Where did you hear that?” Unger asked.

  “Oh, not in the papers. They don’t print the names of juveniles. But word gets around, you know how those things are. It’s lucky, I guess, that Owen Satterlee didn’t hear about it. I doubt that he’d understand that it was nothing serious.”

  “You are a son of a bitch, Driscoll, you know that?”

  “That’s not fair, Larry. I’m just doing my job, asking you as a favor to schedule a few spins of Billy Lockett’s records. You know as well as I do that’s the way it works in this business — doing favors. Maybe I’ll be able to do a favor for you.”

  “I get your message,” Unger said grimly. “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

  “That’s all I ask, Larry,” Driscoll said, making himself smile. “Just do what you can. I’ll be listening.”

  As Driscoll started for the door, Unger called his name, and he turned back. “Driscoll, you really are a son of a bitch.”

  Driscoll had no answer. He walked on out to the parking lot and climbed into his car. He sat for a minute without switching on the ignition. He had been called names before, but they never got to him. This time he really felt like a son of a bitch. What he had just done, to put the true name on it, was to blackmail an essentially decent guy into playing some records that he did not want to play. Damn it, that’s what he was getting paid for, Driscoll reminded himself. He was a publicity man, not a good-will ambassador. His was the kind of job you couldn’t do properly without being a son of a bitch. What you didn’t do was think about it. Start getting moral and feeling guilty, and you were washed up.

  But for the moment Driscoll could not help thinking about it. What would he be doing ten years from now, he wondered? Twenty? Would he still be bribing and blackmailing people into doing him favors? At his age a guy could get away with that kind of hustle. People expected it of a young, ambitious publicity man. If he was still doing it at fifty, that would be something else again. It was not a pleasant thought, and Driscoll pushed it out of his mind as he drove out of the station parking lot and headed for Crossroads of the World.

  The homebound traffic along Sunset was heavy and slow, giving Driscoll time to run over in his mind the things he had accomplished today. Most of it had been on the telephone. He had talked to managers, agents, suppliers, retailers, and hucksters until his throat was raw and his ears ached from listening. All in all, it had been a good day, including the business with Larry Unger that would get Billy some valuable exposure with the over-twenty-five audience.

  Driscoll’s work day was not yet over. Tonight he was taking the news director of Channel Six to dinner. That was to insure good television coverage of the funeral day after tomorrow. There was just time for Driscoll to make a quick stop at the office to check on messages, then home to change for dinner.

  Back at Crossroads of the World he was surprised to find the office door unlocked. He had told Al’s secretary that if he wasn’t back by five she should lock up and go on home. Inside there was an even bigger surprise waiting for him. Lounging in one of the chairs in the anteroom with a copy of Daily Variety in his lap was Dean Hardeman.

  The author looked like a different person from the edgy, defeated man Driscoll had talked to in New York two days ago. He was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and dressed in a conservative tweed suit.

  “Hi, Conn,” said Hardeman. “I told your secretary she could go ahead and take off, that I’d wait here until you came back. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, I … that’s all right. I mean, I sure didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Hardeman chuckled. “No, I suppose you didn’t. When you left my place in Great Neck Tuesday I didn’t expect to be here myself. Then I got to thinking about this book project and about your Billy Lockett. The more I thought, the more the idea took hold of me. I think there’s something important to be said here.”

  “Well, sure, Dean, only …”

  “So I figured as long as my name is going to be on the book, why not write it myself?”

  Driscoll tried to pump some enthusiasm into his voice. “That’s great, Dean. I mean, that’s really an exciting idea. Trouble is, though, I’m not sure the publisher will go for any changes in the contract now.”

  “No problem,” Hardeman said. “I’ll do the book for the price we agreed on. Hell, it’s not the money so much as getting back into harness. I’ve been sitting on my ass long enough telling myself that tomorrow I’d get going on the Big Book. This job will prime the pump, get the juices flowing. And I’ve got a hunch it might not be a half-bad book.”

  “You know we’re strapped for time?”

  “Don’t worry about that. Before my first novel hit big I did some magazine work. Deadlines were sacred and inflexible. I never missed one.”

  “Okay, then, welcome aboard, Dean.” The slight hesitation in Driscoll’s welcome went unnoticed by the author. “That carton over by the wall is filled with pictures of Billy. There are no copyrights involved, so you can use any of them you want. The more pictures, the better. I got as far as doing an outline of the format I thought would fit the book. Do you want to see that?”

  “No offense, Conn, but I’d just as soon not look at what you’ve done. If I’m going to write this book, I want to do it my way.”

  “Sure,” Driscoll said gloomily.

  “Yesterday I went to the New York library and did a little research. I came up with a list of names of people I’ll want to talk to — people around Billy. Also, I want to get a feel for the rock music scene out here. The truth is I’m a jazz fan, and aside from the Beatles and John Denver, I’m totally ignorant about Billy Lockett’s kind of music.”

  Oh swell, Driscoll thought. John Denver. He said, “Just tell me who you want to see, Dean, and I’ll put you in touch.” A glance at his watch. “I wish I could show you around myself tonight, but I’ve got this appointment I can’t get out of.”

  “Look, you don’t have to hold me by the hand,” said Hardeman. “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll take it from there. Now, how about Al Fessler, the kid’s manager? Any chance I could get with him tonight?”

  “I’ll give him a call right now,” Driscoll said, thinking that Al was not going to be overjoyed to hear that Hardeman had arrived to take over the writing of their book. Driscoll had his own misgivings about that. Still, he found it exciting to be working with the hero of his high school days.

  “Hey, Al,” he said when Fessler came on the line, “great news! Dean Hardeman is here, and he’s going to do the book himself.”

  “What’s so great?” Al said at his end. “For the job we want you could do it faster. And probably better.”

&nbs
p; “He’s standing right here with me now,” Driscoll said into the phone, holding a forced smile. “He’d like to talk to you about Billy and maybe get a look into the local pop music scene. How are chances of the two of you getting together tonight?”

  “Shit, can’t you do it?”

  “I’d really like to go with you, but I’m stuck with the Channel Six news director.”

  Al’s answer was petulant. “Okay, I’ll see him if I can’t get out of it. Tell him to meet me at Emerald City at eight. We can have dinner there and go on up to Waldo’s after.

  The tone of Al Fessler’s voice offended Driscoll. The author of three bestselling novels should not be sloughed off like some small-time hack they were stuck with. When he answered, however, Driscoll took care to keep the resentment from showing.

  “That’s great, Al. It sounds like just the kind of thing Dean’s looking for. I’ll tell him about it and he can meet you at eight o’clock.”

  Driscoll hung up and filled Hardeman in on the plans for the evening, naturally omitting Al’s comments.

  Hardeman grinned like a boy. “What are these places we’re going to — Emerald City and Waldo’s?”

  “They’re both hangouts for people in the pop music business,” Driscoll said. “Emerald City gets the more conservative crowd — the old-guard record company executives and agents and managers with a lot of years in the business. That’s where important deals are made. Waldo’s is where the action is. It’s a private club where the young lions in the industry and a lot of the performers go to look at each other and be looked at. Everybody’s loose at Waldo’s. It’s a show in itself. If I can get away early tonight I’ll drop by and join you.”

  “Good, I hope you can.”

  “And listen, Dean, anything you need, anything at all, say the word and you got it.”

  The husky author looked down at his hands, then off through the window. “There is one thing you could do for me. It’s a personal favor and hasn’t anything to do with the book.”

  “Name it,” Driscoll said.

  “It has to do with my wife. My ex-wife, that is. Her name is Joyce. She has an apartment in Westwood. That’s not far from here, is it?”

  “A few miles toward the ocean.”

  “The thing is this — I’d like to see her, but I’m not sure she’ll want to see me. We had some pretty fierce brawls the last few times we were together.”

  Driscoll kept his face expressionless, waiting for the author to go on.

  “What I thought was, if you dropped around to her place and sort of mentioned that I was in town, you could, well, check out her mood.”

  Driscoll tried not to show his surprise. “Have you tried to call her?”

  “I’m no good on the telephone. I need eye contact to talk intelligently to people. And to tell you the truth, I’m afraid Joyce might hang up on me. That’s hard on the ego. If she tells you to go to hell when you mention me, I’m at least once removed from the rejection.” Hardeman finished with a little laugh that did not ring true.

  Driscoll was moved and a little embarassed by the author’s painful sincerity. He said, “I’ll be glad to go see the lady for you, Dean. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get to it.”

  “No hurry,” Hardeman said quickly. “Whenever you get the time. I’ll be around town for a while.” He scribbled a Westwood address on a card and handed it to Driscoll. “Joyce has a job of some kind out at UCLA, but you can usually catch her home in the late afternoon or evening.”

  Driscoll took the card and slipped it into his wallet. “I’d really better get going now. Where are you staying? Can I give you a lift?”

  “I’m at the Beverly Sunset, but don’t bother, I can hail a cab.”

  Driscoll smiled. “Spoken like a true New Yorker. Dean, you don’t just hail a cab in Los Angeles. You could stand on the street all day and never see one.”

  “How do you people get around?”

  “We drive. Or you can call up and have a cab sent out.”

  “Let’s do that. I’m not in a big hurry, and I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

  Driscoll called Yellow Cab, and the dispatcher said they would have one right out. Hardeman went out to Sunset Boulevard to wait for it, and Driscoll had a moment to himself. He went quickly through the messages left for him by the secretary and found nothing urgent. He started for the door, then turned back suddenly and picked up the telephone again. He dialed the number of the Herald and asked for Vernon Karp. After a series of clicks and buzzes the Book Editor came on the line.

  “Vernon? Conn Driscoll here. The other day I told you that if Dean Hardeman came to town I’d give you first crack at him. Well, he’s unexpectedly here, and he’ll be at Emerald City tonight about eight o’clock. You might get an informal interview.”

  “Nobody else has t-talked to him?”

  “Nobody from the press.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Driscoll — Conn — thanks a lot.”

  “Don’t mention it. One thing, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell Hardeman I steered you onto him. You know how touchy authors are. He might think I was using him to get publicity or something.”

  “I understand,” Vernon Karp said. “I’ll k-keep your name out of it.”

  Driscoll hung up and walked briskly out to the Firebird. What a bunch of shit, he thought. Why would authors care if they were being used? Everybody got used. Everybody used somebody else. That’s the way the world ran.

  He halted in midstep, as though listening to a playback of his thoughts. God, he was beginning to sound sour. When this hustle was over he would take a long vacation. Some place where he could bathe in the sea and let the sun bake the cynicism out of his bones. No doubt about it, he could use a little spiritual refreshment.

  But not tonight. Tonight he was still hustling. Conn Driscoll got into his car and headed home.

  CHAPTER 9

  The taxi pulled to a stop in front of Crossroads of the World and Dean Hardeman got in. It had been twenty-four years since his last trip to Hollywood. That time, the studio that had bought his first book had put a car and driver at his disposal. Hardeman was twenty-five years old then, and he owned the world. Everything was roses, and it would never end. Oh, no?

  On an impulse he leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Cruise up Hollywood Boulevard once before we go to the hotel, will you?”

  The driver, a young bony-faced man with a drooping moustache, eyed him in the rearview mirror. “It’s a little early for that kind of action, pal.”

  “I’m not looking for that kind of action, pal.”

  The driver’s back stiffened. “Okay, no offense.”

  Hardeman relented a little. “I’m curious to see how the street has changed in twenty-four years.”

  “Changed quite a bit, they tell me,” the driver said. “I wouldn’t know, I only come here two years ago from Detroit.”

  Hardeman did not bother to answer. He wanted to gather his impressions of the Boulevard without being distracted by a conversation.

  They drove west to La Brea, then turned right, up to where the Boulevard began. Actually, the street continued west for another mile to where it ran into Laurel Canyon, but when anybody talked about Hollywood Boulevard, they meant the three-mile stretch between La Brea and Vermont.

  It was along these sidewalks that tourists of a bygone era might actually bump into a movie star — Joe E. Brown, Alice Faye, Don Ameche. When Hardeman made his last visit, few stars were to be seen strolling the Boulevard. Still, there was always the faint possibility you might catch a glimpse of Tab Hunter, Betty Hutton, or Dana Andrews. Today, Hardeman figured, you stood as much chance on this raunchy street of running into a dinosaur as an honest-to-God movie star. Besides, many of the big names of the Seventies didn’t even look like movie stars. It would take a sharp-eyed tourist to pick Dustin Hoffman, Ellen Burstyn, or Richard Dreyfuss out of the motley crowd of pedestrians.

  Checking out what the average Hollywood stroller was
wearing, Hardeman felt severely overdressed. Hardly a necktie was to be seen on passing throats. Even collars seemed to be disappearing, with sweatshirts and T-shirts taking over.

  Another thing Hardeman felt was old. He reckoned the average age along Hollywood Boulevard to be about twenty-three. Where had all the old folks gone?

  Straight, limp hair seemed still to be the fashion among the girls. On the young men the “perm,” a Harpo-like head of bouncing curls, was making inroads on the Wild Bill Hickock look.

  There were many more black faces along the Boulevard than Hardeman remembered. In their crushed velvets and platform shoes, they were generally much better dressed than the young white people. The poverty-funk look never caught on with people who knew what poverty was.

  The cab rolled past Selma Avenue where young men with hot eyes lounged against the buildings, advertising themselves in open shirts and skin-tight pants. There was one thing that hadn’t changed, Hardeman thought, it just moved a few blocks south. Twenty years ago it was the Franklin-Cherokee area. They called it Homo Hill.

  The big movie palaces were still there — the Egyptian, the Paramount, the Chinese, though it was no longer Grauman’s Chinese. Now there were other, smaller theaters squeezed in between the Orange Julius stands and the head shops. They had names like Cave and X-2. They were showing Carnal Heaven, Sexteen, The Loves of Venus.

  At Vermont Avenue the driver looped back to Sunset and headed west again. Hardeman leaned back in the seat and thought about how Hollywood had changed and how he had changed. He had come out here last time with the Easterner’s built-in contempt for what they liked to call “tinsel town.” The more he scorned the local scene, the more the locals loved it. He was catered to and fawned upon by what passed for the literary crowd out here. West Coast writers back then had been brainwashed by eastern critics into believing themselves vastly inferior to the Capital-A Authors of New York and environs. Most abject of all were the screenwriters. Despite their six-figure salaries and beautiful suntans, they fell over each other paying homage to a writer of Serious Books.