It turned out that his own Serious Book, purchased with much fanfare by a top studio, was untranslatable to the screen, and the project was shelved. The setback did not faze the young Dean Hardeman. His second book would soon be in galleys, and he had the third blocked out in his mind. He could not know that the third book would be his last.
The taxi dipped into the curve at the foot of the Santa Monica Mountains known as the Sunset Strip. Here the changes were even more striking than on Hollywood Boulevard. The people were even younger, the colors brighter, the beat faster. Gone were the solid old Mocambo, Ciro’s, and Crescendo. Now there were discotheques with cutesy names and shops with second-hand clothes at boutique prices.
At least Dino’s was still there. The caricature of Dean Martin over the entrance had not aged a day. And Schwab’s drug store at the foot of Laurel Canyon. Did anybody still believe in Lana Turner?
They arrived at the hotel, a sedate old house set back from Sunset and shielded from curious eyes by palms and eucalyptus trees. Hardeman rode up to his room where he showered, shaved, and changed into a sport coat and contrasting slacks. A little more California than his New York tweed. He refused to go to a restaurant without a necktie, but he did pick out the gaudiest of the dozen he had brought along.
As he poked through the suitcase for a fresh handkerchief, Hardeman’s hand found his traveling bottle of Jack Daniels. He considered having a little fortifier before leaving.
Hardeman picked up the bottle and carried it across the room and dropped it into a dresser drawer. He closed the drawer. This was working time. Even in the days when he was writing and drinking at a furious pace, he never combined the two. He could not remember just when the drinking had crowded out the writing.
He called down to the desk to have them order a cab. Briefly Hardeman regretted that he never learned to drive a car. In New York there had never been a need to know how to drive. Now he was probably too old to learn.
The taxi showed up in good time, and Hardeman was delivered to the surprisingly subdued restaurant on La Cienega known as Emerald City. He told the maître d’ he was with Al Fessler, and was directed to the bar.
Fessler was sitting on a beige leather barstool staring gloomily into a glass of pale sherry. He shook hands with Hardeman and gestured at the empty stool next to him.
“You want to have a drink, go ahead.” He held up the wine glass. “I’m on a diet. Wife’s orders.”
“I think I’ll have the same,” Hardeman said.
By the time the sherry was poured and set before him, the maitre d’ was there to announce that their table was ready. They went into the dining room, where Hardeman was surprised at the understated atmosphere. It was done in shades of green — cool, quiet. The color of money. The linen was crisp and white, the silverware softly glowing. The piped-in music was of the Mantavani or One Thousand-and-One Strings variety. Elevator music.
“This isn’t what I expected for people in the pop music business,” he said.
“Waldo’s is probably more what you got in mind,” Fessler said. “You won’t find the kids in here. These are the old timers, guys who were around when the big bands were still making it. There are less of them all the time as the young bucks take over the industry, but those that are left still carry a lot of clout.”
“It still seems awfully quiet.”
“You think so?” Fessler nodded toward a table where two grey-haired men chatted comfortably over coffee and cognac. “See those two old guys? One of them controls one of the top record companies in town, the other books half a dozen of the country’s most important concert clubs. You can bet some pop singer or group is being made right now. Or shit-canned, one or the other.”
“Impressive,” Hardeman said.
“There’s a good reason for the soft lights and quiet music. All day long these guys get headaches from looking at psychedelic album covers and sore eardrums from their million-watt amplifiers. In here they can relax and talk business in peace.”
The waiter came around with the menu printed on huge green cards. Al Fessler ordered a vegetable plate and salad with no dressing. He looked pained as Hardeman chose a steak-and-lobster combination.
“I remember when I used to eat like that,” he said. “Then my wife explained how all those carbohydrates were slowly killing me.”
“Your wife takes good care of you.”
“Oh, yeah.” Fessler tucked a leaf of dry romaine lettuce into his mouth and chewed unhappily. “Okay, what can I tell you about Billy Lockett?”
“Whatever comes into your mind. I don’t conduct a formal interview.”
“Free association, huh? Like with a psychiatrist?”
“Something like that.”
“You going to take notes?”
“A few, maybe. I’m not much of a note taker either. Mostly I rely on memory.” Hardeman smiled, recalling how, as a young writer, he made it a point to whip out a notebook and jot things down when he knew people were watching. They wanted to see an author in action, so he gave them an author in action. Later, when he learned his trade, he would put down only an occasional word or phrase to jog his memory when he got to the typewriter. Later still, he had no need for notes, since he never went to the typewriter. He ate his dinner quietly now, and let Al Fessler do most of the talking.
“The first time I saw Billy was four years ago. He was appearing in a club on Melrose called Crazy Quilt. A long ways from the big time, but not a dump either. A showcase club.
“Billy was lead singer and guitarist with this group — I forget what they called themselves. It doesn’t matter. The rest of them were terrible. No talent, no class, no humor, and a drummer who couldn’t find the beat. But Billy — he was something else again. It’s not that he was so talented. His guitar playing was only fair, and his voice was weak. But this town is full of great guitar pickers who are out of work, and when was the last time you heard an Andy Williams record?
“No, what Billy had was better than talent. He got to the people. Louis Armstrong had it, Sinatra had it, Elvis had it. It’s got nothing to do with how good you are. If you don’t get to the people you’d best learn to handle a broom.
“I called Billy over between sets at the Crazy Quilt and found out he didn’t have a manager. I signed him on the spot, and the first thing I did was dump the rest of the band and set Billy up as a single.”
“What happened to the others in the group?” Hardeman asked.
“Who knows? If they were smart they got jobs pumping gas or boxing groceries.”
“In an article I read yesterday it said you took Billy home to live with you.”
“Yeah, he stayed at my place for three months. That way I could get a feel for what he could do, and which direction I wanted to move him. One thing I’ll say for Billy — he listened. At least at the first. Not like most of the kids today.”
Hardeman nodded without comment.
“No matter what you read in the fan mags, Billy was no overnight success,” Fessler went on. “He had the raw material — the magnetism, I guess you could say, but that still isn’t enough. He needed selling. He was locked into a long-term contract with Gamma Records, and they weren’t doing a thing for him. Gamma is the kind of an outfit that signs up every kid who knows how to plug in a guitar. They get the kids for peanuts and hope one out of a hundred makes them some money. Finally, when I got Billy a few good dates they started doing a little promoting.
“It was a tough grind, let me tell you. I sank a bundle into Billy Lockett. When I found him he was doing the country-funk scene with raggedy jeans and an underwear shirt. It may work for Springsteen, but it was the wrong style for Billy. I cleaned him up and put him in tight jumpsuits with just enough glitter to catch the lights. None of this David Bowie eye shadow crap, but a little flash, right?
“After a year we were moving along pretty good, but Billy still wasn’t quite making it. Then I had a brainstorm. I teamed him with another kid I had, Rick Girodian, and they e
xploded. One of the problems before was that Billy never learned to write music, so he had to use other people’s songs. Rick could write with anybody, so I had him turn out some material for the two of them. With Billy’s charm and style, and Rick’s songs and musical backing, they were a smash.
“We started playing the bigger clubs. Gamma Records even came up with decent money to sign Rick after I leaned on them a little. The bastards still had Billy tied to the original contract, so he wasn’t getting all that much, even though his records with Rick were moving up the charts.
“I guess that was one of the reasons Billy wanted to split up. I argued with him, told him it would be a crime to break up a money-making combination like him and Rick. Billy didn’t care. He wanted out. He said he was the one people came to see, and the hell of it is, he was right. I had no choice but to book Billy out as a single again.
“As it turned out, Billy was right again. Doing a solo act he was bigger than ever. He’d learned mike technique to make his voice sound bigger, and I always signed good musicians to back him. We were in Fat City with the pot of gold waiting for us at the Forum in September.” Fessler glared down at his plate of uneaten vegetables. “Then that stupid little son of a bitch stepped out of that goddamn airplane.”
For several minutes neither of the men spoke. Dean Hardeman chewed his steak, and Al Fessler pushed the vegetables around his plate. The piped-in orchestra played “Lovely to Look At.”
“What happened to the other kid?” Hardeman asked suddenly.
“Huh?” Al pulled his thoughts back to the present.
“Rick Girodian. What became of him after he and Billy split up?”
“He tried to make it as a single too, but just couldn’t cut it. Rick is the other side of the Billy coin — loads of talent, but the kind of a kid you just can’t like. He’s still around at some of the little joints. I don’t handle him any more.”
Hardeman was lighting his after-dinner cigarette when a bearded young man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a suit that fit badly approached the table.
“Mr. Hardeman?” he said in a voice that was all apologies and excuse-me’s.
“That’s me,” the author said.
“I’m Vernon Karp, book editor of the Herald. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes?”
There was a time, in the days when Dean Hardeman’s name was on all the important lists, when he would flatly refuse to be interviewed. His feelings had changed over the years during which no one even asked.
“Sure, Vernon,” he said, “have a seat.”
Al Fessler moved restlessly, but Hardeman pretended not to notice. The chance to play the part of Author came all too seldom these days.
“I understand you’re in town to do a book about Billy Lockett,” said Vernon Karp, poising a ballpoint pen over his notebook.
“On the surface it’s about Billy,” Hardeman said. “On a deeper level it’s about rock music and the industry that makes multimillionaires out of kids barely out of puberty.”
Al Fessler winced. The young journalist scribbled in his notebook.
“You’re not out here to do any movie work?”
“Screenplays aren’t written,” Hardeman said automatically, “They’re constructed by a committee. That’s not for me.” Not unless somebody asked me, he added silently.
Vernon Karp drew a deep breath, and Hardeman knew he was about to be hit with a tough question.
“Why haven’t you written anything in ten years?” asked Karp.
Hardeman fought off the impulse to be flip and clever. “Because I was too drunk most of the time,” he said. “And when I wasn’t too drunk, I was too scared.”
Al Fessler groaned. Vernon Karp stared.
“You don’t want me to print that, do you, Mr. Hardeman?”
“I’d rather you didn’t, but that’s up to you. You asked me an honest question; you deserved an honest answer.”
Vernon Karp flapped his notebook shut and put it away. He said, “Mr. Hardeman, before I go I want you to know that Sea of Troubles was one of the most truly written books I’ve ever read.”
“Thank you, Vernon. That’s the way I’ve always tried to write.”
“I thought your others were exceptional too — Beauty Maroon and Yesterday’s Years. Powerful and honest. But your last book seemed to be talking just to me. I was a sophomore in high school when I read it. I couldn’t wait for your next book. It never came. I hope this is it.”
Hardeman studied the earnest young face with the rabbinical beard. Book editor. Reader. What a pity it would be if he grew up to be a critic. He said, “I promise you this, Vernon, I will write this book the same way I wrote the others — doing the very best work I can.”
Al Fessler cleared his throat. “If we’re going to go on to Waldo’s …”
Vernon Karp jumped to his feet. “Hey, don’t let me keep you from your other business. Thanks very much, Mr. Hardeman. It’s been an honor to meet you. I mean that.”
When the young man was gone Al Fessler said, “It looks like you’ve got a fan there.”
“Yeah. I wonder how he’ll feel after he sees the Billy Lockett picture book.”
Fessler called for the check. Hardeman did not bother with the ritual argument about who was going to pay. The fee he was getting for doing this book was not big enough to make him a check grabber.
They left Emerald City in Fessler’s Cadillac and drove back up to Sunset Boulevard.
CHAPTER 10
The life of a freelance publicity man permitted Conn Driscoll a number of benefits not available to men who depended on a weekly paycheck. He could sleep late in the morning, he could take long vacations, he could dress pretty much as he wished. One thing he could not do was ignore the telephone. Not even when it rang while he was in the shower. The telephone line was his umbilical cord.
Consequently, when the instrument summoned him Wednesday evening, Driscoll fumbled open the glass shower door and trotted naked and dripping across the deep-pile rug to pick up the bedroom extension.
The rich voice of the Channel Six news director came on the line. “Hello, Conn, Ed Reeder.”
“Hi, Ed, I hope you’re working up a good appetite.”
“That’s what I called about. Something’s come up here. The station owner has an old politician buddy of his coming to town, and he wants all of his directors on the scene to show how important he is. Hate to do it, but I’ll have to cancel out on the dinner.”
“That’s all right, Ed, I understand. You can’t disappoint the boss.”
“I’m sorry about calling you at the last minute like this, but I didn’t get the word myself until half an hour ago. And, Conn, don’t worry about coverage of your funeral Saturday. I’ll have a crew out there with a truck.”
“Hey, that’s great, Ed.”
“I’ll send Wally Mayor to do on-camera interviews. Think you can line him up with a couple of celebrities?”
“You got it.”
Driscoll hung up the phone and went back into the bathroom for a towel. Unexpectedly, he was faced with a free evening. Briefly he considered calling up a girl, but rejected the idea. His mind was too much on the Billy Lockett promotion, and that’s where he wanted to keep it for now. He could join Al Fessler and Dean Hardeman earlier than he had planned, but Driscoll did not care for the hushed, money-green atmosphere of Emerald City. Later on at Waldo’s he could meet them and feel more comfortable.
He pulled on a soft shirt and a pair of slacks and got out the notebook where he had listed things he had to do. Might as well use the free time to get some work done, he thought.
Riffling through the pages, Driscoll stopped when he came to the name of Rick Girodian. He wanted to get Billy’s former partner wired into the promotion somehow. There had been friction between Rick and Billy — that was common knowledge, but it shouldn’t be a problem now.
Driscoll knew that the club in Downey where Rick was appearing had cut back on its live talent to weekends onl
y. That meant Rick would be available tonight, a Thursday. He found the singer’s Hollywood number and dialed. It pleased Driscoll when the phone was picked up on the first ring. That was the sign of a hungry man, a man who could be dealt with.
“Rick, this is Conn Driscoll, publicity. I’m working currently with Al Fessler.”
“Yeah?” Guarded.
“What I’m doing, I’m setting things up for the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert at the Forum in September.”
There was a dry chuckle on the line. “Memorial Concert, is it? I wondered how Al would get around the fact that his star is dead.”
“The thing is still in the planning stages,” Driscoll went on, “and, frankly, what I’m trying to do is get us as much publicity as possible. You know how that goes.”
“Oh, sure.”
“One thing we’ve got on the fire is a book about Billy. It’s scheduled to go on sale just before the concert. Big splashy thing with lots of pictures. Some of you too, probably. Anyway, we were lucky enough to get Dean Hardeman to write the text. I suppose you’ve heard of Dean Hardeman?”
“No.”
“Well, he’s one of the top authors in the country. Three bestsellers.”
“I’m not much for reading books.”
“The point is, Rick, I’d like to have you meet Hardeman. He wants to talk to people who knew Billy and who worked with him. You could probably give him a few good stories about the days when you were teamed up.”
“I sure as hell could,” Rick said in a tone that Driscoll did not like. “Tell me something, how much do you know about Billy and me?”
“I’ve heard there was a little disagreement at the time you split up, but that doesn’t — ”
“Little disagreement my ass. I hated Billy Lockett’s guts. He was a prick, and his being dead doesn’t change a thing.”
Driscoll gave him a false chuckle. “Well, that’s show business, isn’t it? I guess there’s never been a team that didn’t hate each other some of the time.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
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