Billy Lives

by Gary Brandner

  “Now, a very special young man,” said the Tiger, moving right along. “He has a very personal reason to remember Billy. You’ll recall the golden hits he recorded back in the days when he was Billy’s partner. Let’s bring on Rick Girodian!”

  Rick came on stage to applause that was polite, but not over-enthusiastic. After some of the gaudy groups that had preceded him, Rick seemed a small, drab figure in his suede jacket and black jeans. His habitual scowl did nothing to warm up the audience.

  Leaning close to the microphone, he said, “Here’s a song you may remember. I wrote it for Billy and me.”

  The crowd apparently remembered it well and warmed up to Rick somewhat. As he sang, though his voice was uncertain and his phrasing not always on target, Rick was so plainly sincere that the audience was won over, and by the time he finished they were cheering him without restraint.

  When the fans had subsided again Rick said, “I’m glad you liked it, because that was my last song.”

  A collective gasp came from the crowd. Kitty Girodian started forward in her seat.

  Rick held up a hand for attention. “What I mean is that was my last song as a performer. You were very nice to me tonight, but it wasn’t me you were cheering, it was a memory of Billy. There’s no use pretending I’m a hell of a singer, because we all know better.”

  The crowd relaxed and laughed a little, and Rick went on. “I’m a fair guitar player, but this town is full of better guitar players. What I can do is write songs, and that’s what I’m going to do from now on. You’ll be hearing from me. Goodbye.”

  The applause was warm and honest as Rick walked off stage and down the aisle. Driscoll looked over and saw tears in Kitty’s eyes. He touched her hand, and she smiled up at him.

  Tiger Pawes was back on stage, crackling with energy. “And now, and now, and now … what we’ve all been waiting for. The Magical Mystery Act! The Unknown Rocker! Not even the Tiger knows what we’re going to see next, gang. But here’s the one man in the world who does know, and who is now going to introduce his big surprise. He’s the man responsible for all the dynamite happenings tonight … Al Fessler!”

  There was a faint spattering of applause. To rock fans, concert promoters are at best a necessary evil. They are the Establishment as opposed to the laid-back world of youth and rock.

  Al Fessler came up on the stage still wearing the disconnected look Driscoll had seen in the dressing room. He seized the microphone by the throat and addressed the young fans.

  “We’ve heard a lot of great music tonight,” Al said into the mike, “played and sung by a lot of great young talent. There’s just one thing that would make this Billy Lockett Memorial Concert perfect, and that’s if Billy could be here himself. Okay, here’s my special surprise … my present to all of Billy’s fans everywhere.”

  The overhead lights dimmed until it was nearly dark in the Forum. A shadowy figure hurried up the aisle to the stage. Driscoll felt his muscles grow tense.

  A single spotlight came on, and there stood Joel Nimmo in the familiar Billy/Christ pose, wearing the white Billy jumpsuit. The immediate impact was like a blow to the stomach. Driscoll had to admire Al Fessler’s staging.

  The stunned silence of the crowd was broken by Al shouting into the microphone, “Billy Lives!”

  No applause. Instead, a confused rustle and mutter of voices out in the darkened audience.

  Driscoll saw Joel Nimmo’s eyes shift nervously to the edge of the stage where Al was standing. Al motioned for him to start singing.

  The blond boy strummed a chord and went into the same song of Billy’s that Driscoll had heard him do at Al’s preview. Since then he seemed to have lost confidence, or maybe it was the chilly reception he was getting from the Forum crowd, but Joel Nimmo’s attempt at Billy-like singing was tentative and off the mark.

  The muttering of the fans grew louder, and soon individual voices could be heard shouting from different parts of the building.

  “Sit down!”

  “Take him away!”

  “Get him out of here!”

  “Billy is dead!”

  Through it all the boy kept singing, though Driscoll could see his eyes constantly seeking Al Fessler.

  Then somebody threw something. It landed with an ugly plop at the boy’s feet. From where he sat, Driscoll could see enough of the object to recognize what it was. A wet, wadded-up Billy T-shirt.

  The crowd began to boo. More objects were thrown — popcorn cartons, soft drink cups, crumpled programs, pennies. Then a coke bottle hit one of the amplifiers, knocking it out of service. No bottled beverages were sold inside the Forum, but it was common practice to smuggle them in.

  Joel Nimmo bravely tried to continue, but with one amplifier out, the weakness of his voice became glaringly apparent.

  More catcalls from the crowd. More bottles flying through the air. A number of rowdies moved into the aisles for a better shot at the stage.

  A soft drink cup, luckily plastic, bounced off the boy’s shoulder. Al Fessler vaulted onto the stage and rushed to place himself between Joel Nimmo and his tormentors. Al seized the microphone and shouted into it, his voice an out-of-control rasp.

  “You animals! You infantile jackasses! What are you doing?”

  The shouts from the crowd grew still louder and uglier.

  “Cheat!”

  “Ripoff!”

  “Get him!”

  “You stupid punks!” Al yelled back at the crowd. “This boy is doing the best he can. You want to throw things at somebody, throw at me. This was my idea. Throw at me you juvenile assholes!”

  Although most of the people missed it, Driscoll saw Al signal with a flip of his hand for Joel Nimmo to get off the stage and into one of the tunnels while he diverted the crowd’s attention.

  After Al’s shouted insults, the mood of the crowd was close to rage. More bottles and other missiles hurtled toward the stage. A wine bottle arced end over end and bounced off Al’s forehead with a solid clunk. He staggered back from the blow but recovered and lurched for the microphone as Joel Nimmo, looking back uncertainly, escaped down an aisle.

  “You mindless sons of bitches!” Al shouted hoarsely. “You nose-picking, dope-smoking, motherfucking spoiled babies!”

  With an angry shout, a dozen or so of the young men who had been throwing things from the aisles rushed toward the stage, converging on Al Fessler. Driscoll sprang out of his seat and pounded his way toward the action. He had no clear plan in mind, but he knew if he did not get there in time, Al was a dead man.

  Voices shouted from all directions. Somewhere at the rear of the building a police whistle shrilled.

  When Driscoll reached the stage there was a knot of young men surrounding Al Fessler, punching and kicking at him. Driscoll grabbed one of them by the front of the throat and hurled him gagging to the floor. He slammed a knee into the testicles of a second, and broke the nose of a third with his fist.

  The attackers gave way for a moment, surprised by the sudden assault, and Driscoll pushed his way through to Al’s side. Fessler was bent over, holding his stomach. Blood streamed from his nose and a cut on his head.

  Driscoll looped an arm around the injured man’s shoulders and propelled him toward the side of the stage. Suddenly his path was barred by the young assailants who had regrouped and were moving in on him.

  Then, unexpectedly, the approaching group was split in two, and Driscoll felt someone take up part of Al’s weight on the other side. Holding his free arm up to ward off blows, Driscoll looked over to see who had come to his aid. Across the slumping Al Fessler he recognized the Armenian scowl of Rick Girodian.

  Supporting most of Al’s weight between them, Driscoll and Rick bulled their way through to the side of the stage and down the steps to where a pair of Ingelwood police officers were clearing a path. They continued down the aisle and into the tunnel ramp leading to the dressing rooms. Outside, sirens whined closer. Back in the auditorium a voice boomed over the loudspeak
ers.

  “Everybody stay seated. The concert is over. It’s all over.”

  CHAPTER 33

  In the tall hospital bed with the smooth white sheet across his body, Al Fessler looked smaller than he really was. His left arm was in a cast up to the shoulder. Much of his face was hidden by bandages. The skin that showed was swollen and discolored. Conn Driscoll stood at the foot of the bed looking at him.

  “Considering that you could just as well be dead,” said Driscoll, “you don’t look so bad.”

  “I don’t remember much about what happened at the end last night,” Al said in a muffled voice. “They tell me you pulled me out of there.”

  “Rick Girodian helped,” Driscoll said.

  “How about that kid. I didn’t think he liked me.”

  “He doesn’t. Like with me, it was a reflex action.”

  “Whatever it was, I owe the both of you.”

  “Do you want to hear how it all came out?”

  “Might as well. I can’t hurt any worse than I do now.”

  “The cops moved in and quieted things down before it turned into a real riot. There was some damage to the Forum, but not too bad.”

  “What happened to the kid … Joel?”

  “He got out all right. I don’t think he’ll be doing impressions for a while. Can you take some more bad news?”

  “No, but let’s hear it.”

  “The state shot down our charity gimmick, so we have to pay the talent their regular asking price.”

  “Which leaves …?”

  “Which leaves, after expenses, enough to take care of my salary and for you to pay off that loan you were worried about.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Balls.” Al groaned as he tried to shift his position in the bed.

  “I guess I’ve cheered you up enough,” Driscoll said. “I’m going out of town for a while. Are there any loose ends you want me to tie up before I leave?”

  “No, I’ll be out of here in a couple of days, and I’ll handle anything that comes up. It will do me good to keep busy for a while.”

  “Yeah, well, see you.” Driscoll turned and walked out of the room.

  Al rolled his head painfully on the pillow and stared out the window. All he could see was a hazy patch of sky.

  “Hello, Al.”

  He started to rise at the sound of the familiar voice, but moaned and sank back down. Madeline, wearing a cool yellow dress, was her immaculate self, except for traces of red around the eyes.

  “Hello, Mad. How’s everything?”

  “Everything’s the same, Al. Are you all right?”

  “A busted arm, a few bruises. I’ll live.”

  “I want you to know I think that was a very brave thing you did last night.”

  “What brave? It was dumb. Just one more dumb move in a lifetime of dumb moves.”

  “I know why you did it, Al,” Madeline said. “You were protecting the boy, Joel. You said those things to that mob to draw their attention away from him.”

  “That part of it I enjoyed, telling those pimply morons what I really thought of them after years of kissing ass so they’d spend their money on my clients. Hell, whatever reason I did it, it was crazy. I’ve been a little bit crazy ever since … since the day at the studio.”

  “I’m sorry, Al.”

  “Never mind. I’m as much to blame as anybody.”

  “It’s not a matter of placing the blame, Al. We were just two people who didn’t belong together. It took us six years to find it out, but maybe we were lucky. Some people never do.”

  Al peered up at her through his swollen eye. “I don’t suppose there’s a chance …”

  “No, Al,” she said quietly. “No chance.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Keep in touch, will you?”

  “Of course.” Madeline stepped close to the bed and gently touched her husband’s bruised face with cool fingers. Then she left him.

  • • •

  Out in front of the hospital Driscoll and Kitty Girodian walked toward the parking lot. Suddenly Driscoll pulled up short.

  “Excuse me for a minute,” he said. “There goes somebody I want to see.”

  He crossed the lawn to a path where a broad-shouldered man was striding toward the entrance.

  “Dean,” he called.

  Dean Hardeman halted and turned toward him. He stood where he was waiting for Driscoll.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Driscoll said when he caught up with Hardeman.

  “What about?”

  “About Joyce.”

  “Oh, I see. About you and her.”

  “I figured you knew. I don’t know how it happened, Dean, but …”

  “Come off it. Any high school biology student can tell you how it happened. Joyce is a desirable woman, and you, I presume, are a healthy male.”

  Driscoll waited. Finally he said, “Well, do you want to yell at me or hit me, or something?”

  Hardeman gave him a small grin. “Six months ago I probably would have done both. Then I would have gotten juiced up and gone on a crying jag. But I’ve learned a few things since I’ve been in your town. I think I finally grew out of my adolescence. And about time, considering that next month I’ll be fifty.”

  “Dean …” Driscoll groped for words. “… Good luck with your next book.”

  “Thanks. I’ll send you a copy.” Hardeman looked at his watch. “I’d better get in and see Al now for a minute. I’ve got a three-o’clock flight back to New York.”

  “Watch out for the muggers,” Driscoll said.

  “Don’t choke on the smog,” Hardeman countered.

  The two men shook hands, and Driscoll walked back across the grass to where Kitty Girodian waited.

  “What are you going to do now, Conn?” Kitty asked as they continued out the cars.

  “What I always do after a job — take some time off and try to forget it.”

  “Where will you be going this time — Las Vegas? Hawaii? Acapulco?”

  He answered her seriously. “No, this time it’s different. I’m not in the mood for fun and games. I need a place where I can think. Where there are trees and mountains and not many people. Canada, maybe. I’ve got to answer some questions for myself about where my life is going from here. I saw myself turning into Al Fessler, and I don’t want to end up the way he is. Somebody else told me I was like the younger Dean Hardeman, and that’s not so good either.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Kitty asked.

  “I don’t know. A couple of weeks, a month, maybe two months. However long it takes to straighten out my head.” He put an arm around the girl’s waist. “I wish I could take you with me.”

  Kitty shook her head. “No, you don’t. This is something you have to work out for yourself.”

  Driscoll stopped walking and turned to look into her eyes. “You’re a pretty special person, Kitty. During the past few months, whenever I really needed somebody, you were there. What are the chances of you being here when I come back?”

  Her dark eyes were grave as she answered. “I’d say chances are about sixty-forty.”

  “That’s better than even money,” Driscoll said. “Probably better than I deserve.”

  Kitty took his arm and they walked on together.

  • • •

  Joyce Hardeman sat alone at the breakfast bar in her apartment. She had a cup of coffee in one hand, and the Sunday Times spread out before her. Her eyes were on the newspaper, but her mind was somewhere else.

  You can never know for sure, she thought, if you’ve done the right thing. By merely letting down her defenses, she could have fallen in love with young Conn Driscoll. They might even have made a life together. Yet, too many things about him reminded her of Dean. Psychologists said some people were fated to keep repeating their mistakes. She did not want to be one of those. Besides, she knew Conn Driscoll was not in love with her, never would be.

  Th
en there was Dean. The new, more mature, more together Dean who had come to her apartment to say goodbye. He did love her. She could have had him back then with a word. Maybe she should have taken him. No, that was no good either. You can’t go home again.

  Her eyes fell on the half-empty bottle of Scotch, the one she’d bought to have here for Driscoll. Deliberately she walked over to the sink where the bottle stood, picked it up and put it away in a deep cupboard. Joyce then went back and sat down to her Sunday paper. She took a sip of coffee. There were worse things than being alone.

  • • •

  Tiger Pawes, rock jockey idol of Los Angeles teenagers, stretched luxuriously in the bed, enjoying the smooth warm feel of the girl next to him. He had shed his frenetic on-the-air manner with his clothes, and when he spoke it was relaxed and easy.

  “If I live to be a hundred, last night is one concert I’ll never forget. When those bottles started flying, I thought my career was over.” He turned to grin at the girl. “Anyway, one good thing happened. I met you. I’m glad we found each other after the rumble. You know, it’s lucky you weren’t hurt, standing up by the stage the way you were.”

  Iris Ames smiled back at him. “I never get hurt,” she said. “I’m a survivor.”

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  Copyright © 1976 by Gary Brandner

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  Cover image(s) © 123rf.com

  Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6334-9