Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  Hardeman held the smoke in his lungs for several seconds, then let it out in a long sigh. “Good shit,” he agreed.

  The next room he entered was packed with expensive quadrophonic sound equipment. The carpet was criss-crossed with electrical wires. On the turntable records, presumably Wildflower records, were being played at an ear-splitting volume. Hardeman smiled at nobody in particular and went back into the hall.

  He proceded down the hall, wandering in and out of the rooms, feeling quite mellow. Young people smiled at him and he smiled back. The constant turbulence of the party seemed to have taken on a certain rhythm and order. Hardeman knew the change was not in the party, but in his perception.

  There seemed to be no hard liquor being drunk, although Hardeman had seen several people carrying cans of beer — invariably Coors, the in beer. In one room he found a case of Pepsi. He popped open a can, tasted it, and found it was warm. Still, it felt good going down his dry throat.

  Several times he thought he saw Iris Ames, but he could not be sure. Many of the lights were out now, and with the drifting smoke and the constant surge of bodies up and down the hall and through the rooms, it was hard to recognize anyone.

  One of the rooms with a terrace was even more crowded than the rest. Hardeman edged in through the packed doorway to see what the attraction was. Against the far wall a tall, bony young man with long tangled hair was completely closed in by a semicircle of young musicians, fans, groupies, and whoever else all those others might be. Hardeman nudged a loose-lipped youth standing next to him.

  “Who’s that?” he said, jabbing a thumb toward the clamoring fans.

  The boy looked at him with distrust. “You putting me on?”

  “No, man, I’m a stranger here. Who is it?”

  “That’s Tommy Duall, man.”

  Hardeman continued to look blank, and the boy next to him rolled his eyes hopelessly. “Tommy Duall is the leader of Wildflower, man.”

  “Oh, sure,” Hardeman said. The boy edged away through the crowd.

  He looked toward Tommy Duall again, but the leader was nearly hidden from view by the crush of his admirers. Hardeman caught only a quick flash of his face — bright blue eyes, hollow cheeks, toothy insolent smile. Then he appeared to be pulled down into the crowd of fans.

  Back out in the hall, Hardeman jerked his hand as the thin marijuana cigarette burned down to his fingers. He pinched out the roach and looked around for an ash receptacle. Finding none, he dropped the tiny butt on the carpet and ground it in with his heel. Wildflower would pay for cleaning the carpet. Wildflower could afford it. He continued down the hall.

  In the next room he investigated, all the furniture had been pushed back against the walls. In the cleared space in the center of the room two girls with their arms outstretched, faces to the ceiling, eyes closed, were spinning round and round, humming tunelessly as they spun. Spinning and humming. Humming and spinning. A ring of people sat around the edges of the room watching the two girls. The faces of the watchers were grave. Hardeman sat down and joined them, wondering how long the spinning girls could keep it up.

  One of them soon answered his question. She wobbled suddenly like a slowing top and fell to the floor. Her head hit the carpet with a solid thump. She lay there on her back with a beatific smile on her face. No one moved to see if she was all right.

  Something was being passed around the room. When it reached the boy sitting next to him, Hardeman looked over and saw that it was a stainless steel sugar bowl with the Hackett House logo on the side. The bowl was filled with a white powder that was not sugar. Hardeman’s neighbor took a tiny metal spoon from his pocket, dipped it into the powder, and snorted it up his left nostril. He repeated the process for the right nostril, then pinched his nose, working it back and forth while tears ran from his eyes.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Oh, yes, yes, yes.” He wiped his eyes and handed the sugarbowl to Hardeman.

  Hardeman took it and started to pass the bowl on to the girl sitting on his right.

  “Go ahead, man,” said the boy, still wiping his eyes. Have a toot. It’s all free. The record company supplies it.”

  “I think I’ll pass,” said Hardeman. “It makes my ears ring.”

  He handed the bowl of cocaine on and returned his attention to the girl who was still spinning and humming in the center of the room. She showed no signs of slowing down. The other girl still lay where she had dropped, smiling and peaceful.

  Hardeman got to his feet and wandered back out into the hall. There a pickup game of soccer had begun with all the players of both sexes in the nude. Hardeman watched the dangling, flopping, bouncing action for a while, then moved on.

  He found the room where the Pepsis were, and took another one. He drank down half the can and belched luxuriously. His eyelids were beginning to feel grainy, a side effect he always got from smoking marijuana. He looked around half-heartedly for Iris, didn’t see her, decided maybe he would go home.

  He punched the button for the elevator, but when the door slid open, he saw the car was jammed with guitar players and their amplifiers, a drummer with a full drum set, and what looked like a hundred groupies. The din was like a solid wall. Hardeman let the elevator door slide shut again and went off to look for the stairs.

  After rounding several corners in the corridor, or maybe the same corner several times, he found a steel fire door under a lighted Exit sign. The door opened on a dim flight of stairs.

  Hardeman pushed through the door and started down the stairs. As he reached the landing halfway down to the fourth floor he almost stumbled over a lean figure sitting hunched on the steps, elbows on knees, head in hands.

  “Excuse me,” Hardeman asid.

  The seated figure took his head out of his hands and looked up. Hardeman recognized the face as Tommy Duall, leader of Wildflower.

  “Don’t tell them all I’m out here for a bit, will you, chum?”

  Hardeman sat down on the steps next to the lean rock star. “I won’t tell anybody. I’m on my way out. Are you all right?”

  “I’m not stoned, if that’s what you mean. Do I know you?”

  “No. My name’s Dean Hardeman.” He stuck out a hand and Tommy Duall took it.

  “Hello, Dean. Are you stoned?”

  “Just lightly.”

  “You’re a bit old for this kind of a frolic, aren’t you? No offense.”

  “No offense. You’re right, Tommy, I am a bit old for this. A bit more than a bit. That’s why I’m on my way home.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Oh, quite. You have a home to go to where you can get away from this. This, you see, is my home.” He gestured back up the stairs. Even through the steel fire door they could hear the thumping music and shrill voices. “All this.”

  “That’s tough,” Hardeman sympathized. “But a million dollars a year ought to make it easier to take.” Enough effect from the marijuana remained that Hardeman saw nothing unusual about sitting on the back steps of a Sunset Strip hotel and chatting casually with a young rock idol about millions of dollars.

  “There is that,” Tommy Duall admitted. “I don’t mean to play poor-little-rich-boy. I do enjoy the big cars and the boat and the trunks full of clothes and all that. But, chum, I am tired. You’re not the only one who’s too old for this scene. I’m twenty-eight my last birthday, chum, and this is a game for kids.”

  “Why don’t you get out?” Hardeman asked.

  “I will one day, and soon too. I don’t want to end up like some I’ve seen. I’ve had two mates kill themselves with overdoses of heroin. Another drowned in a hotel swimming pool. Accidents? Maybe. No, I don’t want that kind of a finish. If there weren’t so bloody many people depending on me, I’d walk out right this minute. I swear I would.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Hardeman told him.

  “And another thing,” the rock star went on, clutching at Hardeman’s sleeve. “This bloody superstud imag
e they’ve pushed me into is killing me. It used to be fun when I was a kid, getting all the sex I wanted whenever I wanted it. Now it’s just a drag. Every bird I meet expects me to boff her half a dozen times before and after tea. I’m taking Vitamin E, ginseng, every bloody thing you can think of, but I just can’t do it any more. I swear, I’ll get out soon. I will.”

  Behind them the fire door clanged open and a squeal of girlish voices spilled down the stairs.

  “There he is!”

  “There’s Tommy!”

  “Come on, Tommy, we need you!”

  Tommy Duall rose on the steps and turned to face his fans. The blue eyes flashed and the insolent smile was back in place. He pumped his pelvis suggestively.

  “I’m ready any time you are, ladies,” he said.

  Tommy started up the stairs as the fans swept down to surround him. He was carried back through the metal door and into the party.

  For several minutes Hardeman remained sitting on the steps. At last he rose wearily, clumped down the five flights to the lobby, and went home.

  CHAPTER 28

  Although Driscoll had assured Dean Hardeman he was not worried about the book being finished on time, Driscoll felt a surge of relief when the publisher called to tell him the author had personally delivered the manuscript. It was two days ahead of the deadline. To ease any lingering doubts, Driscoll drove out to take a look at the work himself before it was turned over to the printer. If he found it unreadable, he still had the two days to do an emergency rewrite.

  Happily for Driscoll, no such patch job was needed. He read the manuscript through once quickly, looking for gross errors, then sat back and read it again, more slowly, for sheer enjoyment. Dean Hardeman had taken the frankly commercial assignment and turned it into an affecting story of a contemporary young man and his special world. The real beauty of the thing, in Conn Driscoll’s eyes, was that with all its artistry, the book would sell tickets.

  Driscoll passed the good news on to Al Fessler. Al could not be bothered reading it himself, but he took Driscoll’s word for it that they had a winner.

  When Driscoll called Hardeman to congratulate him on a fine piece of writing, the author affected a playful air of hurt surprise.

  “What did you expect to get from Dean Hardeman, a comic book?”

  Nevertheless, Driscoll did not miss the pride in the author’s voice.

  “I suppose you’ll be going back to New York now,” Driscoll said.

  “No, not right away. I thought I might stick around and see this big concert we’ve all worked so hard to sell. Think you can get me a ticket?”

  “Sure, if you’re serious.”

  “Anyway, didn’t you say you wanted me to do a little flogging of the book on the talk shows?”

  “That was my original idea,” Driscoll admitted, “but I know writers aren’t crazy about that duty. You’ve already done more than I really expected of you.”

  “Hell, I don’t mind,” Hardeman said. “When you’ve been out of circulation as long as I have, you’re glad for a little TV exposure.”

  “Okay, Dean, I’ll pass the word to Al that you’re available.”

  • • •

  Al Fessler was delighted at the news, and wasted no time arranging appearances for Hardeman with Dinah, Merv, and Johnny. So articulate and popular was the author on these shows that there was a revival of interest in his earlier books, which were soon out in new editions. Hardeman began to get feelers from publishers and agents about his next project.

  His professional life was not the only area in which things were looking up for Hardeman. Once he had completed the book he had plenty of free time to spend with Iris Ames. Iris was delighted with her author’s rapidly growing fame, and she soon dumped Oscar Pincus, her record executive, leaving her Thursdays free for Hardeman if he wanted them.

  The affair swung happily along on a basis of healthy lust. Neither Hardeman nor Iris had any illusions about being in love or about their future together. Each had something that satisfied a current need in the other, and that was enough. There were no promises and no demands. Hardeman found it the most satisfying relationship he had ever had with a woman.

  • • •

  Conn Driscoll scarcely had time to feel good about Hardeman and the book when his carefully planned promotional campaign for the concert was jostled from an unexpected direction — Al Fessler.

  “I got a change I want you to make in the concert ads,” Fessler said one day in early June as he and Driscoll ate lunch at Ollie Hammond’s.

  “A change in the ads?” Driscoll choked, spilling part of his bloody Mary. “Why? Everything is set from here to September — the copy’s all written, the layouts are ready. What change?”

  “I want you to promote the angle of a special mystery performer at the concert.”

  Driscoll stared at him. “Al, you’re kidding. Tell me you’re kidding.”

  “I am not kidding. I got an act I want to go on in the spot before closing. I want you to sell the idea that it’s going to be a terrific surprise.”

  “The concert is all booked,” Driscoll told him.

  “So we add my mystery act and we run over twenty minutes. So what?”

  “Have you any idea how much extra that would cost us at the Forum? The overtime for the cleanup crew alone would run into thousands.”

  “Okay, so we cut a little out of the other acts.”

  “Would you like to tell an outfit like Black Dragon that we’re cutting a little out of their act? Those dudes carry knives, and they’re spacey enough to use them.”

  “Then we just hustle them on and off the stage a little faster. I want this act in the show, Driscoll.”

  “All right, Al, it’s your concert.” Driscoll spread out a cocktail napkin on the table and began to write on it with a ballpoint pen. “Now, who is this incredible mystery entertainer?”

  “I don’t want to tell you yet.”

  Driscoll looked up sharply. “How am I supposed to sell an act if I don’t know what it is?”

  “Like I said, you promote it as a surprise mystery performer. Play it real big because, I’m telling you, this is going to be real big. You can make the pitch more believable if you yourself don’t know what it’s going to be.”

  “More believable? Al, this is a joke, isn’t it? You’re funning old gullible Conn.”

  “It’s no joke.” Fessler pointed to the flattened napkin. “Write.”

  Driscoll sighed heavily and wrote out some quick notes in his neat, angular handwriting. He said, “Are you going to make me wait until the concert to find out what it is you’re springing on the world?”

  Fessler winked mischievously. “Maybe when I’m ready I’ll arrange a sneak preview.”

  “I can hardly wait,” Driscoll grouched, “but I guess I’ll have to.”

  Although he hated the idea and thought it was strictly amateur, Driscoll threw himself wholeheartedly into the new campaign, hammering on the gimmick of Al Fessler’s Magical Mystery Guest. Fessler was, after all, paying his salary.

  The change in the promotional campaign, and the everapproaching date of the concert kept Driscoll too busy to work in much social life. He did manage to get up to Joyce Hardeman’s apartment several times, but it was seldom more than a quick bout of sex, after which Driscoll would fall into an exhausted sleep. On the rare occasions when he had a few free hours for relaxation, Driscoll would call Kitty Girodian. They would do some simple thing together like walking on the beach or taking a bottle of wine and a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken to Griffith Park. They never talked about the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert. Their times together always left Driscoll feeling refreshed.

  Rick Girodian’s feelings about his sister’s seeing Driscoll did not change. Although he saw little of Kitty these days, Rick was waiting in his car outside her apartment late in the evening of the Fourth of July. Kitty had been down to the Redondo pier with Driscoll where they watched fireworks over the water. She was surprised
to see her brother and invited him in for coffee.

  “So you’re still dating the huckster,” Rick said as soon as they were seated.

  “Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?”

  “The guy is no good fo you, Kitty. He’s a sharpshooter. Give him a chance and he’ll hurt you.”

  “Rick, you don’t have to protect me from the city slickers. I’m twenty-four years old, and I’m not a virgin.”

  “I don’t want to hear you talk like that.”

  “And I don’t want to hear you criticizing the men I go out with.”

  “Not the men, just one of them. I know his type. He doesn’t give a damn for anybody but Conn Driscoll.”

  “That’s not fair,” Kitty said. “You’re forgetting the boost he’s given your career. I’ve seen your name in the papers several times in the past three months, and we both know Conn is responsible for that. And don’t tell me the publicity is hurting you.”

  “All right, I’ll admit he’s doing a good job. But that’s what he’s being paid for, to publicize the concert. I happen to be a part of it that’s all. No, he’s okay in his own field.”

  “But you wouldn’t want your sister to marry him.”

  Rick half-rose from his chair. “Kitty, you’re not going to …”

  “No, dear, it’s just an expression.”

  Rick sat back down. His scowl remained.

  “I hear you’re booked at the Troubador,” Kitty said to change the subject.

  “Yeah, for two weeks.”

  “That’s good. You haven’t played the Troubador since …”

  “Since I worked with Billy,” Rick finished for her. “This time I’ll be sharing the bill with the Peace Brothers, but that’s all right, it’s a good spot.” He paused, rubbing at his chin. “Funny thing …”

  “What’s that?” Kitty prompted.

  “They want me to write some songs for them. The Brothers. Said they liked my stuff better than Springsteen’s.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve always known you could write songs with anybody.”

  “But I’ve never written for anybody but myself before. And Billy, of course. This would be something brand new.”