One man profiting from all the Billy hoopla was Nat Spieth, the jumpmaster who had watched Billy go down. He was emerging on his own as a folk hero of the young generation. With every interview he gave to the press, and there were many, the warmth of his friendship with Billy Lockett seemed to grow. By September, Conn Driscoll thought wryly, Spieth and Billy would be nothing less than blood brothers. In recognition of his new image, the jumpmaster had grown a moustache and had taken to wearing faded denims and western shirts. In addition to offers from all the important television talk shows, Spieth had been approached by one of the would-be producers of a Billy movie to act as technical advisor for the big death scene. All such offers were now channeled through his agent.
While Nat Spieth was the most celebrated witness to Billy’s final moments of life, the number of people who claimed to have seen Billy fall was astounding. If the stories were to be believed, the combined populations of Los Angeles, Orange, and San Bernardino Counties must have been out on the desert that day looking up at the Cessna Skyhawk.
At the Movieland Wax Museum in Buena Park a wax effigy of Billy was being readied. The unveiling would happily coincide with the start of ticket sales for the concert — a coincidence that was actively promoted by Conn Driscoll.
In Long Beach a lady spiritualist claimed to have talked to Billy Lockett “on the other side.” Billy’s message to this world, according to the lady, was one of peace, love, and joy. Driscoll saw no reason to take action against the lady. As with the jockstrap merchants, she was providing them with more publicity. As long as the spectral Billy did not advise people to stay away from his memorial concert, Driscoll did not care what the spiritualist put out.
Rick Girodian, too, was reaping benefits from the post-mortem Billy boom. Not only would he have a featured spot in the memorial concert lineup, he was getting a stream of offers from club owners who had shown no interest in him for months. The catch, as far as Rick was concerned, was that the proposed billing always highlighted the fact that he was the former partner of Billy Lockett. Particularly galling was the thought that Billy’s name would appear over his and probably in larger letters. But even though he was insulted at playing second banana to a dead man, Rick Girodian did not turn down any of the money.
Even considering the general good news in the publicity area, Al Fessler had been, it seemed to some, excessively cheerful. Ever since the funeral he had worn a secret smile and dropped guarded allusions to some big surprise he would be springing on everyone soon. He gave no hints as to the nature of the surprise. He had taken to disappearing from home and office for hours at a stretch, during which time no one could reach him — unheard of for a man who suffered anxiety attacks whenever he was out of hearing of a telephone. On returning from these mysterious errands Al would act insufferably coy, wearing an I-know-something-you-don’t-know smile. Conn Driscoll, especially, had serious misgivings about what Fessler might be up to. With everything going so smoothly, he hoped the man was not going to spring some halfass idea of his own that would short-circuit the whole promotion.
• • •
The one area in which everything was not going one-hundred percent smoothly, at least not in the eyes of Al Fessler, was the book being written by Dean Hardeman. Two weeks after the funeral Fessler called in Conn Driscoll to the office in Crossroads of the World and talked about what was bothering him.
“I don’t see why we can’t have a look at what the guy’s got done up till now,” Al said. “After all, we’re paying for it. Or I am, anyway.”
“He doesn’t like people to read his work in progress,” Driscoll said. “Writers are touchy about that.”
“Well, how much has he got done? He can at least give us a page total to date.”
“Al, you’ve got to remember we’re dealing here with Dean Hardeman, not some two-cents-a-word hack. I’ve tried to feel him out, but he just says the book is coming along fine and not to worry about it.”
“That’s easy for him to say.” Al frowned as a sudden thought hit him. “He’s not hitting the sauce again, is he?”
“Absolutely not. I talk to him every day, and the man is sober as an owl.”
Al Fessler got up and paced once across the office, then came back and sat down. He drummed his fingers on the desk top. “All the same, I wish I knew what the hell he was doing. What if he’s writing some artsy-schmartzy piece of crap that we can’t even use?”
“Dean Hardeman does not write artsy-schmartzy,” Driscoll said. “And what does it matter, really? The important part of this book is the pictures. The pictures and the pop art cover with that big juicy Billy Lives! Not one person out of twenty is going to read the text anyway. But I promise you Dean Hardeman’s name will sell copies.
“Okay, okay,” Al said, holding up his hands in surrender. “You handle the temperamental author. Just so we get a book on the stands in time to help ticket sales.”
“There will be a book on the stands,” Driscoll assured him. “Dean Hardeman is doing just fine.”
CHAPTER 20
Dean Hardeman felt better than he had in years. He felt vital and healthy and full of energy. Best of all, he felt that he was producing work that was worth something. The book was moving, and he was pleased with what he had written so far.
The day after the funeral Hardeman had moved out of the Beverly Sunset, which was much too expensive. For the past two weeks he had been in a small apartment-hotel recommended by Conn Driscoll. It was on a quiet section of Franklin Avenue, a block above Hollywood Boulevard. There Hardeman could work undisturbed, and he was within walking distance of stores for anything he needed. The apartment had a pool, which he did not use, and maid service, which he did.
Since moving, Hardeman had been so busy with the book that he had not called Joyce, even after Driscoll had said she was willing to see him. Hardeman was saving that meeting as a reward for himself when he got the book well underway. Another reason for the delay was Hardeman’s nervousness at seeing his ex-wife again. His past attempts at bringing about a reconciliation had gone badly, and he worried about blowing it again. He felt it would help his case if he could demonstrate to Joyce that he was both sober and working.
He read over slowly what he had written the day before, making pencil notations in the margin where he wanted to rewrite. What he had here, Hardeman decided, was the story of Billy Lockett, all right, but it was something more. It was a look at Billy’s generation.
Not that he wanted this to be categorized as a Generation book. Those usually took one of two approaches: the our-children-are-going-to-hell alarmist view, or the more popular God-bless-our-children-for-they-are-wiser-than-the-rest-of-us paean to adolescence. Hardeman found the young people of the Seventies no better and no worse than any of the other decades he had observed, going back to his own youth during World War II. The main difference he found was that the kids of the last fifteen years had received an inordinate amount of publicity.
Young people were constantly rediscovering such truths as Peace is Better Than War, and Sex is Fun, and Our Parents Don’t Know Everything. It would do no harm, probably, to let the kids go on thinking they invented these homilies, but maybe they should be reminded that they’re a little shy of the Wisdom of the Ages.
Hardeman riffled through the pages of manuscript he had completed so far. It was going to run somewhat longer than Driscoll had asked for, but after final cutting it would be close. What he needed to round out the book was a section on Billy’s childhood. The handouts Driscoll had given him were the usual publicity garbage — high school honor student passes up scholarship to bring his music to the people; a combination of talent and hard work propels him to success and happiness.
It was too bad, Hardeman thought, that he had not had a chance to talk to Billy’s parents while they were in town. They had left immediately after the funeral, apparently saying goodbye to nobody.
As long as he had reached a natural break in the flow of words, Hardeman decided it was
a good time to call Joyce. He could have used a drink before talking to her, but he had limited the alcohol he kept in the apartment to a six-pack of Coors in the refrigerator. He lit a fresh cigarette and dialed Joyce’s number. He did not have to look it up.
“Hello?” The familiar, slightly husky voice made him tighten up in the chest.
“Hello, Joyce. How are you?”
“Dean, I heard you were in town.”
Very noncommittal, no “glad to hear from you.” Well, what did he expect? Get on with it.
“I’d like to see you, Joyce.”
Brief pause. “Do you think it’s wise?”
“Who knows from wise?” Was that too glib? “I’d like to see you, that’s all.”
“Dean, I don’t want to give you any false impressions. I’ll see you, if you want, but I’m not committing myself to anything.”
“I understand. No committments, no promises. Just an ex-husband getting together with his ex-wife. Don’t worry, I’ll behave.”
“All right.” Still doubtful.
“How about dinner tonight?”
“I can’t tonight.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m busy then too. Could we make it Friday?”
“You’re a popular lady.” Did that sound sarcastic? Better soften it. He was in no position to even hint at jealousy. “Friday is fine. I’ll pick you up at eight. You choose the place.”
“Let’s make it Henri’s on Rodeo Drive. I’ll meet you there.”
Okay, so she didn’t want him to come up to her place. Understandable, in view of past experience. “That’s fine,” he said. “Henri’s on Rodeo Drive. Eight o’clock, Friday.”
“I’ll see you then. Goodbye, Dean.”
Not a thoroughly satisfying first contact, but at least it was a contact. Hardeman wished he had a better feel for Joyce’s present frame of mind. It would give him a clue as to what approach was most likely to work. He had tried to get a hint from Conn Driscoll about which way the wind blew, but the young PR man was unaccountably vague about Joyce’s attitude. Still, he was grateful to Driscoll for breaking the ice.
But back to work. He had three days before the dinner date with Joyce, and it was best that he keep occupied. Where had he left off? Billy’s childhood. That’s what the book needed. What better way to get a feeling for Billy’s childhood than to go and take a look at the place where he spent it. Belford, Indiana.
The World Almanac told him that Belford, Indiana, had a population of 13,087. The Road Atlas told him it was located on U.S. Highway 50 on the East Fork of the White River, midway between Indianapolis and Louisville.
The information was of little use to Dean Hardeman. He knew they ran the Memorial Day 500 at Indianapolis and the Kentucky Derby at Louisville, but he still knew less about Belford than he did about Dakar.
He looked up the number of a travel agent and called to make arrangements to go to Belford. He could take a United flight to Chicago in the morning, he was told, then a local airline to Indianapolis, and finally to Belford by air taxi.
He decided against calling Billy’s parents to tell them he was coming. It was poor etiquette to drop in on strangers unannounced, but it was good research technique if you were looking for honest reactions.
Packing would be no problem — just enough in a small bag for an overnight stay. With the travel arrangements out of the way, he returned to marking up the manuscript.
The Middle West. To Dean Hardeman it had consisted only of an expanse of squared-off farm land to be flown over as quickly as possible en route from one coast to the other. Except for a couple of trips to Chicago while flogging his earlier books, he had never set foot in the Middle West. Although he had not joined in the general Eastern Seaboard attitude of condescension toward the people who lived here, Hardeman had never really thought much about them.
He left the jumbo jet in Chicago and flew in a smaller aircraft to Indianapolis. The air taxi was a sturdy twin-engine Beechcraft operated by a taciturn man in a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. Hardeman found that skimming low over the forests and farms of central Indiana gave him a much sharper sensation of flying than traveling several miles up in the pressurized cabin of a jet airliner. He was sorry to see this leg of his journey end when they landed at the small Belford airport.
Finding a cab to take him into town took the better part of an hour. There was no great demand for cabs in Belford. Hardeman finally turned up a grossly fat man who operated a one-car taxi company.
The driver, wheezing heavily, eyed Hardeman’s single bag suspiciously. “That all the luggage you got?”
“It’s enough to carry my burglar tools.”
No smile. A shrug of the fat shoulders. “Where you want to go?”
“Just drive around the town for a while.”
Perceptible warming at the thought of a hefty fare, “Sure thing. There ain’t much to drive around, but I’ll show you what there is.”
Hardeman sat back in the seat letting the visual impressions of the town wash over him. He scarcely listened to the rambling comments of the driver as he pointed out the town’s leading industries and objects of local pride like the new high school.
The main street of Belford — called, inevitably, Main Street — was compact and clean. There was a Montgomery Ward, a Sears (What ever happened to Roebuck?), two hotels, several taverns, a Rexall drugstore, a McDonald’s, and lots of small shops selling hardware, yard goods, garden equipment, and work clothes.
Many of the buildings along Main Street still had the honest brick and granite faces they had worn since around 1910. Others had gone modern and presented glass and aluminum façades that seemed jarringly out of place. What a pity, thought Hardeman, that this outpost of Americana should imitate the big cities by slapping a slick veneer of urban renewal on its honest, homely bricks. As soon as the thought hit him, Hardeman smiled at his presumption. Who was he, living minutes away from the towers of Manhattan, to suggest that these people should keep their town a perpetual Disneyland for jaded city dwellers to wander through snuffling with nostalgia for something they never knew? The people of Belford were probably most proud of their new buildings and, like people everywhere, could hardly wait to get rid of the old. Why should they be any different?
Hardeman leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Do you know where the Thomas Locketts live?”
“Sure do. Hardly anybody in town I don’t know where they live, unless it’s some of the field hands who only come in for the harvest and stay in the boarding houses. The Locketts, though, I guess near everybody knows where they live. Especially now.”
“Why especially now?” Hardeman asked.
“Ain’t you read about the Lockett boy, Billy?”
“A little,” Hardeman admitted.
“Went and killed himself out to California. You a friend of the Locketts?”
“Not exactly.”
“They’re quiet people, Tom and Helen. Too bad their boy had to turn out the way he did.”
“I heard he was doing pretty well,” Hardeman said.
The driver gave a disgusted snort that made his fat cheeks wobble. “Sure, playin’ that rock and roll music, if you want to call it music. Smokin’ that dope too, like as not.”
“Billy was using dope?”
“More’n likely. They all do.”
“All?”
“All them longhair freaks out to California. Oh, we get a few of them here from up at the normal school, and some of them Indianapolis people with cabins out to the lake, but nothing like California. Out there the hippies just take over, and nobody does a thing about it.”
“Sounds grim,” Hardeman observed.
“You can say that again, brother. I’ve been up to Indianapolis and seen some of the movies they’re putting out these days. Let me tell you, it was filth. Pure filth.”
Hardeman grew weary of the taxi driver’s opinions of current morals. He leaned back in the seat and switched his attention to the scene outside hi
s window. The residential streets of Belford were wide and quiet and lined with big healthy elm trees. The elm leaves were fresh with the bright green of spring.
The Lockett’s house, much like others on the street, was old and sturdy, of white clapboard with a deep front porch.
“You’d better wait for me,” Hardeman said as the driver parked out in front of the house.
“Cost you five dollars an hour.”
“It’s a deal.”
The driver pulled a copy of Field and Stream from the glove compartment and settled down to read as Hardeman got out and went up the concrete walk to the house.
Although the day was bright and dry, he instinctively wiped his feet on the mat before ringing the doorbell. He smiled to see the two hooks screwed into the roof of the porch where a swing once had hung. Too bad it was gone, he thought. As a city boy, one thing he had never done was sit in a porch swing.
Thomas Lockett answered the door. He was in shirtsleeves with his collar open and his sleeves rolled up two turns. In his hand was a copy of the Louisville Courier-Journal.
“Mr. Lockett, my name is Dean Hardeman. I’m working with people who knew your son in California, writing a book about him. If you can spare me the time, I’d like to talk to you a little about Billy.”
Thomas Lockett’s face remained impassive. He did not stand away from the door. “There’s one thing I want to know first. Did you have anything to do with that so-called funeral out there?”
“No.”
Billy Lives Page 16