Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “The idea is kind of exciting. When I watch the Brothers work, I can hear in my head the kind of things they should be doing. It might be kicks to write it for them. Rick’s scowl relaxed into something approaching a smile. “Besides, they offered me a damn good price.”

  Kitty reached over and took her brother’s hand. “That’s just great, Rick. I’ve always known you were a talented young man, and I’m glad other people are beginning to recognize it.”

  Although she did not say so, Kitty Girodian was also glad they had got off the subject of Conn Driscoll. She was not yet sure of her feelings for the man, and she did not want to get into the middle of a conflict between Conn and her brother.

  • • •

  As preparations for the concert heated up, Conn Driscoll had no time to worry about the prejudices of Rick Girodian. Rick was just another piece of talent to be fitted into the picture so the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert would emerge on the night of September 4 as some sort of coherent whole.

  To Driscoll’s considerable surprise, Al Fessler’s mystery act had proved an immediate hit. The media eagerly jumped on the story without any prompting from Driscoll. He had a steady stream of calls pleading for the identity of the unknown rocker. One national magazine offered him five thousand dollars spot cash for the name. At that moment Driscoll was glad Al Fessler had kept the secret to himself. Conn Driscoll had always had a low tolerance to temptation.

  • • •

  The Dean Hardeman book hit the stands on schedule a week before concert tickets went on sale. The book’s success, both with the critics and with the public was phenomenal. Driscoll had expected heavy sales to rock fans. They would go for anything that had lots of pictures of one of their heroes. What he did not expect was that copies would be snapped up by people who remembered Hardeman from his early work and by serious younger readers who were attracted by the favorable reports on the book.

  The success of the book spawned a host of cheap, quickly printed imitations exploiting the posthumous popularity of Billy Lockett. Driscoll advised Al Fessler not to bother taking action against the ripoff publishers. At this stage, any publicity was good publicity.

  • • •

  If there had been any doubts about how ticket sales would go for the concert, the one-two punch of Al Fessler’s mystery act and Dean Hardeman’s book erased them. Young fans stood in line overnight outside the Forum ticket windows to get the better locations. In five hours all 18,500 seats were gone. Arrangements were hastily made to pipe the show to several local theaters over closed-circuit television. These, too, quickly sold out. NBC assigned its top people to taping the concert, and plans were laid to show it on prime time over the Christmas holiday.

  Al Fessler was thoroughly delighted at the way things were going. It was less than six months since Billy Lockett had nearly wiped him out by plunging face first into the desert of San Bernardino. In that time Al had turned the disaster into a huge personal triumph. He was being hailed throughout the industry as a genius — a judgement Al Fessler was not ready to contradict.

  The only cloud on Al’s blue horizon was the attitude of his wife, Madeline. Despite the impending success of the Billy concert, he got no words of praise or encouragement from Madeline. She continued to drift through his life as though she were on her way to something more important. Perhaps once a week her bedroom door would be left ajar, signaling her availability for sex. But even in the most passionate moments, Al still felt she was not quite with him.

  To make his triumph complete, Al Fessler needed the total love and respect of his wife. It was time, he decided, to play his ace.

  It was the end of August, eight days before the concert. At breakfast Al casually laid aside Daily Variety, and looked across the breakfast bar at Madeline. He said, “Honey, I’d like to have you meet me in town tomorrow.”

  “Is it awfully important?” Madeline said. “I was going to a Masquers Club bazaar.”

  “It’s important,” Al said. “I want you to meet me at the Melrose Recording Studio at three o’clock. I’ll leave word at the reception desk what room you should go to.”

  “What’s it about, Al? Will anyone else be there?”

  “I’m going to call Conn Driscoll. I promised him he’d be in on this.”

  “In on what?” Madeline demanded, growing impatient.

  “You and Driscoll are going to be the first people in the world, aside from me, to see the unknown rocker perform.”

  CHAPTER 29

  The small auditorium at the Melrose Recording Studio had thirty wine-colored plush seats and a small curtained stage at the front. On Friday afternoon the curtain was drawn across the stage, and only two of the seats were occupied. Madeline Fessler sat in one of them, Conn Driscoll in the other.

  They sat uncomfortable being alone together and spoke in hushed tones as though not to disturb the phantom audience around them.

  “Have you any idea what this is all about?” Madeline asked.

  “I wish I did,” Driscoll said, “but Al wouldn’t even give me a hint. With the concert just eight days away, I hope he isn’t going to come up with a roller-skating bear or something.”

  Madeline did not smile. “Is he here? Al? You came in before I did.”

  “No, I haven’t seen him. I only beat you by a few minutes. The girl down at the reception desk told me to come up here, that’s all I know.

  They were startled by a sudden crackle of sound from the big loudspeakers that flanked the stage.

  “Hello. Testing. One, two, three,” Al Fessler’s amplified voice boomed at them.

  Madeline and Driscoll looked at each other. Neither of them spoke.

  A minute later the curtain parted in the center, just enough to let Al step through onto the narrow apron. He wore a smile nearly as wide as the lapels on his sport jacket.

  “Ah, the audience has arrived,” he said, hamming it up. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. The show will begin in a very few minutes.” He trotted down the steps at the side of the stage and came over to take a front-row seat next to Driscoll, still smiling.

  “Okay, are you ready to tell what’s happening?” Driscoll said.

  Al Fessler fairly quivered with excitement. “You’ll see for yourselves soon enough.”

  “Let’s get on with it, Al,” Madeline said sharply. “Or are you going to make us guess what you have behind the curtain?”

  Al’s mood lost none of its sparkle. “You won’t have to guess,” he said. “You’ll see in a minute. I want you to make allowances for the sound system here, which is, naturally, not what it will be at the Forum, but you’ll get the general idea.” He turned in his seat and called up to the projection booth at the back of the room. “Ready with the lights?”

  “Ready,” came the muffled reply.

  “Hit ’em.”

  The house lights dimmed suddenly, leaving the small auditorium in darkness. Only the red glow of the Exit signs showed in the black. There was the oiled whirr of an electric motor and a soft rustling sound as the curtain parted.

  A single white spot shot a pencil-sized beam to the stage. Gradually the circle of light expanded to reveal a face — pale blue eyes, flat cheeks, sensual mouth, shoulder-length blond hair.

  Billy!

  Conn Driscoll stiffened in his seat. Madeline reached out convulsively and grasped his arm. The spotlight continued to expand and illuminate the figure on stage. The thin, tense body was clothed in one of the tight white jumpsuits that were Billy Lockett’s trademark. The young man held his arms apart from his sides; in his hand was a white electric guitar. It was the now familiar Christlike pose of Billy on the posters, T-shirts, book covers, newspaper ads, and a hundred other places.

  And yet, it was not quite Billy. The eyes were a millimeter closer together than Billy’s. In the way he stood there was a touch less assurance. The hair was, perhaps, a half-shade lighter than Billy’s. Nevertheless, the impact was frightening
.

  When the initial shock had worn off, both Madeline and Driscoll turned to Al Fessler. Al grinned broadly, savoring their surprise.

  “You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” he said with a wink. Then to the young man on the stage, “Take it.”

  The blond boy lifted the white guitar and strummed an introductory chord. He picked out the familiar opening bars of one of Billy’s biggest hits, then began to sing. His voice was remarkably like Billy’s, but it had the calculated sound of an impersonation. The boy sang well, but without the spontaneity and the inner fire that burns in a star performer. His phrasing, inflection, tone, and gestures were all Billy’s, but he was obviously concentrating on keeping them consistent.

  Al Fessler wriggled in his seat with pleasure as the young man went through Billy’s song. He kept looking over to Driscoll and Madeline for a reaction, but their attention was riveted to the figure on the stage. Their faces told Al nothing.

  The song came to an end. The sudden silence in the room was deadly. Al Fessler started to applaud, then he looked over and saw his wife and Driscoll sitting motionless. Instead, he signaled to the lighting man up in the projection booth. The spotlight on the blond boy contracted to a pinpoint and blinked off, plunging the auditorium back into darkness. The electric motor whirred, and the curtain closed. The house lights came up.

  Al Fessler sat eagerly forward and turned to face his two companions.

  “Well?” he demanded. “What do you think?”

  After an uncomfortable silence, Driscoll shook his head. “Jesus, Al …”

  Madeline continued to stare at the stage, refusing to look at her husband.

  “Fantastic, isn’t it?” Fessler said. “The idea came to me while you were setting up the funeral, Conn. I happened to be down at the rehearsal hall and I heard some kid doing one of Billy’s songs and trying to sound like Billy. He was pretty bad, but I got to thinking, what if I could find a kid who was good at it and, better still, looked like Billy? Wouldn’t that be a bitch to pull off at the concert?

  “I told Babe Feldman what I was looking for. Babe books a lot of unknown kids for parties and weddings and like that. Babe can also keep his mouth shut, and I didn’t want any word of this to leak out and blow the surprise angle. When Babe came up with this kid, I knew I had a winner. His hair was a little too dark, but a shot of peroxide took care of that. The singing style wasn’t so easy to fix. I had him sitting for hours in a booth with headphones listening to Billy’s records. Then I’d work with him, getting the sound and the body movements down just like Billy’s. We’ve spent a lot of time together in these past weeks. All those afternoons and evenings you didn’t know where I was, Madeline, I was working with the kid. I kept him stashed in a hotel room with orders not to go out for anything. I didn’t want anybody even to suspect what I was up to until I was sure it was going to work.”

  Al leaned back comfortably and hooked his thumbs in his pants. “So tell me, have I brought Billy Lockett back to life, or haven’t I?”

  Driscoll had to swallow before he could speak. “Al … I don’t know what to tell you.”

  Madeline turned at last to face her husband. Her eyes were dark and unreadable. She did not smile.

  Al’s self-confidence seemed to slip a notch. “Wait till you hear the plans I have,” he said. “First we bring him on at the concert. Everybody will be waiting for the mystery act, wondering what the hell it’s going to be. I’ll introduce him myself. Man, it will bring the house down. Billy’s fans will flip.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Driscoll said.

  Al glanced at him sharply, then went on. “But the big splash comes after the Forum thing. With the publicity blastoff we get from the concert, we take the kid on a national tour. Hit all the big cities. It’s a natural.”

  “And the kid is doing Billy all this time?” Driscoll said.

  “What else? We keep the tour going for a year. There’ll be television spots too. We’ll all be rich.”

  “You keep saying ‘we,’” Driscoll said.

  “That’s right. I want you to promote the kid along the tour, Conn. And if you want it, you’re in for a piece of the action. You’ve done a hell of a job for the concert, and I want to show you I appreciate it.”

  “A year, you say.”

  “That’s how long I’ve got the kid under exclusive contract. I figure that’s just about as long as we can milk the Billy image, but if we do it right, it will be enough.”

  “What about the kid?” Driscoll asked.

  “What about him? He makes a bundle like the rest of us. I’m taking care of him.”

  “But after a year, who is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s going to spend a year pretending to be a dead man. When the year is over, who is he going to be?”

  “Who cares?” Al said. “The kid was nobody when I signed him. I’m giving him a chance to be somebody for twelve whole months. When I’m through with him, maybe he’ll be nobody again, but he’ll be a nobody with money in his pockets. Is that so bad?”

  “Does the kid have a name?”

  Both men looked in surprise at Madeline, who had spoken for the first time.

  “Sure he has,” Al said. “Let me get him out here and you can meet him.” He stood up and called in the direction of the stage. “Hey, Billy, come on out here.”

  Driscoll looked at him. “Billy?”

  “That’s not his real name, of course, but I thought that’s how we’d bill him for the tour. No last name, just Billy. What do you think?”

  Before Driscoll could answer, the blond boy came down the steps at the side of the stage and walked over to stand awkwardly beside Al Fessler. He looked terribly young and a little self-conscious in the white jumpsuit.

  “I want you people to meet Joel Nimmo,” Al said. “Joel, this is my wife, Madeline, and this is Conn Driscoll.”

  The boy gave them a shy smile. “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Fessler, Mr. Driscoll.” His speaking voice was barely more than a whisper.

  “Hi, Joel,” Driscoll said.

  Madeline inclined her head. Her eyes searched the boy’s face.

  “Joel’s got all of Billy’s hits perfected to a gnat’s eyelash,” Al said. “He’s gonna be the next big sensation in the rock music world. Aren’t you, Joel?”

  “I’ll sure do my best,” the boy said, smiling at each of them in turn.

  “I know you will,” Al said. “Why don’t you go back and get changed now, Billy, then come out and we’ll talk about the concert.”

  The boy nodded to Madeline and Driscoll, and walked back up on the stage, disappearing behind the curtain.

  “You called him Billy again,” Madeline said.

  “Did I? Natural mistake. The kid might as well get used to it.” Al turned to Driscoll. “Well, now that you’ve seen him and met him, what do you say? Are you in or out?”

  Driscoll hesitated. “I-I’m not sure, Al. Give me a day to think it over.”

  “What’s to think over? I’m giving you a chance to make a pile of money promoting an act that won’t hardly need promoting.”

  Driscoll avoided looking at him. “The thing is, I was planning to take a long vacation right after the concert. This deal would mean a whole year without any time off.”

  “What the hell, with the kind of money we stand to make off the kid you can take ten vacations. You can retire,” Al said.

  “I’ve got to think it over.”

  “All right, then, think.” Fessler had lost most of his good humor. “But don’t take too long.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” Driscoll said. He nodded goodbye to Madeline, glanced once toward the stage, and left the auditorium.

  Al Fessler, hands jammed into his pockets, watched him go. “That’s gratitude for you. I offer the guy a piece of the hottest show business gimmick since Tiny Tim, and he’s got to go home to think it over. Balls.”

  Madeline said nothing. She was looking at her husband wi
th a strange expression.

  “Well, what do you think, Mad?” he said. “I haven’t heard your opinion yet.”

  She answered him in low, measured tones. “I think that was the most disgusting exhibition of bad taste I have ever seen.”

  Al’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

  “I have never been more serious.”

  “I don’t understand. What’s wrong with it?” Al held out his hands, palms up helplessly.

  “If you don’t understand what’s wrong with trying to remake this boy into the image of a dead man so you can make a lot of money, then God help you.”

  “But, Madeline, don’t you see? It’s all for you. It’s to make up for the years that haven’t been as good as I wanted them to be. I wanted to give you so many things, put you in a fine house, take you to all the exciting places in the world. That’s the kind of life you deserve, Madeline. That’s what I want to give you.”

  “Al, I don’t want that,” she said.

  He stared at her, unable to accept her words. “It’s the kid, isn’t it. He made a bad impression on you. You’ll feel different when you get to know him. Listen, I’m bringing him home to our place so he can spend the next week before the concert with us. Like I had Billy come and live with us, remember? Once you get to know him you’ll see he’s a good kid.”

  “You must be out of your mind,” Madeline said.

  “I don’t understand you at all,” Al said. “This kid is just like Billy. You learned to like Billy, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I liked Billy.” Madeline’s voice was quiet and tense.

  “Okay, so give this kid a chance.”

  The seconds ticked by before Madeline answered. “I more than liked Billy. I loved Billy.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “You’re not hearing me, Al. I said I loved Billy.”

  Al Fessler stared at his wife, uncomprehending at first, then her words began to sink in. He sucked in his breath, and the color drained from his face.

  “Now you’re beginning to understand,” Madeline said. “I slept with Billy the first week you brought him home. After that we made love every time we had the chance. I kept on sleeping with Billy Lockett right up until the week he died.”