Billy Lives
Author: Gary Brandner
Date: 1975-01-01 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Mystery & Detective; Cozy; General; Classics
Description: Billy Lockett: He was the king of rock ‘n roll - until a shocking accident cut short his spectacular career. Iris Ames: A nubile beauty who was the latest to be promoted by Billy from groupie to bedmate. Al Fenstra: Billy’s manager who guided his career like a father. His reaction to Billy’s accident: “Jesus Christ, I’m wiped out!” Madeline Fenstra: Al’s cool and lovely young wife who knew more about Billy than she should. Rick Giordan: Billy’s one-time partner, he harbored a hatred that grew with Billy’s fame. Dean Hardeman: Once he was a literary giant, now he is debt-ridden alcoholic. Hired
Publisher: F+W Media
Rights: Copyright © 2012 by Gary Brandner

BILLY LIVES!

Gary Brander

a division of F+W Media, Inc.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Also Available

Copyright

CHAPTER 1

Seven thousand feet above the flat, brown desert east of Los Angeles a Cessna 172 Skyhawk throttled down to seventy miles per hour. The pilot looked over his shoulder at the two parachuted passengers in the rear seats. He nodded okay to the older one, then turned away and kept his eyes front and the headphones clamped on his ears.

The pilot hated parachute jumpers. He figured anybody who would jump out of a plane when he didn’t have to was probably dangerous on the ground or in the air. If it weren’t for the twenty-five dollars an hour they paid, he would refuse to take the crazies up at all. For this trip he charged double because they seemed even crazier than usual. Also, the blond kid was supposed to be a celebrity in the rock music world. The pilot wouldn’t know about that. Country and western was his style.

Now that he had the speed and altitude they wanted, the pilot disassociated himself from the others in the plane. He had collected his money, gotten his waiver signed, so now the jumpers could do what they liked. As for the bearded freak with the camera who shot endless pictures of the blond kid for some magazine or other, that was none of his concern either. All the pilot wanted to do now was hold his speed and listen to the sizzle of static in the headphones until it was over.

• • •

Nat Spieth, the older of the two jumpers acknowledged the go-ahead nod, but the pilot had already turned away. Despite his general dislike of pilots, this was one time Nat could not blame the man for his lack of interest. Nat wished he could just turn away from this whole idiotic scheme. He should never have agreed to it in the first place. If only he hadn’t needed the money so damn bad.

He leaned close to the ear of the blond youth to make himself heard over the noise of the engine and the rush of wind where the right-hand door had been removed for jumping. “Are you still sure you want to go through with this?” Nat shouted.

The young man bobbed his head up and down, the shoulder-length blond hair whipping and snapping about his face.

The cameraman kneeling in the seat next to the pilot made a gimme motion with his hand. The young man smiled. The camera clicked.

“You know you’re supposed to make five static line jumps before you try a free fall.” Nat was talking into the wind, but felt he had to say it once more. “That’s the rules.”

Yes, that was the rules — one of them — of the Parachute Club of America. Nat Spieth had long ago been kicked out of the PCA for violating rules. Never before, though, had he done anything as wild as this — taking up an inexperienced kid for a free fall on his very first jump with a bare minimum of ground instruction.

But the kid couldn’t wait for the formalities required by the PCA. He wanted to go out of a plane now, and he wanted to go free fall. The kid had the money to pay for it, and if Nat Spieth hadn’t brought him up, somebody else would have.

And actually, there were no laws being broken. The Federal Aviation Agency was concerned with parachutists only if they jumped over a populated area. Out here over open country you could send a spastic out of a plane with a beach umbrella and the Government couldn’t care less.

Nat leaned close to the blond youth again. “Check your harness one more time,” he shouted.

The young man tugged at the straps holding the backpack chute and the auxiliary chute in place. Everything seemed to be snug.

“You remember the ready stance I showed you when we were on the ground?”

The young man nodded, but Nat went over it again anyway. “Your feet are on the metal step above the wheel, you’re in a half-crouch, hands straight out in front on the wing strut. Look ahead at the horizon. Okay?”

Another nod.

“When you get outside on the step, you won’t be able to hear me. I’ll give you two claps on the shoulder — like this — as a signal to drop. Got that?”

The young man patted his own shoulder twice to show he understood.

“Now remember, don’t jump up in leaving the step. Kick off gently and let your feet float out to the rear. When your body is stretched out flat, let go of the strut.”

The photographer was leaning back between his seat and the pilot’s, waving the blond youth into position in front of the open door.

“As soon as you’re free of the plane,” Nat continued, “go into the basic spread position that I showed you. The cross, remember? And start counting by thousands. At five, pull the ripcord. Count three more seconds, and if your canopy isn’t up and properly opened, use your reserve chute. Got that?”

Again a nod. A smiling wave for the photographer.

“Okay, out you go. I’ll follow you in ten seconds.”

The young jumper pulled a bright red helmet on over his flowing blond hair. He waved one last time at the cameraman, who clicked away steadily, careful to stay well away from the open door.

Gingerly the young parachutist reached out through the opening and fought the wind to grasp the slanting wing strut. With both hands on the strut he stepped out of the cabin, right foot first, then left, onto the 6-by-18-inch metal plate bolted over the naked wheel.

Inside Nat Spieth moved into the seat next to the door. He reached out to lay a hand on the young man’s shoulder. Looking down, he could make out the tiny vehicles and the cluster of dots that were people, their faces no doubt turned upward right now waiting for the bloom of a parachute. There being no wind to speak of, the kid shouldn’t land too far from his friends. With no practice at the landing fall, he would probably sprain an ankle, but that would be a good lesson for him. Nat would steer his own chute to land at the same spot, and the off-road vehicles down there could pick them up right away.

The cold blast of wind dried Nat’s lips and whipped the tears from his eyes. Still, he was sweating under the arms. He could smell it. Now or never.

Nat lifted his hand from the red-clad shoulder and thumped it once, twice. The kid, instead of kicking his feet free to get into the horizontal position, let go of the strut immediately. He vanished as though jerked from sight by wires. A metallic bang jarred the airplane. Nat leaned out the doorway to look down. The figure in red tumbled out of control toward the earth, one arm flapping like an empty sleeve.

Nat Spieth closed his eyes and tasted bile. “Dear Mother of God!”

• • •

Never in the twenty-three years of his life had Billy Lockett felt more alone than at the moment he stepped out of the airplane onto the little metal plate. His hands gripped the wing strut as if it were life. He felt the firm pressure of Nat Spieth’s hand on his shoulder. If only Nat would drag him back inside, rip the parachute harness from his body, sit on him if necessary to stop him from doing this idiotic thing.

But of course Nat Spieth wouldn’t stop him. Billy had paid him well to see that he did go through with it. Nobody but Billy himself could stop it now. And he might even have done that, climbed right back into the plane, if it hadn’t been for that bearded sonofabitch from Lifestyle with his damn camera. It was that damn magazine that got him into this mess in the first place. They told him there was a possible cover story in it for him, and a Lifestyle cover could sell half a million records and assure a sellout at the Forum for his concert in September. Why the hell had he told that fag reporter that he was into skydiving? Because the fag was starting to look bored, that was why, and Billy saw his cover going out the window if he didn’t liven up the interview.

He had said the first super-macho thing that popped into his head. “I’m into skydiving.” It never occurred to him that he would have to prove it. Unfortunately, the fag leaked the story to a wire service, and here Billy was a mile and a half in the air with a bunch of reporters and so-called friends on the ground waiting for him to float down like a big bird.

One thing Billy Lockett vowed — this would be his first and last jump out of an airplane. Once he had proved himself, he would never have to do it again. When he was back safe on the ground, there was no way he would ever buckle on one of these idiot parachutes again. No way.

The reassuring weight of Nat Spieth’s hand was lifted from his shoulder.

Oh, Jesus!

The two light taps felt like the blows of an axe.

Don’t think, just do it!

With the wrenching effort of will, Billy released his grip on the wing strut. In the same instant he remembered he should have kicked his feet back first. The steel edge of the step plate clipped his left arm just below the elbow, snapping the bones like dry sticks.

The pain shot like sudden fire from the arm into his brain. The universe was a whirling blur of blue and brown. Then everything faded to a gentle gray mist and, blessedly, the pain went away.

Fragments of Billy Lockett’s mind continued to function as his body tumbled toward the earth.

You’re falling! one said.

No, it’s only a dream. A falling dream.

Count to five and pull the ripcord!

One thousand, two thousand, three thousand, four thousand, five thousand.

But there was no ripcord. There was no parachute. There was no danger. It was only a dream.

You’re falling!

A dream.

You’re going to die!

No, Billy Lockett cannot die. He is just beginning to live.

You’re going to die!

No. Old people die. Billy is young. Billy is alive.

You’re going to die!

What if he did die? What would all the people say? The people in the plane and the people on the ground? Al Fessler his manager and Madeline? Conn Driscoll, the hotshot publicity man? His one-time partner, Rick Girodian? And dumb, delicious Iris Ames? How would they feel? Would they cry for Billy? Would any of them cry?

“I’m going to die!” The wind tore the words from his throat. The blazing pain was back in his brain, in his arm. Billy saw his hand and wrist flapping loose at the end of his sleeve. A darker red stained the cherry color of the material.

Then he saw the ground. Hard brown earth rushing toward him at one hundred and twenty miles per hour. Faces. Mouths open in horrified black O’s.

Ripcord.

The clawing fingers of Billy’s good hand found the cold metal D-ring a millisecond before he smashed face down onto the hard-packed dirt of the San Bernardino desert. Blinding white lights exploded in his head, then all the lights went out.

Forever.

CHAPTER 2

Sunday morning found Al Fessler stretched out on a patio chaise watching sunlight dance on the ripples of his Anthony swimming pool. In his hand was a glass of unsugared iced tea. In the old days Al used to go for a hefty slug of bourbon, but at fifty-six a guy had to watch his condition. Especially if he had a slim, beautiful wife twenty-four years younger than him.

The relaxed attitude was most unusual for Al Fessler. To make it in Hollywood in the talent management game, a guy had to keep moving or be trampled by the passing parade. During his thirty-plus years on the Coast Al had been a man on the move constantly. The first few years, right after World War II, he had hustled and scraped for acting jobs. His dark, sinister looks and Chicago accent got him parts in a few Grade B gangster movies, but that was about it. He liked to tell people, “I was the guy who always said, ‘You want we should lean on him a little, boss?’”

With the growth of television, B movies disappeared, and sinister-looking gangster types were in small demand. It was then Al turned in his Screen Actors’ Guild card and became an agent.

Over the years he had never quite found the one Big Talent — the one who would enable him to put daylight between himself and his creditors. More than once he had come close, but something always went wrong. A girl singer who was all set for stardom got religion and disappeared into a convent. A promising juvenile got busted when the cops raided a gay bar. A couple of others he lost to William Morris or MCA just when they were starting to pay off.

Now at last Al Fessler was ready to enjoy some of the rewards he had missed for all the years of nonstop work — all the babysitting and hand-holding for the grownup children who were his clients, all the hustling and the conniving and the ass-kissing that were part of his profession. He finally had exclusive rights to a piece of talent that was going to be his annuity. Billy Lockett would keep him comfortable for the rest of his life. He could pay off the house here in Sherman Oaks, or, what the hell, even move to Beverly Hills. He and Madeline could buy a boat. Take a vacation.

He said the word aloud to himself. “Vacation.” Jesus, when was the last time he had taken more than one day off to do something he really wanted to?

The telephone rang.

Al Fessler did not hold with ESP or premonitions or any of that psychic crap. That was for the freaks down on Hollywood Boulevard. All the same, something in the sound of the ringing phone sent a chill to his bones.

Moving deliberately, he set down the glass of iced tea and walked across the patio to the sliding glass door that opened into the living room. He picked up the apple-green phone and said, “Hello.”

He listened with dulled eyes as the voice on the other end of the line told him that the unthinkable had happened. Feeling cold and numb, Al kept nodding at the telephone as though the gesture could somehow be transmitted through the wires to the speaker. Finally, when the voice was through, Al said, “Okay,” and hung up.

For a full sixty seconds he stood looking down at the green plastic instrument as if it were a pampered pet that had betrayed him.

“Shit,” he said. “Shit shit shit! Oh, fuck dirty goddammit shit!”

Ruined. He was wiped out. Every penny he had, everything he could borrow, had gone into the promotion of Billy Lockett and the Forum concert six months from now. The concert was going to be the start of the new good life he had worked for so long. On the outcome of that concert waited a fat record contract, a network special on prime time, a world tour. Also the Beverly Hills House, the boat, the vacation.

Madeline came floating in from her bedroom. Thin, blond, ethereal Madeline. When Al met her she was a fiercely dedicated actress, utterly without talent. She had an air of being unattainable that had fired Al Fessler’s desire. Now there were times when it almost drove him crazy.

“What’s the matter?” she asked in the cool, modulated tone she always used.

“Matter? Everything’s the matter.” Al ran a hand over his bare scalp to the back of his head where the black hair still grew thick and oily. “We’re ruined. Finished.”

“What happened, Al?” Madeline asked patiently.

“Billy killed himself, that’s what happened.”

For a moment an emotion of some kind flickered in the cool gray eyes, but when Madeline spoke her voice was level. “Killed himself? How?”

“The stupid little shit jumped out of an airplane. Just because of that fucking interview with Lifestyle where he told them he was a skydiver, he thought he had to go be a skydiver. Of all the dumb, fucking, stupid moves …”

“Billy’s dead,” Madeline said, as though trying out the sound of the words.

“Jesus H. Fucking Christ, yes, he’s dead. He jumped out of a fucking airplane and his fucking parachute didn’t open. That usually does the job.”

“There’s no reason to shout at me, Al. And I don’t appreciate that kind of language.”

Al spread his hands. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m not really yelling at you, I’m yelling at … God, I guess. Do you have any idea what we’ve lost?”

“Yes, Al, I think I do.” She turned away from nim and walked out of the room.

Al stood with his hands balled into fists watching her go. What he wanted to do right now was go to her and put his arms around her and ask her to share his pain. But he didn’t have the words to tell her. When he talked to Madeline everything that came out of his mouth sounded like the Chicago hood he used to play in the cheap movies. If he could just break through that finishing-school reserve once in a while, maybe their life together would get better.

Then, remembering the phone call, Al sagged into a chair. What life together? Forget Beverly Hills. Hell, forget Sherman Oaks for that matter. He’d borrowed heavily on this house. Among other things. And it was all because that dumb little asshole had to prove something by jumping out of an airplane. He couldn’t have waited until after the concert, at least.

Al would have liked a drink. In the old days a slug or two of good bourbon had helped him over many a crisis. He gave it up when he married Madeline, along with cigarettes, rich foods, poker playing, and a few lesser pleasures. Not that Madeline ever said anything, but she had subtle ways of showing disapproval. Having a wife with Madeline’s looks and class was good for the ego, but there was a price.

Now he wished Madeline had stayed out here with him, comforted him, or at least joined him in cursing the rotten luck. Of course, she probably didn’t know how really deep in debt he had gone to put Billy Lockett over. Or what kind of people he had borrowed from. And he couldn’t expect her to feel any personal loss. Madeline had never liked Billy, not from the first day Al brought him home.

For the first time since he answered the awful telephone call, Al Fessler tried to think of Billy Lockett as a person rather than a lost client. It was not easy. When you spend years hustling talent you soon learn that it is a big mistake to get personally involved. You’ve got to think of your clients as warm hunks of meat — some choicer cuts than others, but meat all the same. You start getting sentimental about one of them and you can’t make an objective judgement of his talent. In this business you could not afford an error like that.

Al tried to ask himself if he would miss Billy Lockett. Miss him as a human being. It was no good. He could not think of Billy right now with any emotion except anger at what the kid had done to him. Maybe later he could put him in focus. But then, why bother? Billy Lockett was cold and dead on the desert outside San Bernardino, while Al Fessler was alive here in Sherman Oaks. Alive, but dying inside.

• • •

The noonday sun, warm for March even in Southern California, brought people flocking to the beaches for a head start on their tans. Among the sun bathers on Will Rogers State Beach north of Santa Monica was Conn Driscoll. He lay prone on a beach towel while a full-breasted girl wearing a string bikini rubbed Bronztan into his lean back.

The girl was called either Lynda or Luci — one of those cutsey names that swapped i’s and y’s. Driscoll had been well along on martinis when he met her the night before, and there had been no occasion since to call her by name.

“How tall are you, anyway?” asked Lynda or Luci.

“Six feet even.”

“You seemed taller last night.”

“I was standing up.”

“No, I mean later too.”

“Optical illusion. It’s the vertical stripes in my pajamas.”

“But you didn’t wear … oh, I get it, you’re putting me on.”

“Yeah.”

The girl turned up the volume of a transistor radio playing music from a top-40 rock station. She squirted a trail of Bronztan down Driscoll’s leg and began to massage it in. “Can we go dancing tonight?”

“No.”

“Why not?” she complained in a little-girl voice that he probably found cute as hell last night.

“Because tomorrow is Monday and I have to go to work. I am thirty years old. I am a member of the Establishment. I have a job.”

“Last night you told me you were in show business.”

“Yeah, well, sort of.” It was stretching a point somewhat, but a freelance Hollywood publicity man might be said to be in show business.

“Well, I want to go dancing.”

Without looking at her, Driscoll could imagine the childish pout she was wearing. He said, “Forget it.”

“You’re mean.”

Driscoll was wishing he had gone home this morning instead of bringing the Barbie Doll to the beach. She was kicks last night, but sober he would rate her a solid nine on a boredom scale of ten.

“When will I see you again?”

“Hard to say. I’m going to be pretty busy for a few months.” That was true enough. The Billy Lockett assignment would consume most of his time and energy until the Forum concert in September. After that, he could afford a few weeks of goofing off before looking around for something else. Not a bad way to live, as long as security was not one of his hangups.

The wailing rock music faded, and a young man’s voice came on with the hourly news summary. With a little snort of annoyance the girl reached for the radio.

The sound of a familiar name snapped Driscoll out of his reverie. “Wait a minute,” he said, “I want to hear this.”

“What for, it’s just the news?”

“Shut up!”

As the girl sat back sulking, Driscoll pulled the little radio closer so he wouldn’t miss a word. The lead story was about Billy Lockett, rising young rock star, who had fallen to his death this morning in a skydiving accident outside San Bernardino. As a special tribute, radio station KKOL (K-Kool, where it’s happenin’, baby, 1290 on your ever-lovin’ AM dial) would present four solid hours of Billy’s hits later tonight.

Conn Driscoll groaned and let his head fall to the beach with a soft thud. He reached out a hand and killed the little radio. There went six months of top dollar he was going to get for building up the Billy Lockett concert. Out the window. Or out of an airplane. Now he would have to get out on the street and hustle up another assignment. His stake was getting low.

“What’s the matter, lover?” asked Lynda or Luci.

“I’m out of a job.”

“Did you know him or something?” the girl asked.

“Know who?”

“Billy Lockett.”

A good question, Driscoll thought. Did he really know Billy Lockett? He had talked to the kid a couple of times, listened to a few of his records, and that was it. He hadn’t needed to know Billy to promote his concert. He hadn’t wanted to. But maybe, just maybe, he should have tried.

“No,” he said, “I didn’t know him. Let’s go.”

With the girl hurrying to gather up the beach towel, radio, and Bronztan, Driscoll strode off across the sand toward the parking lot.

• • •

Rick Girodian’s apartment in the decaying heart of Hollywood was in an old wooden building that looked put together from leftover parts. It was three stories of gables, porches, balconies, railings, and staircases.

Although it was three in the afternoon, the shades were drawn in Rick’s apartment, and he slept fitfully in the sofa bed. For an entertainer three in the afternoon was like the middle of the night for normal people. And Rick Girodian was an entertainer. Currently he was on the small-club circuit, appearing in L.A.’s satellite cities like Downey and Bellflower and Redondo Beach. It was a long step down from the Troubador and the Roxy where Rick had played just a few months back.

The telephone rang five times before it woke him, and five times more before he moved to pick it up. He used to have an answering service to spare his sleep these painful interruptions and to handle the many calls he didn’t have time for. These days there were not so many calls.

Rick fumbled the receiver out of its cradle and over to his ear. His black hair was tangled from sleep, his black brows drawn together in a habitual scowl. He mumbled something into the mouthpiece.

“Is this Rick Girodian?” asked the filtered voice coming through the instrument.

“Yeah. Who did you expect?”

“This is Wally Mayor at Channel Six.”

The words did not immediately register on Rick’s still-groggy mind. “What’s that?”

“Wally Mayor, Channel Six News.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Have you heard the news yet?”

“News? What news?”

“About Billy Lockett?”

“Billy?” Instantly Rick Girodian was wide awake. “What is it?”

“He was killed this morning,” Wally Mayor said, trying unsuccessfully to achieve a solemn tone.

“Billy killed?” Rick’s voice was guarded. “How did it happen?”

“He was skydiving. Jumped out of an airplane out by San Bernardino. The chute didn’t open. Died instantly when he hit the ground.”

“Son of a bitch,” Rick said.

“Yeah, it’s tough. Listen, Rick, what I’d like to do is tape a comment from you about Billy, about the days when you and him were partners. I want to use yours, along with others I’m getting, over film clips of Billy on the six o’clock news. Okay?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Wonderful. When I say go you’ll be on tape. Give me about twenty seconds of talk.”

There was some clicking on the line as Mayor set up his equipment. Rick mentally sorted out what he was going to say.

“Go,” said Mayor.

When he spoke, Rick’s voice was husky with suppressed emotion. “It’s always a tragedy when someone so young dies. In Billy’s case it’s even more tragic. It’s the snuffing out of a talent that was just beginning to reach its potential. His was the kind of a talent that comes along once in a generation. It’s a terrible loss to his fans, and to me a deep personal tragedy. Billy was my partner, yes, but he was more than that. Much more. He was my friend. The world will miss Billy Lockett, both as an entertainer and as a human being. No one will miss him more than I.”

For a moment there was silence on the other end of the phone, then Wally Mayor spoke. “Rick, that was beautiful. That was absolutely beautiful. Listen, we’ll super your name on the screen while we run the tape tonight. Catch the show. If it plays good we’ll repeat it at eleven.”

“I’ll try,” Rick said.

“Oh, and listen, I want you to know you have my deepest sympathy. That goes for me and all of us down here at Channel Six.

“Thanks,” Rick said.

After hanging up Rick sat for a minute on the edge of the bed, his head down, staring at the carpet. With a sigh he rose and walked over to the mirror above the dresser. To his reflected image he said, in the fulsome tones of Wally Mayor, “Rick that was absolutely beautiful.”

Gradually his frown relaxed into a smile, then a broad grin. You’re damn right it’s beautiful, he thought. It was beautiful when he wrote it a few years ago for an illiterate disk jockey to say about Jim Croce. That time it got him a few extra spins on the DJ’s show. This time it would at least get his name flashed on the screen during the six o’clock news. With maybe a repeat at eleven. Exposure like that couldn’t hurt.

He shifted his gaze to look over the shoulder of his mirror image. “Billy boy,” he said, “it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy.”

Rick went back and picked up the telephone again. He wasn’t a bit sleepy now; he felt great. For weeks he had been promising to take his sister out for a seafood dinner, and now he had something to celebrate.

• • •

Iris Ames lounged in her airy apartment above the Sunset Strip and took small sips of a diet cola. Iris was bored. Bored, bored, bored. She wished Billy were here, but he said not to expect him before dark. If she had wanted to, Iris could have gone along with him to the desert, but what fun was there in standing around with a bunch of dull, dull people watching a parachute jump? It was just too stupid.

Iris sighed and stretched out on a sofa covered with orange synthetic fur. The apartment was a carnival of colors, all bright. The furniture, which came with the apartment, was Hollywood modern with emphasis on shiny synthetics. The pictures, which belonged to Iris, included a poster spelling out LOVE in block letters, and a poster-size print of a girl with flowers in her hair and nothing in her eyes.

There were a couple of rock posters — souvenirs of the days when she used to hang around the groups. The posters were just of the best, though, like the Stones and Alice Cooper. The rest she had given away. She had no use for them now that she had Billy. Well, she didn’t exactly have Billy Lockett, but he was paying for the apartment, and he was the only one she balled now.

It was a much better life, she told herself, than hanging around with the groupies. That was a drag sometimes — waiting outside in the grubby alleys behind the clubs and trying to sneak into the hotels where the groups were staying. Then sometimes it could be a groove too. Iris remembered the thrill when one of the stars looked directly at you, how it was heaven if one of them touched you, and the ultimate bliss of fucking a star. But there had been enough of that in her life. It was time to look ahead. After all, Iris was nineteen.

She looked down and admired her body. Really a super bod. Everybody said so. Iris took one of her breasts in each hand. Big and heavy, but firm. Not a bit of sag. The belly was flat, the waist narrow, flaring out in the rear to what a lead singer had called her million-dollar ass.

Iris worked her buttocks back and forth on the fake fur, rubbing her thighs together. She wore nothing under the tight denim shorts that were cut off right at the crotch. She hoped Billy would get away sooner than he planned. She felt like balling.

Without warning, the door flew open and Trina Cole, a girl Iris’s age, rushed breathlessly into the apartment. Billy was always telling Iris to lock the door, but Iris thought it was stupid. If anybody wanted to get in bad enough they could break it down. Besides, nobody ever walked in without knocking except Billy and Trina, who had been Iris’s roommate once.

As soon as Trina had her breath back she gasped out, “Iris, honey, did you hear?”

“Hear what?”

“About Billy … he’s dead.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“No way. I just heard it on TV. the guy said something about Billy jumping out of an airplane and the parachute didn’t work. Something like that.”

“Well, goddamn it,” Iris said.

“Yeah, I mean, what a bummer,” Trina said.

Iris took a big swallow of her diet cola. She held up the can. “You want one?”

“No, no thanks. Iris, what are you going to do now? I mean, what are you going to do?”

Iris put a hand to her long silky hair and folded it back from the edge of her face like a golden curtain. She shrugged. “The rent’s paid here for the rest of this month and the next. After that I’ll, you know, see what happens.”

Trina sat for a long moment without speaking. Then she said, “Hey, I guess you’re feeling pretty bad now, right?”

“Well, you know, sure.”

“Yeah, a real bummer. You know what might help?”

“What?”

“Maybe if you and me went out together like we used to. Captain Hook is at the Whisky. What do you think?”

Iris chewed her pink, plump lower lip. “Gee, I don’t know.”

“It’s the last night.”

“Let me call you later, okay?”

“Sure. It might do you a lot of good. It’s best not to think too much about these things.” Trina let herself out.

With an angry gesture Iris threw the empty diet cola can into the kitchen where it clattered across the tile. Of all the rotten things to happen. What the fuck was she going to do now? One thing for sure, she was not going back to the groupie scene and hope to score with somebody else the way she had with Billy Lockett. That had been pure luck. She had caught Billy one night when he was feeling down, and she gave him just what he needed. Iris always had a feeling for what they needed. It was a case with Billy of being in the right place at the right time. It might not happen again in a hundred years.

No, goddamn it! Iris jumped to her feet and walked over to stand before the fake fireplace. She struck a pose — head up, belly in, boobs and ass out. She would not have to rely on luck. She would make things happen. With her face and her body, she would never be lonely.

But who …? Then she remembered. There was a fat little creep Billy introduced her to at a yacht party a month ago. What was his name? A funny name … Pincus, that was it. A biggie at some record company, Billy had told her. President, vice president, some damn thing. Anyway, Pincus liked her. He had danced with her, jiggling his fat little body through the latest disco steps, grabbing her ass every time he got a chance. At the time Iris was not interested. She had Billy. But now …

She went into the bedroom and rummaged through the dresser drawer where she kept all the cards and phone numbers men gave her. Men were always giving her their cards. She never threw any of them away. A girl never knew when she could use a contact.

After a minute Iris located the card she wanted. It had rough-cut edges, was printed in two colors with a wild mod logo. Oscar Pincus, Executive Vice President, Gamma Records.

An office number and a home number were given. Iris knew better than to call him at home. He wouldn’t be at the office today, a Sunday, but he would have an answering service. Iris dialed the office number and, as she expected, got an answering service. She left her own name and number, confident that Oscar Pincus would remember her. Men usually did.

After she hung up Iris began to feel better. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad scene after all. Maybe it was fate. She picked up the telephone again and dialed another number.

“Hi, Trina? Hey, I’ve thought about it, and you’re probably right. The best thing for me right now is to just get my mind off Billy. I’ll meet you at your place at nine.”

When she hung up Iris was smiling. Moving in a little dance step, she went out to the kitchen and got herself another diet cola. After all, Billy would have wanted it this way.

CHAPTER 3

Al Fessler twisted and turned and groaned and snorted in the king-size bed, but could not will himself to sleep. Every time he started to drift off he would be falling, falling, and there falling beside him, just out of reach, would be Billy Lockett. Each time, Al would be jerked awake to sit there in the dark, sweating and worrying.

This was not the first time Al had been in money trouble. Far from it. But never before had it been anything this heavy. What made this time different was that he had borrowed a bundle from some very questionable people. The kind of people who, if you didn’t get up a payment on time, might come around and break your arm. Or worse. Al had gone into it with his eyes open. He knew the risks, but he was already into all his legitimate sources to the limit.

A big chunk of the money had gone to buy up Billy’s recording contract from Gamma Records, the outfit that had released his early disks. At the time it seemed like a rock-solid investment. It would give Al Fessler control of all Billy’s future records, which would surely gross millions after the concert and subsequent TV special. That investment had stepped out of the airplane yesterday morning and smashed into more pieces than Billy himself on the San Bernardino flatlands.

Al groped at the night stand pointlessly for a cigarette. Madeline had cut off his smoking six years ago, but he still hadn’t lost the craving when he was nervous. Even when Madeline had moved into her own bedroom — his snoring kept her awake, she said — Al had not brought cigarettes in. Madeline could smell tobacco smoke a block away through concrete walls.

Al got out of bed and went over to the chair where his pants were draped across the seat. He fished through the pockets and found a pack of sugarless gum. He unwrapped two sticks and slipped them into his mouth. A poor substitute for nicotine but better than nothing.

He lay back down on the bed, chomping moodily on the gum and staring up at the ceiling where little sparkly bits were embedded in the rough plaster. Somewhere, he told himself, there had to be a way out of this. After all these years of reaching for the gold ring, how could he crash when the prize was so near?

Damn it, he simply would not allow himself to lose. He would not let it happen, that’s all. Many times in the past Al Fessler had come up with a way out of a tight spot. He would do it this time too.

The first thing to do was count his assets. Not much there, he had to admit. Of course, technically he still owned all rights to Billy Lockett. Not a whole lot of comfort, owning a dead man.

Abruptly, Al sat up in bed. A glimmer of hope. A possible out. Maybe even better than that. He just might come out of this in roses. For a full ten minutes he sat staring across the dim bedroom, running the idea backward and forward through his mind. There were rough edges and a million details to be worked out, but by God, this just might be the Big Score.

Al grabbed the bedside phone and punched out Conn Driscoll’s home number. The phone rang and rang at the other end, and finally the blurry voice of the young PR man came on the line.

“H’lo.”

“Conn, this is Al Fessler.”

“Huh?”

“Al Fessler. Come on, wake up.”

“Oh, hi, Al. I was gonna call you. Sorry about the kid.”

“Never mind that, we’ve got work to do.”

“Work?”

“You want a job, don’t you?”

“Sure. I thought it was all off. Isn’t it?”

“Maybe not.”

“Billy is dead?”

“He’s dead, all right, but I’ve got an idea. I don’t want to go into it over the phone. Can you be in my office tomorrow? Make it early. Nine o’clock.”

“I’ll be there,” Driscoll said.

Al replaced the telephone and grinned. The old adrenaline was flowing again, and he was feeling fine. He looked down at the front of his pajamas and saw that other things were stirring too. Sometimes it worked that way, an idea that he knew was a winner would excite him sexually. It could be downright embarassing when it happened at the office. Right now he wanted his wife badly.

Shoving his feet into a pair of soft leather slippers, Al left his bedroom and padded down the hall to the slightly smaller room where Madeline had slept after the first few months of their marriage. He eased open the door and looked at her in the faint glow from the night light. In sleep, as in everything else she did, Madeline was perfectly poised. She lay on her back with the covers smooth over the narrow mound of her body. Her pale arms rested straight down at her sides, the fingers gently curled. Her face was beautifully composed, not a wisp of blonde hair had strayed out of place. No wonder, thought Al, that she had chosen not to sleep with him and his incessant snoring, rolling, mumbling, and blanket-yanking.

Madeline looked so carefully arranged there on her satin sheets that it almost seemed a pity to wake her up. Almost. Al’s desire for his wife was stronger than any reluctance to disturb the picture.

He reached down and touched the smooth white shoulder where the flesh was bare below the blue nightgown.

Madeline opened her eyes and looked at him. Her gaze was keen and alert. For her there seemed to be no transition between sleep and waking.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Four o’clock. Five, maybe.”

“Is anything the matter?”

Al tried to make his tone light and easy. “No, nothing’s wrong. I just got lonesome.”

Madeline continued to lie on her back and look at him.

“I thought we might … make a little love.”

“All right.”

She did not move toward him as he peeled back the covers and got into her bed. But she did not move away either.

Al eased the covers back over their bodies. Over the years of his marriage he had learned to subdue his natural instinct, which was to grab her roughly and go at it balls out, so to speak, and have a walloping good time screwing. Madeline had made it clear early on that she did not care for that kind of sex. Animalistic, she called it. Although he had never felt quite at ease doing it her way, Al had made a serious effort at becoming the gentle lover she wanted.

He reached over carefully and laid a hand on her body. Madeline’s belly was so flat it was almost concave. Like everything else about her, it excited him. Al felt the warmth of her flesh come into his hand through the slippery material of the nightgown. Somehow, he always half-expected her skin to be cool.

Slowly he moved his hand up to cover one of her breasts. He held it carefully, like a small, delicate bird. With his fingertip he drew a circle around the nipple.

Al’s passion expanded until it seemed to fill him to bursting. Still he forced himself to move slowly, gently. He slipped the blue nightgown down away from Madeline’s breast. He moved lower in the bed and put his mouth against the nipple.

“You don’t have to do that,” Madeline said. “I’m ready.”

“I like to,” Al murmured without taking his mouth away. The taste of her was smooth and sweet as whipped cream.

Madeline sighed and her nipple grew firm and erect under his tongue. By opening wide and sucking, Al could take almost her entire breast into his mouth. She placed her hand at the nape of his neck and let it rest there. The effect on Al was like that of a wildly erotic caress. He gave a muffled moan around the resilient flesh.

When he could stand it no more, Al moved away from her long enough to pull off his pajamas and throw them aside. Naked, he knelt beside Madeline and eased the nightgown up over her narrow hips. She raised her buttocks slightly to make it easier but stopped him when he tried to slip the garment over her head.

“That’s far enough,” she said.

Al moved his hand over her belly, down to the pubic mound. Madeline had less hair down there than any woman Al had seen. A neat little triangle of yellow, short and fluffy as a kitten’s fur. He petted her there, wanting to kiss it, but Madeline would not go for that either.

His fingers found the lips of her vagina. Slowly, slowly he probed inside. Al was relieved to find that she was moist in there. He hated it when they had to use the Vaseline. She never let him put it on, but made him wait while she turned her back and applied the jelly to herself.

Madeline spread her legs for him, and Al moved over to kneel between them. He lowered his body and used one hand to guide his stiff penis into her. He wished she would do that, but she had never liked to touch him there. Early in their marriage when he had carried her hand down to his naked cock, she had recoiled as though from a snake.

He found her lips with the head of his penis, and let himself glide into her. It was good. It was better than good, it was the best. How a woman who put as little apparent effort into it as Madeline could be such a great fuck was something Al could not understand.

Right now he didn’t care about understanding. He stroked slowly in and out of her, trying to make it last as long as he could. He held his breath, clenched his teeth, tried to think of unpleasant things — anything to hold on a few seconds longer.

But as always, nothing worked. It was over suddenly and explosively. Madeline closed on him, grasping his cock inside her as surely as with a fist. There was not a man alive, Al thought, who could hold back his climax when squeezed by that beautiful cunt.

He pumped strenuously, ejaculating into her, wondering if she came with him. She said she did sometimes. He never knew for sure.

Then he was finished, gradually relaxing on top of the slim woman, supporting most of his weight on his elbows. Her vaginal lips milked him of the last drops of semen and let him go. Limp and drained, he slid out of her with a long, moaning sigh.

“Honey,” he said when his breathing had steadied, “That was super-great.”

Madeline held him for a moment and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Let me up now,” she said, “so I can go clean up.”

Al rolled over on his side and watched as his wife pulled down the nightgown, then stepped out of bed and walked carefully to the bathroom. The door closed behind her, and Al heard the soft click as she punched the lock button on the inner knob. Whores were the only women Al knew who were in as much of a hurry as Madeline to douche out after sex.

He swung his legs out of the bed and gathered up the two halves of his pajamas. What the hell, he thought, for a piece of ass like that he could overlook a few peculiar habits. He just wished it would happen more often, that’s all.

Naked, carrying his pajamas, Al walked back down the hall to his own room. There was still time for a couple of hours sleep before he had to get up, but first he sat down at the writing table next to his bed and pulled out a sheet of paper and felt-tip pen. In the morning he wanted to give Conn Driscoll a solid outline of his idea. Once he had sketched in the outline, Al was sure the young PR man would come up with the details.

When he had filled the page with notes, he folded the paper twice and tucked it into the inside pocket of the jacket he would wear tomorrow. Then he walked back and dropped into bed. He pulled the blankets up around his chin and was asleep in ten seconds.

CHAPTER 4

Off Sunset Boulevard a couple of miles east of the Strip, in a block of tire dealers, appliance stores, and parking lots, there is a commercial court, in the Art Deco style of 1930’s Hollywood, that calls itself Crossroads of the World. The blue and white central building is supposed to resemble a cruise ship, complete with portholes, a railing along the flat roof, and a 40-foot mast topped by a revolving globe. A travel agency occupies the front of the ship, and a restaurant the rear. Surrounding the asphalt sea on which the makebelieve ship sails are a dozen or so small shops and offices. They include a photographer, an underground publisher, a yoga studio, and Al Fessler’s office.

The atmosphere of seedy nostalgia, Al told people, suited his clients better than the intimidating posh of Century City or the high-powered hype down on the Strip. Furthermore, the rent was considerably cheaper.

At nine o’clock Monday morning Conn Driscoll pulled into the parking lot at the rear of Crossroads of the World. He left his car in one of the unmarked spaces and headed for the white Morocco-style bungalo that housed Al’s two-room office at the far end of the court.

The receptionist in the small anteroom recognized Driscoll and invited him in with a smile. The inner office was bright as a candy store. Garish pop posters and blowups of Al Fessler’s clients covered the walls. Prominent among the photos was the guileless, blue-eyed face of Billy Lockett.

Al Fessler sat behind a blond wood desk wearing a brushed cotton leisure suit that did not look good on him. Al had the kind of face that goes with pin stripe suits, black shirts, and white ties. However, the world in which he operated demanded certain concessions to mod fashion. Al drew the line at beads and puka shells, but he occasionally wore a neck chain with his sun sign, Aries.

Driscoll, at ease in a tan sport jacket and dark green turtleneck, took the visitor’s chair at the side of Al’s desk.

“What’s up, chief?” he asked, recognizing the excitement in the other man.

Al leaned close to him, and Driscoll got a whiff of powerful aftershave lotion. “Tell me this, what do you think of when you hear these names — Rudolph Valentino … James Dean … Judy Garland?”

“Did you get me down here to play word-association games?”

“Come on,” Fessler coaxed.

“Okay.” Driscoll put a hand to his forehead and thought for a moment. “Let’s see … acting … movies … sudden death …” Driscoll stopped talking and looked sharply at Fessler. “They all died suddenly. The two men were fairly young. And after their death they all had a surge of new popularity.”

Al Fessler beamed at him. “Very good. Now how about these — Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix?”

“More sudden death. Rock stars who died at the peak of their popularity.”

“Right! Now, what’s the difference between the first bunch and the second?”

“Al, are you going to tell me what you’re driving at or are we going to spend the morning playing Hollywood Squares?”

“Humor me,” Fessler said.

Driscoll sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “They’re different generations. Other than that I give up. Tell me, professor, what is the difference between Joplin, Hendrix, and Morrison and the others?”

Al Fessler jumped to his feet and stabbed a forefinger at Driscoll. “Promotion!” he said. “Good old-fashioned promotion.”

Driscoll waited for him to go on. Obviously, Al was going to do this his own way.

“What happened when Valentino died? The women went crazy at his funeral. All his pictures were re-released and did better box office than ever. Every year a woman in black visits his grave. Boffo!

“Take James Dean. Three movies the kid made, and who really knew if he could act or not? Then the flaming crash in a souped-up Porsche and pow! — he’s the symbol of a whole generation.

“Then Garland dies, and all of a sudden she’s not a drug-shriveled old woman any more, she’s Dorothy, everybody’s little sister. Today female impersonators build a whole career out of pulling on a dress and doing Garland.”

Driscoll lit a cigar and watched Al Fessler stride back and forth on the orange carpet, jabbing the air with his hands to emphasize points.

“Now take Joplin and Hendrix. Not Morrison so much, he was not really a single, but with the right promotion any one of them could have been big. I mean big.”

“Yeah, but all three of them were dopers. That could have been a problem.”

“Hell, not with the people we’re trying to reach. Dying of an OD was cool. Look at Lenny Bruce. A standup comic with a dirty-words shtick who died in a toilet shooting smack. They got books and plays and movies about him, and today he’s some kind of a saint. Anyway, here’s my point — Joplin and Hendrix died, had a little flurry of interest, and were forgotten. Why? Because nobody promoted them. With the right campaign Hendrix could have been a black James Dean. Joplin, hell, she could have been Joan of Arc. Do you see where I’m heading?”

“I think I do,” Driscoll said. “You’re suggesting we do a job on Billy Lockett to whip up interest in him even though he’s dead. No, make that especially now that he’s dead.”

Al Fessler returned to his chair and perched on the edge as though he were about to spring forward. “You’re on my wavelength,” he said. “In six months time I want to make Billy Lockett the most talked-about dead man since … who was that cat in the Bible who got raised up from the grave?”

“Lazarus.”

“Yeah, Lazarus. We’ll make people forget Lazarus. I want Billy Lockett’s name better-known than Coca Cola. In six months’ time I want the whole world talking about Billy.”

“Why the deadline?” Driscoll broke in. “What happens in six months?”

“The concert, baby. The Billy Lockett concert at the Forum.”

“Just a minute, Al. Possibly we can make the kid as famous as Lazarus, but it’s asking too much to have Billy Lockett walk out on that stage in September. You’re not putting me on? You don’t have him stashed somewhere?”

“No, Conn, like I told you on the phone, Billy’s deader than the cha cha. That’s the beauty of it,” Al said, then added hastily, “in a manner of speaking. What we do, instead of putting on the Billy Lockett concert, which was after all just another rock superstar concert, we stage it in memory of poor, dead Billy. The Billy Lockett Memorial Concert. Has a nice ring, don’t you think? We round up as many good acts as we can, maybe set up some kind of a charity dodge so they’ll work cheap, and start the tickets at ten dollars. If we don’t sell out the Forum with that, I’ll eat a Fender bass.”

Driscoll searched Al Fessler’s face for any sign that he was kidding. Finding none, he drew on his cigar and blew a streamer of smoke toward the ceiling.

“What do you say, Conn, are you in?”

Driscoll examined the glowing end of his cigar for a moment, then looked up at Fessler. “Al, that is one of the most tawdry, vulgar, disgusting proposals I ever heard. I’ll do it.”

“I knew you’d like it,” Al said happily. “I’ll leave all the details up to you.”

The PR man leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, eyes closed, speaking as the thoughts hit him. “Okay, the machinery is already set up to promote Billy’s Forum concert. We make a few changes in the theme, and that goes ahead on schedule. Now, we’re going to want to hit people fast and hard with Billy Lockett. We’re lucky he died the way he did — spectacular. It got us good coverage in the Times this morning, and the Herald-Examiner will be even better.

“We’ll want a billboard on the Strip, naturally. That’s already rented for the month of August. Posters, both to plug the concert and to sell to the kids in the pop shops along the Boulevard. I’ll get an artist on it right away.” Driscoll rose from the chair and struck a pose — feet apart, arms out, eyes to the ceiling. “Something like this. Christlike.”

Al Fessler popped a stick of gum into his mouth and nodded with enthusiasm. “Yeah, yeah.”

“We’ll get a batch of T-shirts made up,” Driscoll continued. “They’re a hot item right now. And, of course, lockets.”

“Billy Lockett lockets,” Al said. “That’s good, that’s good.”

“Little picture of Billy inside,” Driscoll went on, warming to his subject. “We’ll make anybody not wearing one feel naked.”

“I love it,” Al said.

“The funeral has to be a biggie. I’ll schedule it for Saturday, then we’ll have the rest of the week to drum up interest.”

“Where do we hold it, Forest Lawn?”

“No, they’re too Establishment for our crowd. We’ll have more freedom to operate at Greenacre.”

“That’s a cemetery? It sounds like a racetrack.”

“It’s a cemetery. A small, progressive outfit in the Hollywood Hills between Forest Lawn and Mount Sinai. They’re trying to build up a name, and I think we can get a discount for Billy.”

“No kidding.”

“Celebrity funerals are good for business.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Got anything else?”

“Billy’s records. We get the word to our DJ’s, the ones we paid to plug the concert, and have them spin Billy Lockett till you can’t stand it.”

“Way to go.”

Driscoll hesitated and frowned at his cigar.

“Anything wrong?”

“We need something else,” Driscoll said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Something to grab people who don’t listen to top-40 stations. We need them too.” A light came into his eyes. “A book. Sure, a book will put it all together. A big splashy book with lots of pictures. You’ve probably got a file of Billy pictures, haven’t you? Good. All we need is a little text to tie the pictures together, we get it into the bookstores a month ahead of the concert, and wham!, we’ve got the kind of advertising money can’t buy.”

“Couple of questions,” Al said. “One: who’s going to publish this glorified press release? Two: how do we get the important bookstores to handle it? And three: why would anybody want to read it?”

“The answer to all three questions is Dean Hardeman.”

Al tried the name out. “Hardeman. Hardeman? You mean the author with the bestsellers a while back?”

“Right, except it was more than a little while back. It was almost twenty years ago.”

“So what does he do for us?”

“He’s the author of our Billy book.”

Al’s eyes narrowed. “What makes you think a heavyweight like Dean Hardeman would take on a hack job like this?”

“Simple … for money. I’ve got contacts in the publishing business, and they tell me Hardeman is hurting. He hasn’t had a book that made money since his first three, and he hasn’t written a thing in ten years. His wife left him, and he’s hitting the sauce hard. If I go back to see him with a contract in my pocket, I’ll bet he goes for it.”

“But even if he does need the money, will he write the kind of shit we want? Can he?”

“He won’t have to. I’ll do the actual writing myself. All we want from Hardeman is his name and maybe a couple of talk show appearances. Everybody wins. We get a pile of publicity for Billy, Hardeman gets a few thou for doing nothing, and who knows, maybe the book even makes a couple of bucks.”

Al Fessler chewed silently on his gum for thirty seconds, then his face creased into a wide grin. “Conn, baby, you’re beautiful. I love you.”

Driscoll waved him off modestly. “Just doing my job.”

“One more thing I’d like you to think about,” Al said. “A theme. A short, punchy slogan. Something to go on the billboards, posters, and T-shirts. A hook that will grab the public and make the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert the biggest thing to happen in this town since the Beatles played Dodger Stadium.”

“I was saving this for last,” Driscoll said, “but I think I’ve got it.” He sprang out of the chair and assumed the crucifiction posture again. With his eyes reverently fixed on the overhead lighting fixture he let several dramatic seconds go by before proclaiming in deep tones:

“Billy Lives!”

CHAPTER 5

Two days after Billy Lockett slammed to the earth near San Bernardino, Conn Driscoll was flying overhead in an eastbound DC-10. Driscoll did not look down. His mind was on other things. For the first time since his talk with Al Fessler the day before, Driscoll permitted himself a few private doubts.

He had put on a convincing show of self-assured optimism for Al, but as a freelance publicity and PR man, that was part of his job. He had deliberately glossed over a number of the problems they faced in promoting the late Billy, including the availability of Dean Hardeman. Driscoll had talked as though it were a mere formality — getting the author to lend his name for a price. Now he wondered if it would be that easy. All he had to go on, really, was trade gossip.

A call to Hardeman’s New York agent, Ernie Zyler, had confirmed that the author had written nothing for a long time and now lived alone in a house on Long Island. The agent had also said he was no longer representing Hardeman, that Hardeman was on his own to deal with Driscoll. The implication was that Dean Hardeman had lost more than money and his wife in recent years.

Driscoll unbuckled his seat belt and took a look out the window. The San Bernardino mountains were far behind them now, and all he could see below was the fluffy white top of a cloud layer. Along with his small doubts, Driscoll could now also admit to himself that he was just a little nervous about meeting Dean Hardeman. Hero worship. In his first two years of college Driscoll had entertained a fantasy of one day being a novelist himself. His idols at the time were Norman Mailer, Irwin Shaw, and Dean Hardeman. Years later, when he actually tried to write a book, Driscoll found he had neither the necessary discipline nor — he finally came to admit — the talent. The discovery only increased his admiration for the men who wrote books. Even the sudden disappearance of Dean Hardeman from the bestseller lists took on a distorted glamor for the young Conn Driscoll. Like the crackup of Fitzgerald or the destruction of Hemingway.

Driscoll put aside his admiration for Hardeman the writer. He had business to do with Hardeman the man. He had met enough celebrities to know that they never stood as tall in person as in the imagination.

To occupy his mind, Driscoll ticked off the projects he had started rolling before leaving Los Angeles. He had the funeral booked for Greenacre on Saturday. The kids would be out of school, so that would give them a good attendance. An artist had been started on the Billy-as-Christ image that would be used on everything from billboards to belt bukles. Billy’s records were getting good air time, at least on the FM hard rockers. Deejays on the big AM stations were tougher to get to, but the kids didn’t listen to them anyway.

Driscoll had found a publisher in the Valley who was delighted at the prospect of putting out a Dean Hardeman book. His list at the time was mostly cookbooks and astrology guides. Getting the book printed and into the stores by September would call for tight scheduling, but that could be worked out.

The initial steps had been taken to set up the Billy Lockett Memorial Fund. Driscoll liked the sound of the words though he hadn’t yet decided where the fund was going to go.

Finally, Driscoll had put out feelers to learn what acts would be available for the September Forum date. They wouldn’t be able to get the real heavyweights, of course — The Stones, Chicago, Elton John — but good second-line talent could sell out the house, combined with the added gimmick of Billy Lives!

So far, Driscoll thought happily, things were going smooth as cream. Or would be as soon as he had Dean Hardeman’s signature on the contract in his pocket.

The sky was a dirty gray when the plane landed at Kennedy International Airport. A bone-chilling wind knifed through Driscoll’s sport jacket and slacks. As usual he had forgotten about the climatic differences of the two coasts and had not brought a topcoat. He consoled himself with the thought that at least it wasn’t raining. Or snowing. And he would not be here long.

He found a taxi in front of the United Airlines terminal and gave the driver Dean Hardeman’s address in Great Neck. Driscoll was glad this trip would not take him into Manhattan. His hatred of New York City was almost pathological.

The house in Great Neck where Hardeman lived was a white, two-story Cape Cod with a wide lawn on a quiet street. The buds were just beginning to show on a pair of big oak trees out in front.

Driscoll walked to the front door and rang the bell. He waited, shivering with the cold.

Dean Hardeman himself opened the door. He was markedly older and grayer but still recognizable from his book jacket portraits. Driscoll was struck at once by the thought that whatever else he might be, Hardeman was definitely not shorter in person. The author stood an easy six-foot-three or -four with massive shoulders and a broad chest. He was thickening through the middle, but he retained a vigorous, athletic look. The short gray hair was hand-brushed forward. It was around the eyes that his trouble showed. They had a dull, tarnished look. Hardeman needed a shave. He carried a highball glass with a cigarette smoldering between two fingers of the same hand.

“Come on in and get warm,” Hardeman said when Driscoll had introduced himself. “Do you want a drink?”

Driscoll did not, particularly, but you do not refuse a drink offered by a boyhood hero. He said, “Sure, whatever you’re having will be fine.”

Hardeman poured bourbon into a glass, dropped in three ice cubes, and handed the drink to Driscoll.

The young PR man took a slip and nodded appreciatively. It was good rich bourbon. “I don’t know how much Ernie Zyler told you about our proposition …” he began.

“Ernie told me,” Hardeman said, “that you had a wild scheme for me to do a book about some rock-and-roll idol. Ernie also reminded me that he is no longer my agent, so I would have to make up my own mind about it without any help from him.”

“Well, uh, roughly, that’s what we have,” Driscoll said. “You’ve probably heard of Billy Lockett.”

“Rock-and-roll music makes me want to puke.”

Driscoll forced a chuckle. “I guess a lot of people feel that way. The important thing for our purposes is that there are millions of young people who listen to nothing but pop music.”

“God help us,” Hardeman murmured into his glass.

With a weak smile, Driscoll continued. “To these kids rock performers like Billy Lockett are as important as their families. Maybe more.”

“Incredible.”

“At the time he died Billy was just this far,” Driscoll measured a space in the air with thumb and forefinger, “from being a real superstar. A book about him right now will sell like …” he searched for a simile.

“Like hotcakes?” Hardeman offered.

“Oh, yes.”

“Are you sure these people, these rock-and-roll fans can read?”

“The text will be only twenty or thirty thousand words. Most of the book will be pictures.”

“Just a damn minute,” Hardeman interrupted. “What the hell makes you think I would write even one paragraph about some idiot so-called singer for a generation of bubblegum chewers who are still sounding out Dick and Jane? Maybe you heard that I’m not up to my armpits in royalty checks lately, and you think I’ll jump at the chance to write any old piece of shit just to make a couple of bucks. Well, hear this, Mr. Driscoll, I’ve got projects in the hopper right now that I don’t want to talk about, but that keep me plenty busy. If you think I’m going to take time off to fuck around with your Billy Whatsisname, forget it.”

“No, listen, I realize that,” said Driscoll, talking fast. “I wouldn’t think of asking a writer of your stature to do what is — for lack of a better word — a hack job. I’ll level with you, Mr. Hardeman, we need this book by September to help put over a rock concert in Los Angeles. Al Fessler, that’s Billy’s manager, and I talked it over yesterday. The big question was how to get some publicity on the writing of the book, and how to get the bookstores to give us good display. The answer was to have the name of an important author on the cover. You, for instance.”

Hardeman started to say something, but Driscoll went on hurriedly. “Now, you won’t actually have to write a word. I’ll do that myself. It won’t amount to much more than a pasteup, anyway.”

While the author frowned at him, Driscoll tossed the contract casually onto the coffee table, making sure the boldface dollar figures were visible. “I know that doesn’t come anywhere near your usual advance from a publisher, but it’s not bad for letting us use your name and maybe making a couple of personal appearances.”

“You want to put my name on something written by you?”

“You’ll have the final okay on the manuscript, and you’re free to make any kind of changes you want to.”

The author’s gaze drifted to the contract lying on the table between them. Driscoll could almost hear him adding up the figures.

“Plus a percentage of all subsidiary rights,” Driscoll said softly.

Hardeman mashed out his cigarette and lit another. “And what was that about personal appearances?”

“A couple of talk shows maybe. Only the biggies. Johnny or Merv. A press conference or two. Only what will fit into your schedule.”

“No bookstores?”

“Not if you don’t want them.”

“I hate sitting in bookstores.” The author rubbed his jaw. It made a bristly sound. “You leveled with me, kid, so I’ll do the same for you. I do need the money. The thing is, I’m not crazy about putting my name on this picture book. Granted, my name doesn’t ring the bells it used to, but it still means something to some people.”

“If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be here,” Driscoll said. “And I can understand how you feel.” He let a calculated pause go by, then added, “Of course, it didn’t hurt Norman Mailer any to do the Monroe book.”

For a moment Dean Hardeman looked intently at the younger man, then he threw back his head in a full-throated laugh. “By God, you’ve got a point there. I guess what’s good enough for Norman is good enough for me. I’ll do it.”

• • •

An hour later the papers were signed. Dean Hardeman stood at the front window of the big house watching the taxi carrying young Conn Driscoll drive down the street. When the cab disappeared around the corner at the end of the block, Hardeman turned away from the window. He crossed the room to the bar and poured himself a fresh drink. There was a queer prickly sensation under his arms. He took a deep swallow of bourbon.

How would it feel, he wondered, to see his name on a book written by somebody else? Hell, he wouldn’t be the first writer to do that. It was not a crime. Not in the legal sense.

He paced the floor, found himself staring into the cold fireplace without really seeing it. He was thinking about Billy Lockett and Billy’s special world.

Hardeman walked back across the wide living room to the window. Outside was the quiet suburban street where he had lived for fifteen years. Ten turbulent years with Joyce, and five empty years alone. It was a calm, well-ordered world outside his window. How different it must be from the world of Billy Lockett. What was that strange world like, Hardeman wondered. What were the colors, the smells, the special tastes of Billy Lockett’s world?

And what about Billy Lockett himself? Hardeman was not quite as ignorant of Billy as he had let on to Conn Driscoll. He had read how the young entertainer had died in a parachuting accident. At the time he had wondered idly why it had happened. Now he began to wonder more actively.

Hardeman put the drink down and walked to a small, ornate desk at the far end of the room. With a forearm he swept aside the clutter of unpaid bills and unanswered letters. He took up a felt-tip pen and began making notes on a yellow legal pad. Before he thought about what he was doing, Hardeman had filled three pages with questions, ideas, and alternative approaches to the puzzle of Billy Lockett. As he stared down at his hard, square-topped handwriting, a smile grew on his face.

“By God, I’m writing,” he said aloud. For the first time in years he felt the stirring of the creative juices he had feared were congealed. He was not sure he could trust the sensation.

Still holding the pen, he stood up and began to pace. He warned himself not to go off the deep end. The money for this Billy Lockett thing was as good as in his pocket, and he didn’t have to do a damn thing for it. He could use the money to pay some bills, then get to work on some serious writing.

Oh yeah, serious writing, Hardeman mocked himself. Maybe those nonexistant “projects in the hopper” he had invented for Conn Driscoll. It was time to quit kidding himself. The important thing about this project, the thing to be seized upon, was that here was an idea that intrigued him, that actually made him want to write. Nothing outside a bottle had intrigued Dean Hardeman for a long time. This rock music scene, foreign though it was to him, seemed to crackle with vitality. Maybe he could absorb some of that vitality. He could certainly use it.

But did a fiction writer have any business taking on something like this? Aside from a few articles early in his career, Hardeman had never attempted a work of nonfiction. But why couldn’t he do it? If he was the writer people used to say he was, he could handle it. This trendy New Journalism was nothing but using the techniques of fiction in factual reporting.

Hardeman grinned over at the empty chair where Conn Driscoll had sat an hour before. “By God,” he said, “I’m going to write your damned book.”

He sat down at the desk again and read over his notes. Yes, it was there, all right, the germ of a book. And if he handled it right, it might turn out not half bad.

Hardeman’s smile faded and he sat back in the chair. He might as well be completely honest with himself, he decided. There was another reason for taking on this job. It would give him a solid, acceptable excuse for going out to Los Angeles. And Joyce was in Los Angeles. If he could sort of look her up while he was out there working, he wouldn’t appear to be running after her trying to get her back. Maybe then the two of them could communicate without all the hostility and strain there had been since the divorce. Possibly they could rediscover some of the old rapport and maybe … well, time enough when he got out there to see what would happen.

Hardeman took the yellow pad with his notes on it back to the room at the rear of the house that had been his writing room. The heat was shut off and it was cold in the room, but Hardeman didn’t notice. He sat down at the metal typewriter stand and pulled the cover off the machine. He flipped the switch and listened for a moment to the soft electrical hum, then spread out his handwritten notes and rolled a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter.

The jottings in longhand were an encouraging start, but he had made many starts in the last few years that had come to nothing. This time, though, Dean Hardeman felt that once he typed up the notes — recorded them in good black pica letters on white bond — he was committed and would see it through to the end.

With one hand he picked up the telephone while he flipped through a personal directory with the other. He found the number of his travel agent and punched it out on the phone buttons. While he waited for the connection Hardeman shifted the typewriter to capital letters. At the top of the page he pecked out the words: BILLY LIVES!

CHAPTER 6

Wednesday was a bright blue day in Los Angeles with a crisp wind from the north cleaning the sky. Conn Driscoll’s alarm clock buzzed him awake at 7:00 A.M. He slapped the clock into silence, knowing it would buzz again in another five minutes.

Driscoll lay under the electric blanket, which he kept at a gentle three setting, and let his mind ease into wakefulness. His morning ritual began as he mentally ticked off the things he had to do that day. This day there were plenty.

Al Fessler had turned his office and his secretary over to Driscoll for the rest of the week. The PR man had never had an office of his own because he felt it would constrict his movements. And what would he do with an office during the weeks he liked to take off between assignments? This time, however, he could see that it would be helpful to have a base of operations while getting the Billy Lockett hype off the ground.

As the alarm clock began its second buzz Driscoll hit it again, this time punching in the off button to silence it for good. Normally he stretched the waking up process over twenty minutes or so, but today he was eager to get started.

He showered and shaved and went into the kitchen to put on a pan of water for instant coffee. Driscoll’s apartment, three small rooms in a new complex at Marina del Rey, cost him three hundred dollars a month. It was too much, but with no dependents or outside expenses, he could afford it. He had a cleaning woman who came in twice a week, and he ate most of his meals out, so the apartment reflected very little of Driscoll’s personality. He used it mainly for sleeping and screwing.

Driscoll ate a donut with his coffee, read the Times entertainment section, turned on the radio for a freeway report, and left for his first appointment of the day. It was with his artist, a wildly talented eccentric who insisted his name was Xenon Quarles. That was all right with Driscoll. Quarles did beautiful work, and he did it fast. He could call himself Fred Flintstone if he wanted to.

Quarles worked in a shabby store-front studio on Robertson Boulevard. Not on the part of Robertson that runs through Beverly Hills, but the low-rent area south of Pico. From the size of his fees, he could have had better, but like everybody else in town, Quarles was maintaining an image. His personal image was that of the serious artist forced into taking commercial assignments to keep bread and wine on the table. As far as Driscoll knew, Quarles had never done anything but commercial work. He was much in demand for pop posters and could handle any style currently in vogue from Art Nouveau to Grand Guignol. He dressed in grubby thrift-shop clothes but was rumored to be worth half a million dollars.

Driscoll found a parking place a block from the artist’s studio and walked back past a body shop and plumbing supply store. The windows of the studio were opaque with years of undisturbed grime. The display shelves behind the glass were stacked with trash. Nowhere was there any kind of a sign identifying the proprietor or his business. Xenon Quarles depended on word of mouth to advertise his work. It was all he needed.

It took some effort to open the door against the rags, papers, and other litter that covered the cement floor. Driscoll pushed his way in and found the artist off to one side mixing paints in old coffee cans. Quarles had on a raveled brown sweater and a pair of torn pants that may once have been green. Most of his face was hidden behind curly black hair and beard. What could be seen was pockmarked and ugly. Quarles had been described as a tall, dirty Toulouse-Lautrec.

“Hi, maestro,” Driscoll called cheerily. “Got the Billy poster finished?”

Quarles scowled at him, continuing to stir the can of paint. “When did I tell you it would be done?”

“Today.”

“Then it’s done. Wait a minute.”

The artist stirred for several more minutes, adding drops of pigment until the shade of the paint in the coffee can satisfied him. Then he wiped his hands carefully on a rag and picked his way through the clutter to the back of the room. The wall there was lined with narrow upright bins. Quarles drew out a large poster board and carried it back up front where he laid it across an inverted carton for Driscoll’s inspection.

There was Billy Lockett in a white sequined jumpsuit, legs spread, arms out from his sides, one hand holding an electric guitar also white with sequins. Billy’s mouth was slightly open, his eyes cast upward. The background was a stipple of colors that suggested an endless crowd of people. Billy’s flowing blond hair was back-lighted to produce a halo effect. Nothing blatant, merely a suggestion.

Across the bottom of the poster in stark black letters was printed: BILLY LIVES. A space was left for the printer to add concert dates, ticket prices, and whatever.

Xenon Quarles returned to his paint mixing and affected an air of utter indifference about Conn Driscoll’s appraisal of his work.

“It’s beautiful,” Driscoll said.

“Naturally,” Quarles agreed.

“It’s even better than the way I saw it in my mind.”

“Of course.”

“The halo bit with the hair is sheer genius.”

“Sheer schmaltz,” Quarles said, but his voice betrayed his pleasure.

“No kidding, maestro, it’s the best thing of yours I’ve ever seen.”

“A cartoon.”

“There’s just one little thing …”

“What?” The artist whirled on him like a mother bear whose cubs were being threatened. “What thing? What little thing? Are you telling me there is something wrong with my work?”

“No, no,” Driscoll said hastily. “Nothing’s wrong. Your work couldn’t be better.”

“What then?”

“Just a trifle about the lettering.”

“Lettering! Tchah! A child can letter. What’s wrong with it?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. You left something off, that’s all.”

“Left what off? Damn you, Driscoll, will you stop this mealy-mouthing and tell me what’s bugging you.”

“You left off the exclamation point.”

“Exclamation point! What the hell do you want with an exclamation point?”

“Right here after Billy Lives there should be an exclamation point. I’m sure it was there on the rough layout I gave you.”

“Driscoll, what you are saying on this poster is that this kid, who everybody knows is dead, is really alive after all. And with that piece of news you want to give them an exclamation point. Who are you trying to reach with this, a bunch of idiots?”

Driscoll answered that with the quirk of an eyebrow.

“I see what you mean,” Quarles said. He picked up a brush, dipped it into a can of black paint, and deftly added the punctuation mark. “There you are,” he said, “BILLY LIVES!”

“Thank you,” Driscoll said. “Do you have Al Fessler’s address where you send the bill?”

“I have it.”

“Fine. See you around.”

Driscoll delivered the poster to a printer in Hollywood along with Quarles’ formula for mixing the inks. He had them run off a photocopy, which he took to a jobber where the image of Billy Lockett would be printed on several thousand one-dollar, white T-shirts. The T-shirts would thereafter be sold for five dollars apiece.

There was still the billboard on the Strip, but that could wait until the month before the concert, as could the newspaper ads. Driscoll reminded himself to bat out a commercial to be played on the local rock stations. Never mind the middle-of-the-roaders; their listeners didn’t buy pop records or go to rock concerts. Same for television. They could safely ignore it.

It was eleven o’clock by the time Driscoll arrived at the office at Crossroads of the World. A stringy mar with horse teeth was waiting for him with a large square suitcase in the anteroom.

“Hello, Phil,” said Driscoll. “Come on in.”

Phil Carbo leaped up from his seat and hurried into the inner office behind Driscoll, clutching the suitcase under one arm. Carbo was a gimmick peddler known along the Boulevard as the Sultan of Schlock. He claimed to have originated the magnetized, glow-in-the-dark Holy Family for your dashboard, though he said the idea was stolen from him and made a fortune for somebody else.

“What have you got for me, Phil?” Driscoll said, seating himself behind Al Fessler’s desk.

“After I get your call Monday, I work straight through,” said Carbo. “I got a couple items here you really gonna like. Class merchandise.”

Carbo popped open the suitcase and brought out a blue satin pillow, 12 inches square, which he displayed as though it were the Mona Lisa. On the face of the pillow was a head-on photograph of Billy Lockett, eyes closed, mouth open in song.

“A Billy Pillow,” Carbo said.

Driscoll nodded slowly. “Not bad. A lot of the girl fans might like to take one of those to bed with them. Some of the boys too, for that matter.”

Carbo beamed at the approval. “This is just a mockup, you understand. I just glue the picture on there. For the real item you can appli … appli … what is that word?”

“Appliqué.”

“That’s it. I know I can place these items in at least twenty stores right now.”

“What else have you got?”

Carbo dived into the suitcase again and came up with a glazed beer stein of the type popular with college fraternities. On the surface where the fraternity crest usually went was Billy’s face again and the poorly lettered legend, BILLY LIVES!

“A Billy beer mug,” Carbo announced.

Driscoll pursed his lips, shook his head negatively. “No good, that’s the wrong image. Billy’s fans are not your beer drinkers.”

Carbo dipped a hand into the mug. “A Billy hash stasher?”

“Forget it.”

Regretfully, Carbo put the beer stein away and brought out another object, which he kept hidden from Driscoll behind his hand. “This item you are positively going to love,” he predicted.

Carbo manipulated the gadget for a moment, then with the sound of a spring released, a little man-shaped object popped up to the ceiling and came floating back down buoyed by a white silk handkerchief.

“A Billy Skydiver Doll,” Carbo said proudly.

Driscoll winced. “Phil, that’s in rotten taste. Even for you.”

“I am up all night getting it to work right.”

“Put it away.”

With a heavy sigh, Carbo folded the white handkerchief around the little doll and laid it back in the suitcase. “I have one more item for you,” he said. “A guaranteed winner.”

The last of Carbo’s items was a 5-by-7 photograph of Billy in a metal frame. The photo was printed on a sheet of plastic with fine ridges. As Carbo tilted the picture slightly up and down, the photo of Billy seemed to open and close its eyes.

Driscoll studied it for a moment, then shrugged. “Why not? I’ll get an okay from Al Fessler, and you can be ready to go ahead on the pillow and the picture. You’ll get the usual percentage of sales, plus a bonus if they move well.”

“Oh, they’ll move,” Carbo assured him. “Don’t worry about that.”

A beeping sound somewhere in the room startled Driscoll until he located it coming from the intercom box on Fessler’s desk. He nodded a goodbye to Phil Carbo, then said, “Yes?” into the box several times without getting a response.

Finally Al’s secretary put her head into the office. “Greg Neely is outside, Mr. Driscoll,” she said. “He wanted to see Mr. Fessler but says he’ll talk to you.”

Greg Neely did pop-music criticism for the Times and contributed articles to publications like Rolling Stone and Creem. He was not a young man to be brushed off.

“Hey, that’s great,” Driscoll said, knowing he could be heard in the anteroom. He arranged his face into an expression of delight and came around his desk to usher the visitor in personally. A young man in a tie-dyed outfit and a Sonny Bono moustache slouched at the secretary’s desk.

“Hey, come on inside, Greg,” Driscoll said. “Al’s turned me loose in here for a week while we get things set up.”

“I really wanted to talk to Fessler,” the young critic sulked, “but I suppose you’ll do.”

“I know Al would be anxious to talk to you,” Driscoll gushed, “but in the meantime, maybe I can answer some of your questions. He let Neely take the visitor’s chair, then sat down behind the desk, leaning forward in an attitude of attentiveness.

“My first question,” Neely said, “is what the hell is this ‘Billy Lives’ ripoff?”

“Ripoff? What do you mean, Greg?”

“What I mean is we both know Al Fessler went into hock promoting Billy Lockett and setting up a Forum concert for September. Now Billy’s dead, but Fessler’s got you working the local hype merchants overtime trying to pump life into the corpse.”

The little shit is after something, Driscoll thought. He said, “That’s not fair, Greg. Sure, Al Fessler had money invested in Billy because he believed in the boy’s talent and in his future. A lot of people did. There’s a lot of fans out there who feel a dreadful sense of loss at having Billy taken from them so suddenly. By staging a Memorial Concert Al felt he could give everybody a chance to say goodbye to Billy properly.”

“And Fessler could say hello to a million dollars. I hear the tickets start at ten.”

“We haven’t actually scaled the prices yet, but I’ll admit tickets won’t be cheap. We’re figuring on some high-powered talent being there, and those boys don’t work for nothing.”

“Who have you got lined up so far?”

“Greg, I gave my word I wouldn’t mention any names before the papers are signed. We’ve got to look out for lawsuits over conflicting commitments, that sort of thing.”

Neely wrote something in a notebook.

“As soon as the talent is signed, you’ll get it first, Greg. You have my word on that.”

Neely continued to scribble in the notebook.

“Hey, if you’re doing an article I can feed you a lot of good stuff on Billy. Pictures too.”

“It might not be the kind of article you have in mind,” Neely said, still writing.

Well, there it is, Driscoll thought. This pimply little creep was threatening to blow up the whole million-dollar operation. And the hell of it was, he could do it with a piece of hatchet journalism in the Times or Rolling Stone. The kids were getting stirred up anyway about rising prices for concerts, and if the word got around that Billy Lives! was a ripoff, the promotion was dead.

“The only reason I would do an article at all,” Neely said carefully, “is that my sound equipment is giving me problems.”

“How is that?” Driscoll asked, just as carefully.

“I have a stack of albums halfway up my wall that I’m supposed to review, and that would keep me plenty busy. But I can’t even listen to them properly.”

Aha!

Driscoll made his face show concern. “Trouble with your sound equipment, you say?”

“That’s right. I’m still using one of the old LLT Formula Five quad systems, and I’m getting a lot of crosstalk. No way I can give the new albums a fair listen with that racket going on.”

“No, of course you can’t,” Driscoll agreed. Then, with a pantomime of having suddenly thought of something, “You know, this is a hell of a coincidence, but just last week Vic Faust down at the Sound Shack was telling me he had a whole new line of Kasaki components in. He was hoping he could place one of the top-of-the-line quad outfits with somebody who really knew sound quality. Somebody who might, well, spread the word.”

“That is a coincidence,” Neely said. “Of course, you know I couldn’t plug Kasaki or the Sound Shack in print. You know how the Times feels about that.”

“No no no,” Driscoll said, “nobody would expect you to do anything like that. Just talk it up a little among your friends. A word from you carries a lot of weight, Greg.”

The young critic pretended to consider, but Driscoll knew he was in the bag.

“I suppose I could do that much,” Neely said. “I mean, if it’s good hardware, I don’t mind telling people about it.”

“Hey, that’s great, Greg. I’ll pass the word to Vic Faust, and he can probably have the equipment to you by tomorrow afternoon.”

“He’ll deliver it to my apartment … not to the Times?”

“Oh, sure, Greg.”

Neely closed the notebook and dropped it carelessly into a pocket. “I’ll be moving along. Nice talking to you, Driscoll.”

Yeah, and profitable, Driscoll thought. He said, “Drop around any time, Greg.”

He stood in the doorway smiling until the young critic had walked out into the courtyard of Crossroads of the World, then he sagged into the chair behind the desk. That had been a near thing. He would square the quadrophonic equipment with Vic Faust somehow — get him some plugs from the FM deejays, concert tickets for his kids. Driscoll would work it out one way or another and hope that the bribe would keep Neely quiet. A badmouthing from him could kill the concert deader than Billy Lockett.

The intercom beeped again. Rather than fight with the thing, Driscoll walked around the desk and stuck his head out the door.

The secretary looked up at him and said, “You have a call from Vernon Karp.”

“Karp? I don’t know any Karp.”

“He says he’s the book editor of the Herald-Examiner.”

“I didn’t know they had a book editor.”

“Shall I brush him off?”

“No, I’ll take it.”

Driscoll went back into the office and picked up the phone. “Mr. Karp, how good it is to hear from you. I never miss your column.”

“W-why, thank you.” The voice was soft and hesitant, with a slight stammer.

“What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Driscoll, I don’t know if there’s any t-truth to this, but I’ve heard that Dean Hardeman is going to write a book about the young rock musician who was k-killed, Billy Lockett. I understand you’re involved in the thing somehow.”

“Your information is correct,” Driscoll said, pleased that his rumor network was operating efficiently. “The fact is that Dean called me the day after Billy’s death and told me he was so moved by the tragedy that he wanted to do a book on Billy.”

“You know Dean Hardeman?”

“Oh, yes, we’ve been friends for some time. Naturally, I told Dean I’d give him any assistance I could.”

“N-naturally,” said the book editor. “It’s really remarkable that he would come out of semiretirement after so many years to do something … well, something so different from what he’s done in the past.”

“Yes, remarkable,” Driscoll agreed. “We’re really excited and gratified to have an author of Dean’s stature take an interest.”

“I hope you won’t mind my asking, Mr. Driscoll, but what, exactly, is your connection with the book?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Driscoll said, putting a smile in his voice. “I’m working with Billy Lockett’s personal manager, and that puts me in a good position to supply Dean with any background material he needs. I’m a glorified researcher, really.”

There was a hesitation before Vernon Karp spoke again. “I-I wonder if it would be possible to have an interview with Mr. Hardeman. I know he doesn’t usually give interviews, but p-perhaps …”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Vernon,” said Driscoll, “but I doubt very much if Dean will be spending any time out here. As you probably know, he does all his work at his home on Long Island.”

“Yes, I’d heard that.”

“But I’ll tell you what, if there’s any chance at all, I’ll see that you get first crack at him.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. D-Driscoll. I certainly do appreciate that.”

“Not at all. And make that Conn, okay?”

“Okay … Conn.”

Too bad they aren’t all as easy as that, Driscoll thought as he hung up the phone. All in all, though, things were not going too badly. He would have time this afternoon to go through the carton of Billy pictures he’d had sent over to pick out the best ones for the book. He hoped there would be no more surprises today.

The intercom beeped at him again. By this time he had the thing figured out and pressed down the lever with the little light over it.

The secretary’s filtered voice spoke to him. “Mr. and Mrs. Lockett are here.”

“Who?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Lockett … Billy’s parents.”

CHAPTER 7

He should have known, thought Conn Driscoll, that things were going altogether too smoothly. Hell, of course Billy Lockett would have to have parents somewhere. Since they were not a part of Driscoll’s plans, he had never given them a thought. But now here they were, right outside his door, and they had to be dealt with.

Driscoll put on what he hoped was a sympathetic expression and walked out to the anteroom. The couple standing by the secretary’s desk turned to face him. The man was in his early fifties with pale, thinning hair — blond going to gray. His dark blue, off-the-rack suit showed travel wrinkles. The man held himself very straight, almost standing at attention. The woman was soft and plump with a pretty face that looked like it smiled often. Her hair was dark with only a few wisps of gray.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lockett, I’m Conn Driscoll. I want you to know how terribly sorry I am, how sorry we all are, about Billy.”

“Where’s Fessler?” said Mr. Lockett. He was not smiling.

“He’s staying home for a few days,” Driscoll said. “This thing has hit him pretty hard.”

“I’ll bet,” said Billy’s father.

Driscoll knew then he was going to have a problem here. “I’m filling in for Mr. Fessler this week,” he went on, “and if there’s anything I can do for you …”

“For one thing, you can explain why my wife and I had to hear of our son’s death on the television news. Why nobody out here took the trouble to contact us personally.”

“Do you mean you never got our message?” Driscoll said, feigning surprise.

“The only message we got was a telegram from the San Bernardino County Sheriffs Office telling us our son was dead. And we didn’t get that until Tuesday, two days after Billy was killed.”

“Why that’s terrible, Mr. Lockett,” Driscoll said. “Believe me, I would never in this world have let a thing like that happen. I guess things were in such a turmoil that we just had a breakdown in communication somewhere. I’m really deeply sorry.”

“That helps a lot,” the man said.

Billy’s mother spoke for the first time. “Tom, there’s nothing this young man can do now. It was a mistake, that’s all.”

“Yes, Mrs. Lockett, it was a mistake,” Driscoll said, “but I’m certainly willing to take my share of the blame.”

“Never mind about that now,” said Thomas Lockett. “It doesn’t matter who’s to blame or who’s not to blame. They told us at the sheriff’s office that Al Fessler was taking care of Billy’s funeral.”

“That’s right,” Driscoll said. “Actually, I’m handling the arrangements. We want to be sure — ”

“You can forget about your arrangements. We’re taking Billy home with us.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said we’re taking Billy home with us to Belford. That’s in Indiana, Mr. Driscoll.”

“Yes, of course it is, but the funeral … the memorial service … the plans are all made.”

“You can unmake them,” said Mr. Lockett.

Billy’s mother put a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. To Driscoll she said, “Mr. Lockett’s parents are buried in Bedford. My husband and I have our own plots there. We want our Billy to be there too. You can understand that.”

Conn Driscoll could not understand it at all. Why would it make a damn bit of difference where anybody was buried? What he did understand was that he was in danger of losing the big funeral, the opening gun of his campaign to promote Billy Lives!

He said, “Yes, I can certainly understand that, Mrs. Lockett. I’ll tell you what — let’s take a run out and see Mr. Fessler. He’s really the one who ought to make these decisions.”

Mrs. Lockett looked to her husband.

“That’s fine with me,” he said. “Just so we get it settled today.”

“My car is outside in the lot,” Driscoll said. “If you want to ride with me, we’ll go out and see him right away.”

The Locketts nodded their assent, and Driscoll ushered them out of the office. Once outside, he snapped his fingers as though he had just remembered something.

“Oh, darn it, I’ve got one phone call I absolutely have to make. It will just take a minute, and I’ll be with you.”

Mrs. Lockett smiled at him as he stepped back into the office. Mr. Lockett did not.

“Get Al on the line,” Driscoll told the secretary. “I’ll take it at his desk.” He went into the inner office and closed the door in case the Locketts should come back into the anteroom.

After a minute the phone beeped at him and Driscoll picked it up. Al Fessler was on the other end.

“We’ve got a little hitch in the operation,” Driscoll said.

“Hitch?”

“Billy’s parents are here.”

“What parents?”

“You know, father and mother.”

“I know what parents are, I mean where the hell did they come from?”

“Someplace called Belford. That’s in Indiana, according to the father. They got a telegram from the Sheriff’s Office about Billy’s death.”

“So offer them our sympathy. What’s the hitch?”

“They want to take Billy home with them and bury him in Belford.”

There was brief pause before Fessler answered. “They can’t do that.”

“Yes, they can. And if they do, it wipes out our Saturday show at Greenacre.”

“Well, do something, for Christ sake. Buy ’em off.”

“Al, I’m bringing them out to your place.”

“My place? What the fuck for?”

“Because I can’t buy them off, and they want to talk to you anyway.”

“Jesus.”

“The mother can be handled, I think, but the father is a tough bird and no dummy.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Back my play. Help me try to sell them on burying Billy out here where he belongs. Maybe the two of us together can put it across.”

“Okay, bring them out,” Fessler said unhappily. “How’s everything else going?”

“Everything else is fine, but we need this funeral. We need it bad.”

Driscoll rejoined the Locketts out in the courtyard of Crossroads of the World. They walked back under the eucalyptus tree that shaded the court and found Driscoll’s Firebird in the parking lot. They all climbed in, Mr. Lockett taking the cramped back seat, and Driscoll headed up Sunset toward the Hollywood Freeway.

“How long has it been since you folks saw Billy?” Driscoll asked to break the uncomfortable silence.

When her husband did not answer, Mrs. Lockett spoke up. “Four years. It’s been almost four years. Billy came home and told us he’d signed a contract for Mr. Fessler to be his manager. He was so excited. He was sure good things were going to start happening for him.”

“He never came home again,” Mr. Lockett said.

“I’m sure he was awfully busy,” said Billy’s mother.

“Oh, he was,” Driscoll agreed quickly. You can’t imagine the demands on a performer’s time, the obligations he has to meet.”

“He could have written a letter once in a while,” Mr. Lockett said.

Driscoll swung north onto the freeway for the short drive to Sherman Oaks. He felt at a loss for words to say to these solid, honest, middle-American people. They were outside his experience. Driscoll had spent so many years dealing with sharpshooters and hustlers, he did not know what approach to take when he came face to face with honesty.

He took the Sepulveda off ramp and swung into the block where Al and Madeline Fessler lived. He was relieved that the comfortable looking, tree-shaded house did not look like a Kodachrome California postcard. The low, wide Spanish architecture was typically Los Angeles; nevertheless, the house had the look of being lived in, of being somehow Midwest. The look was deceptive, Driscoll knew, but he felt the Thomas Locketts of Belford, Indiana, would be more comfortable talking here than, say, at a beach house in Malibu.

Al and Madeline Fessler came to the door together to meet them. When Driscoll had made the introductions, Madeline reached out and took Mrs. Lockett’s hands in her own.

“I’m so glad to meet Billy’s parents,” she said. “What a shame it has to be under such tragic circumstances. Won’t you both please come in?”

Driscoll shot a glance at Al, who answered with a fractional shrug.

Madeline, showing a warmth and sensitivity Driscoll had never seen in her, seated Mr. and Mrs. Lockett comfortably in the living room and produced big cups of hot coffee for everyone. For the first time Billy’s father allowed himself a small smile.

“About this funeral business …” Al Fessler blurted, immediately killing Mr. Lockett’s smile.

“Billy’s funeral is our business,” said Thomas Lockett. “We’re taking him back to Bedford with us to be buried there.”

“Can we talk about that a little?” Al said.

“There’s nothing to talk about. Where do you have him?”

Al looked to Driscoll for help.

Driscoll said, “Billy’s out at Greenacre Memorial Park now. It’s really a lovely place. Maybe you’d like to take a drive through the grounds?”

“To my way of thinking, cemeteries are no place for sightseeing,” said Mr. Lockett.

Madeline spoke up. “I can understand how you feel, Mr. Lockett. I came from a small town myself, and I lost my parents when I was quite young. I know what a comfort it can be to have them nearby.”

Mr. Lockett nodded. His wife reached over to pat Madeline’s hand.

Driscoll gave Al a what-is-she-trying-to-do-to-us? look. Again, Al had only a shrug for an answer.

“But don’t you agree, Madeline,” Driscoll said carefully, “that Billy’s being a celebrity makes a difference?”

Madeline looked at Driscoll, and there was a message in the pale eyes he could not read.

She said, “Yes, Billy was a celebrity. But first and most important, he was a son.”

The Locketts glanced at each other and exchanged sad smiles.

“And yet,” Madeline continued, “Conn is right in a way. Billy was not just another young man who died tragically. Heaven knows we’ve seen enough of those in recent years. Billy was a special person. He had a talent — a gift, even — that could reach millions of young people. To them Billy was a friend, a brother, maybe even an image of themselves — the person they would be if they had the talent. And Billy reached some people who are not so young too. To them he was a son. The son they never had, or perhaps the son they’d lost.”

Driscoll listened, spellbound. In the dozen or so times he had visited Al at home, he had never heard Madeline speak more than two sentences in succession. Mr. Lockett was leaning forward in rapt attention. Mrs. Lockett dabbed at her eyes with a tiny handkerchief. Al Fessler stared open-mouthed at his wife.

Madeline continued, “It would mean so much to all these people to be able to say goodbye to Billy in their own way. Each of them must feel a little of your own pain and loss. No one could blame you, of course, for wanting to take Billy home with you and say goodbye to him in privacy. I’m sure Billy’s fans would understand.”

Mr. Lockett cleared his throat. “Let me be sure I get the picture here. What you want is to have Billy’s funeral at this Greenacre place, right?”

Driscoll spoke up quickly. “Yes, sir. I’ve had some preliminary talks with the people out there, and I can assure you the service would be in the very best taste.”

“Yeah, and it won’t cost you a dime,” Al Fessler put in.

Driscoll groaned inwardly.

Al blundered on. “We’re paying for the whole thing. Everything first class.”

Billy’s father fixed Al with a glare. “Mr. Fessler, the cost is not at issue. We may not be a part of the rich Hollywood crowd, but I own my own business in Belford, and I can well afford to pay for my son’s funeral.”

“There’s no question of that,” Driscoll said. “Mr. Fessler just meant that if you should decide to leave the arrangements up to us, we’ll do all we can to make sure that Billy has a fitting ceremony.”

Mr. Lockett searched Driscoll’s face. With an effort the PR man met his gaze.

“What do you think, Helen?” Mr. Lockett asked, turning to his wife.

“I … I think Mrs. Fessler is right, dear.”

“Call me Madeline, please.”

Mrs. Lockett smiled at her and went on. “After all, Billy hasn’t belonged to us, not really, since he left home to become a singer. In the years since then he’s come to mean something to all those people Mrs…. Madeline talked about. I think they should have a chance to be with Billy this one last time.”

Thomas Lockett looked steadily at Driscoll, then at Al Fessler. “All right,” he said, “go ahead and make the arrangements. When will the services be held?”

“Saturday,” Driscoll said quickly, before Al could open his mouth again. “I’ll see that a car is sent for you.”

“We’ll stay in town, then, until after the weekend. I want your promise, though, that Billy’s funeral won’t be turned into a Hollywood circus.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Al said. “Everything will be strictly refined. Conn here and myself will see to that personally.”

Thomas Lockett’s eyes narrowed for a moment, but he gave them a curt nod. “We’re staying at the Airport International.”

“A fine hotel,” Driscoll said. “If there’s anything you want in the next few days, don’t hesitate to call the office. Anything at all.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Mrs. Lockett.

“Not at all,” Driscoll said modestly.

Everyone stood up then and said goodbyes all around.

At the door Driscoll lagged behind the others and spoke in a low voice to Madeline. “You were wonderful. I didn’t know you could do it.”

“Really? There might be a number of things you don’t know about me.”

She was the old Madeline again — cool voice, distant manner. Driscoll met her eyes for a moment but could read nothing there. He turned away and hurried after Billy’s parents.

CHAPTER 8

Larry Unger, the manager of radio station KOSA, was a hunched-over man of forty-three, who looked an easy ten years older. He worked in a windowless office that overflowed with newspapers, magazines, pamphlets, record lists, trade publications, charts, scripts, time logs, schedules, memos, and the rest of the sea of paper that keeps a radio station afloat.

A space at the edge of Unger’s desk had been cleared by Conn Driscoll, who perched there talking earnestly to the station manager.

Unger said, “You’re wasting your time, Driscoll. We’re a middle-of-the-road station. We don’t play half a dozen of your top-40 rock records in a week.”

“I’m not talking about acid rock or the shriekers,” Driscoll said. “You play Elton John, right? And Paul Simon? Billy Lockett’s in their class, Larry.”

“Like hell he is. Billy Lockett’s dead.”

“What of it? You still play Glenn Miller records.”

“Sure, on our Saturday night Golden Years show. When your boy Lockett is considered an old timer, come around and try me again.”

Driscoll offered the station manager a cigar. When Unger declined, he unwrapped it and lit it himself. He said, “Look, you can level with me, Larry. I know the reason you don’t play a lot of the pop groups is because of Owen Satterlee.”

“He does own the station,” Unger said.

“Right. And everybody knows he’s death on dopers. Any kind. I hear he won’t allow a record played on his station by anybody who’s even been rumored to smoke a little grass.”

“What about it?”

“Just this — Billy Lockett was clean as far as dope goes. There’s never been a whisper that he ever used anything stronger than beer.”

“That’s not the reason we don’t play your boy,” Unger said. “He’s got no talent. That’s the reason we don’t play Billy Lockett.”

“Are you kidding? Record sales — ”

“Record sales don’t mean shit. Spend enough on promotion and you can put a record of a braying jackass on the charts.”

Driscoll eased off the desk and flicked a cigar ash from his lapel. He gazed sadly down at Larry Unger. “I’m sorry you feel that way about it.”

“Nothing personal, Conn. You can’t win ’em all.”

“No hard feelings, Larry.” Driscoll started out the door, then turned back. “By the way, how’s your boy?”

Unger’s face tightened. “What do you mean?”

“Just asking. I heard he got into a little scrape at a house party in Santa Monica. Cops busted the place for LSD, angel dust, something like that.”

“Where did you hear that?” Unger asked.

“Oh, not in the papers. They don’t print the names of juveniles. But word gets around, you know how those things are. It’s lucky, I guess, that Owen Satterlee didn’t hear about it. I doubt that he’d understand that it was nothing serious.”

“You are a son of a bitch, Driscoll, you know that?”

“That’s not fair, Larry. I’m just doing my job, asking you as a favor to schedule a few spins of Billy Lockett’s records. You know as well as I do that’s the way it works in this business — doing favors. Maybe I’ll be able to do a favor for you.”

“I get your message,” Unger said grimly. “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask, Larry,” Driscoll said, making himself smile. “Just do what you can. I’ll be listening.”

As Driscoll started for the door, Unger called his name, and he turned back. “Driscoll, you really are a son of a bitch.”

Driscoll had no answer. He walked on out to the parking lot and climbed into his car. He sat for a minute without switching on the ignition. He had been called names before, but they never got to him. This time he really felt like a son of a bitch. What he had just done, to put the true name on it, was to blackmail an essentially decent guy into playing some records that he did not want to play. Damn it, that’s what he was getting paid for, Driscoll reminded himself. He was a publicity man, not a good-will ambassador. His was the kind of job you couldn’t do properly without being a son of a bitch. What you didn’t do was think about it. Start getting moral and feeling guilty, and you were washed up.

But for the moment Driscoll could not help thinking about it. What would he be doing ten years from now, he wondered? Twenty? Would he still be bribing and blackmailing people into doing him favors? At his age a guy could get away with that kind of hustle. People expected it of a young, ambitious publicity man. If he was still doing it at fifty, that would be something else again. It was not a pleasant thought, and Driscoll pushed it out of his mind as he drove out of the station parking lot and headed for Crossroads of the World.

The homebound traffic along Sunset was heavy and slow, giving Driscoll time to run over in his mind the things he had accomplished today. Most of it had been on the telephone. He had talked to managers, agents, suppliers, retailers, and hucksters until his throat was raw and his ears ached from listening. All in all, it had been a good day, including the business with Larry Unger that would get Billy some valuable exposure with the over-twenty-five audience.

Driscoll’s work day was not yet over. Tonight he was taking the news director of Channel Six to dinner. That was to insure good television coverage of the funeral day after tomorrow. There was just time for Driscoll to make a quick stop at the office to check on messages, then home to change for dinner.

Back at Crossroads of the World he was surprised to find the office door unlocked. He had told Al’s secretary that if he wasn’t back by five she should lock up and go on home. Inside there was an even bigger surprise waiting for him. Lounging in one of the chairs in the anteroom with a copy of Daily Variety in his lap was Dean Hardeman.

The author looked like a different person from the edgy, defeated man Driscoll had talked to in New York two days ago. He was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and dressed in a conservative tweed suit.

“Hi, Conn,” said Hardeman. “I told your secretary she could go ahead and take off, that I’d wait here until you came back. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, I … that’s all right. I mean, I sure didn’t expect to see you here.”

Hardeman chuckled. “No, I suppose you didn’t. When you left my place in Great Neck Tuesday I didn’t expect to be here myself. Then I got to thinking about this book project and about your Billy Lockett. The more I thought, the more the idea took hold of me. I think there’s something important to be said here.”

“Well, sure, Dean, only …”

“So I figured as long as my name is going to be on the book, why not write it myself?”

Driscoll tried to pump some enthusiasm into his voice. “That’s great, Dean. I mean, that’s really an exciting idea. Trouble is, though, I’m not sure the publisher will go for any changes in the contract now.”

“No problem,” Hardeman said. “I’ll do the book for the price we agreed on. Hell, it’s not the money so much as getting back into harness. I’ve been sitting on my ass long enough telling myself that tomorrow I’d get going on the Big Book. This job will prime the pump, get the juices flowing. And I’ve got a hunch it might not be a half-bad book.”

“You know we’re strapped for time?”

“Don’t worry about that. Before my first novel hit big I did some magazine work. Deadlines were sacred and inflexible. I never missed one.”

“Okay, then, welcome aboard, Dean.” The slight hesitation in Driscoll’s welcome went unnoticed by the author. “That carton over by the wall is filled with pictures of Billy. There are no copyrights involved, so you can use any of them you want. The more pictures, the better. I got as far as doing an outline of the format I thought would fit the book. Do you want to see that?”

“No offense, Conn, but I’d just as soon not look at what you’ve done. If I’m going to write this book, I want to do it my way.”

“Sure,” Driscoll said gloomily.

“Yesterday I went to the New York library and did a little research. I came up with a list of names of people I’ll want to talk to — people around Billy. Also, I want to get a feel for the rock music scene out here. The truth is I’m a jazz fan, and aside from the Beatles and John Denver, I’m totally ignorant about Billy Lockett’s kind of music.”

Oh swell, Driscoll thought. John Denver. He said, “Just tell me who you want to see, Dean, and I’ll put you in touch.” A glance at his watch. “I wish I could show you around myself tonight, but I’ve got this appointment I can’t get out of.”

“Look, you don’t have to hold me by the hand,” said Hardeman. “Just point me in the right direction and I’ll take it from there. Now, how about Al Fessler, the kid’s manager? Any chance I could get with him tonight?”

“I’ll give him a call right now,” Driscoll said, thinking that Al was not going to be overjoyed to hear that Hardeman had arrived to take over the writing of their book. Driscoll had his own misgivings about that. Still, he found it exciting to be working with the hero of his high school days.

“Hey, Al,” he said when Fessler came on the line, “great news! Dean Hardeman is here, and he’s going to do the book himself.”

“What’s so great?” Al said at his end. “For the job we want you could do it faster. And probably better.”

“He’s standing right here with me now,” Driscoll said into the phone, holding a forced smile. “He’d like to talk to you about Billy and maybe get a look into the local pop music scene. How are chances of the two of you getting together tonight?”

“Shit, can’t you do it?”

“I’d really like to go with you, but I’m stuck with the Channel Six news director.”

Al’s answer was petulant. “Okay, I’ll see him if I can’t get out of it. Tell him to meet me at Emerald City at eight. We can have dinner there and go on up to Waldo’s after.

The tone of Al Fessler’s voice offended Driscoll. The author of three bestselling novels should not be sloughed off like some small-time hack they were stuck with. When he answered, however, Driscoll took care to keep the resentment from showing.

“That’s great, Al. It sounds like just the kind of thing Dean’s looking for. I’ll tell him about it and he can meet you at eight o’clock.”

Driscoll hung up and filled Hardeman in on the plans for the evening, naturally omitting Al’s comments.

Hardeman grinned like a boy. “What are these places we’re going to — Emerald City and Waldo’s?”

“They’re both hangouts for people in the pop music business,” Driscoll said. “Emerald City gets the more conservative crowd — the old-guard record company executives and agents and managers with a lot of years in the business. That’s where important deals are made. Waldo’s is where the action is. It’s a private club where the young lions in the industry and a lot of the performers go to look at each other and be looked at. Everybody’s loose at Waldo’s. It’s a show in itself. If I can get away early tonight I’ll drop by and join you.”

“Good, I hope you can.”

“And listen, Dean, anything you need, anything at all, say the word and you got it.”

The husky author looked down at his hands, then off through the window. “There is one thing you could do for me. It’s a personal favor and hasn’t anything to do with the book.”

“Name it,” Driscoll said.

“It has to do with my wife. My ex-wife, that is. Her name is Joyce. She has an apartment in Westwood. That’s not far from here, is it?”

“A few miles toward the ocean.”

“The thing is this — I’d like to see her, but I’m not sure she’ll want to see me. We had some pretty fierce brawls the last few times we were together.”

Driscoll kept his face expressionless, waiting for the author to go on.

“What I thought was, if you dropped around to her place and sort of mentioned that I was in town, you could, well, check out her mood.”

Driscoll tried not to show his surprise. “Have you tried to call her?”

“I’m no good on the telephone. I need eye contact to talk intelligently to people. And to tell you the truth, I’m afraid Joyce might hang up on me. That’s hard on the ego. If she tells you to go to hell when you mention me, I’m at least once removed from the rejection.” Hardeman finished with a little laugh that did not ring true.

Driscoll was moved and a little embarassed by the author’s painful sincerity. He said, “I’ll be glad to go see the lady for you, Dean. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to get to it.”

“No hurry,” Hardeman said quickly. “Whenever you get the time. I’ll be around town for a while.” He scribbled a Westwood address on a card and handed it to Driscoll. “Joyce has a job of some kind out at UCLA, but you can usually catch her home in the late afternoon or evening.”

Driscoll took the card and slipped it into his wallet. “I’d really better get going now. Where are you staying? Can I give you a lift?”

“I’m at the Beverly Sunset, but don’t bother, I can hail a cab.”

Driscoll smiled. “Spoken like a true New Yorker. Dean, you don’t just hail a cab in Los Angeles. You could stand on the street all day and never see one.”

“How do you people get around?”

“We drive. Or you can call up and have a cab sent out.”

“Let’s do that. I’m not in a big hurry, and I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

Driscoll called Yellow Cab, and the dispatcher said they would have one right out. Hardeman went out to Sunset Boulevard to wait for it, and Driscoll had a moment to himself. He went quickly through the messages left for him by the secretary and found nothing urgent. He started for the door, then turned back suddenly and picked up the telephone again. He dialed the number of the Herald and asked for Vernon Karp. After a series of clicks and buzzes the Book Editor came on the line.

“Vernon? Conn Driscoll here. The other day I told you that if Dean Hardeman came to town I’d give you first crack at him. Well, he’s unexpectedly here, and he’ll be at Emerald City tonight about eight o’clock. You might get an informal interview.”

“Nobody else has t-talked to him?”

“Nobody from the press.”

“Thanks, Mr. Driscoll — Conn — thanks a lot.”

“Don’t mention it. One thing, I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell Hardeman I steered you onto him. You know how touchy authors are. He might think I was using him to get publicity or something.”

“I understand,” Vernon Karp said. “I’ll k-keep your name out of it.”

Driscoll hung up and walked briskly out to the Firebird. What a bunch of shit, he thought. Why would authors care if they were being used? Everybody got used. Everybody used somebody else. That’s the way the world ran.

He halted in midstep, as though listening to a playback of his thoughts. God, he was beginning to sound sour. When this hustle was over he would take a long vacation. Some place where he could bathe in the sea and let the sun bake the cynicism out of his bones. No doubt about it, he could use a little spiritual refreshment.

But not tonight. Tonight he was still hustling. Conn Driscoll got into his car and headed home.

CHAPTER 9

The taxi pulled to a stop in front of Crossroads of the World and Dean Hardeman got in. It had been twenty-four years since his last trip to Hollywood. That time, the studio that had bought his first book had put a car and driver at his disposal. Hardeman was twenty-five years old then, and he owned the world. Everything was roses, and it would never end. Oh, no?

On an impulse he leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “Cruise up Hollywood Boulevard once before we go to the hotel, will you?”

The driver, a young bony-faced man with a drooping moustache, eyed him in the rearview mirror. “It’s a little early for that kind of action, pal.”

“I’m not looking for that kind of action, pal.”

The driver’s back stiffened. “Okay, no offense.”

Hardeman relented a little. “I’m curious to see how the street has changed in twenty-four years.”

“Changed quite a bit, they tell me,” the driver said. “I wouldn’t know, I only come here two years ago from Detroit.”

Hardeman did not bother to answer. He wanted to gather his impressions of the Boulevard without being distracted by a conversation.

They drove west to La Brea, then turned right, up to where the Boulevard began. Actually, the street continued west for another mile to where it ran into Laurel Canyon, but when anybody talked about Hollywood Boulevard, they meant the three-mile stretch between La Brea and Vermont.

It was along these sidewalks that tourists of a bygone era might actually bump into a movie star — Joe E. Brown, Alice Faye, Don Ameche. When Hardeman made his last visit, few stars were to be seen strolling the Boulevard. Still, there was always the faint possibility you might catch a glimpse of Tab Hunter, Betty Hutton, or Dana Andrews. Today, Hardeman figured, you stood as much chance on this raunchy street of running into a dinosaur as an honest-to-God movie star. Besides, many of the big names of the Seventies didn’t even look like movie stars. It would take a sharp-eyed tourist to pick Dustin Hoffman, Ellen Burstyn, or Richard Dreyfuss out of the motley crowd of pedestrians.

Checking out what the average Hollywood stroller was wearing, Hardeman felt severely overdressed. Hardly a necktie was to be seen on passing throats. Even collars seemed to be disappearing, with sweatshirts and T-shirts taking over.

Another thing Hardeman felt was old. He reckoned the average age along Hollywood Boulevard to be about twenty-three. Where had all the old folks gone?

Straight, limp hair seemed still to be the fashion among the girls. On the young men the “perm,” a Harpo-like head of bouncing curls, was making inroads on the Wild Bill Hickock look.

There were many more black faces along the Boulevard than Hardeman remembered. In their crushed velvets and platform shoes, they were generally much better dressed than the young white people. The poverty-funk look never caught on with people who knew what poverty was.

The cab rolled past Selma Avenue where young men with hot eyes lounged against the buildings, advertising themselves in open shirts and skin-tight pants. There was one thing that hadn’t changed, Hardeman thought, it just moved a few blocks south. Twenty years ago it was the Franklin-Cherokee area. They called it Homo Hill.

The big movie palaces were still there — the Egyptian, the Paramount, the Chinese, though it was no longer Grauman’s Chinese. Now there were other, smaller theaters squeezed in between the Orange Julius stands and the head shops. They had names like Cave and X-2. They were showing Carnal Heaven, Sexteen, The Loves of Venus.

At Vermont Avenue the driver looped back to Sunset and headed west again. Hardeman leaned back in the seat and thought about how Hollywood had changed and how he had changed. He had come out here last time with the Easterner’s built-in contempt for what they liked to call “tinsel town.” The more he scorned the local scene, the more the locals loved it. He was catered to and fawned upon by what passed for the literary crowd out here. West Coast writers back then had been brainwashed by eastern critics into believing themselves vastly inferior to the Capital-A Authors of New York and environs. Most abject of all were the screenwriters. Despite their six-figure salaries and beautiful suntans, they fell over each other paying homage to a writer of Serious Books.

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 exploded. 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 only. 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.”

“But listen, Rick, what you could do with Dean Hardeman, you could sort of gloss over your troubles with Billy and just give him a couple of nice, noncontroversial anecdotes to use in the book. It’s a publicity gimmick, after all, not an exposé.”

“Why should I?” Girodian said. “I don’t owe you any favors.”

“I know that, Rick,” Driscoll said carefully, “but maybe I can do a favor for you.”

A hesitation as the fish sniffed at the bait.

“Like what?”

“Like a featured spot in the Forum concert.”

“You can do that?”

“I’m booking the talent.”

“You want me to talk to this writer, you say?”

“That’s it. And maybe come around to the funeral on Saturday.”

“Billy’s funeral?”

“There’ll be TV coverage with on-camera interviews.”

“Hell, I wouldn’t miss Billy’s funeral.”

Driscoll did not feel easy about the way Rick Girodian sounded. He was not sure the young musician could be handled, but he knew Hardeman would insist on talking to him sooner or later. Might as well get it over with now so there would be time to undo any damage.

“If you can make it, Rick, Dean Hardeman and I will be at Waldo’s later tonight.” No need to mention that Al Fessler would be there too. “That will be a good opportunity for you and Dean to talk.”

“I don’t know. I promised to take my sister to a flick out in Westwood.”

“There’ll be time for you to come over to Waldo’s after the movie. And bring your sister. She’s old enough, isn’t she?”

“She’s old enough, but she doesn’t really dig that scene.”

“You won’t have to stay long.”

Another short hesitation. “Okay, we’ll be there.”

So much for that. Driscoll had no idea how Al Fessler would react to the idea of giving Rick a spot in the concert, but the bait had served its purpose. You had to handle a job like this one piece at a time and hope the whole thing would come together eventually.

Idly Driscoll turned some more pages in the notebook. Then he stopped and went back to the sheet where he had written the name of Joyce Hardeman. He was not eager to contact the author’s ex-wife and maybe stir up old animosities, but he had agreed to keep Hardeman happy. He dialed Information, listened to a recorded reminder of how much these calls cost, and finally was told that there was no listing for Joyce Hardeman. It was annoying, but since he had the free time, Driscoll decided he might as well go in person to the Westwood address Hardeman had given him and get the business over with.

In half an hour Driscoll was rolling north through the light evening traffic on the San Diego Freeway. He turned off at Wilshire and drove into Westwood. The apartment where Joyce Hardeman lived was one of the new ones with underground parking and 24-hour security guards. Signs of the times.

Under the watchful eye of the guard, Driscoll used the house phone to call from the foyer.

“Yes?” The woman’s voice was low-pitched and a little husky.

“Mrs. Hardeman, my name is Conn Driscoll. Your husband — your ex-husband, that is — asked me to stop by and talk to you.”

“Dean? Is he in trouble?” Not terribly concerned.

“No trouble. He’s in town to work on a book,” Driscoll paused to glance at the guard, “and he asked me to give you a message.”

“All right. Come up, please.” No clue in the smoky voice as to the woman’s feelings. “Let me speak to the security guard.”

The guard listened at the phone for a moment, then nodded to Driscoll that he was free to pass.

On the ride up in the elevator Driscoll conjured a mental picture of what the author’s ex-wife would look like. A pinched face, glasses, lumpy figure, graying hair pulled back into a bun. Or maybe a blowsy, over-the-hill blond in ruffles and too-tight satin overdosed with strong perfume.

He found her apartment on the seventh floor and rang the bell. When the woman opened the door both his mental pictures dissolved like smoke. Her hair was auburn and thick, with the rich, true color that does not come out of a bottle. She was tall, with wide shoulders, high breasts, a long supple waist, and lean, smooth legs in suede pants.

“Mr. Driscoll?” she said in that husky voice, and abruptly he realized he had been staring.

“Excuse me, but you don’t look the way I thought you would.”

“Should I apologize?”

“No way. In person you are a definite improvement over my imagination.”

“Not knowing what you had imagined, I will go ahead and take that as a compliment. Please come in.”

The apartment was decorated in crisp straight lines, with just enough curves to soften the effect and make it pleasingly female.

“May I fix you a drink, Mr. Driscoll?”

“Thanks. A little Scotch, if you have it.”

She moved behind the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room, and poured Teacher’s into a gold-rimmed goblet.

“Mix?”

“Ice and a splash of water.”

She brought the drink out and handed it to him. Her hazel eyes were remarkably clear, and looked at him with a directness that was unsettling.

“You’re not having one?” he said.

“I can’t drink. I’m an alcoholic.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding. But you go right ahead. The sight of other people drinking doesn’t affect me one way or the other any more.”

Driscoll took a sip of his Scotch and followed Joyce Hardeman into the living room. He sat on a sofa with nubby forest-green upholstery. She took a chair facing him across a blond-wood coffee table.

“Now then, what was it my ex-husband wanted you to say to me?”

Driscoll touched the glass to his lips, then set it down. “For some reason, Mrs. Hardeman, I’m feeling awkward as the devil, and that’s not my style.”

“I didn’t think it was,” she said. It might help if we drop the Mr. and Mrs. routine. How old are you, Conn?”

“Thirty.”

“Okay, that makes me eight years older than you. Think you can be comfortable using my first name?”

“Let me try. Hello, Joyce. What’s new, Joyce? That’s a good looking sweater, Joyce. Yes, I think I can handle it.”

“Good. Does it upset you that I’m an alcoholic?”

“I don’t think upset is the word. Surprised is more like it. None of the alcoholics I know personally would be willing to admit it. How long have you been off the sauce?”

“Four years now, since a year after I left Dean.” Joyce changed her tone subtly, letting him know she did not wish to pursue the topic. “How well do you know my ex-husband?”

“Hardly at all. I know him through his books and news stories about him, but we’ve only met twice. Both times were in the last couple of days.”

“And you say he is in Los Angeles now?”

“That’s right. He’s doing a book assignment on a project I’m connected with.”

“What do you do, Conn?”

“Publicity.”

“I see. And Dean is actually writing?”

“Yes, he is. At least, he’s about to start.”

“That’s not quite the same thing, is it? Still, I’m glad to hear he’s making motions toward going back to work. Now, the message?”

“Essentially, he wanted me to find out if you’ll talk to him.”

“Not a chance.”

Driscoll waited for Joyce to elaborate, but she said nothing more.

“You mean … not a chance?”

“That’s it. Conn, it wasn’t fair of him to put you in the middle this way, but Dean never did worry about playing fair. The facts are these — he still wants me, I don’t want him. I always get upset when I see him in person, and say cruel things that I don’t really mean. My love for the man is dead, but I don’t want to hurt him. That’s the last thing he needs.”

“You were married a long time, weren’t you?”

“Almost eleven years. Would you like to hear a quick synopsis?”

“Yes, I would.”

“It started out as a case of pure and simple author-worship. I was fresh out of Bryn Mawr, playing at being an assistant editor for Scribner’s when I met Dean Hardeman at a party. Even at that time he hadn’t written anything for years, but all three of his books were out in paperback and still selling. I’d read them in college and thought they were the most beautifully honest looks at men and women and their interactions that I had ever read. Incidentally, I still think so.

“Dean and I were married a month after we met. For the first few years I followed wherever he led in a rosy glow. Then gradually I began to realize that this man whose writing I had so admired, who was still introduced as one of America’s foremost writers, was not actually writing a word. He spent his time talking about writing and playing the part of a writer. And drinking. Since I wanted to be with him, I was drinking too. A lot. We spent the last years of our marriage playing Scott and Zelda. And the fights we had — real barroom knockdown battles that I can hardly believe now. If I hadn’t gotten out when I did, I would have wound up in an institution, like the real Zelda.”

“It was that bad?”

“Yes, that bad.”

“There were a lot of pressures on Dean, I guess, after the early success,” Driscoll said.

“Yes, there were pressures. Everything had come so easy for Dean — three books and three straight winners. When his fourth manuscript was sent back to him for massive revisions he was shocked. He had begun to believe that his name alone would sell anything he put on paper, and he simply got careless with his writing. That returned manuscript was his first failure, and he wasn’t emotionally equipped to handle it. By the time I met Dean he already had the early signs of decay, but I was too dazzled by his reputation to recognize them.”

“Aren’t you being awfully hard on him?”

“Maybe I am, but that’s the way I feel. You didn’t want a snow job from me, did you, Conn?”

Joyce Hardeman crossed her long legs, and the whisper of suede drew Driscoll’s attention.

He said, “I’m sure Dean is still in love with you.”

“He’s in love with me the way he’s in love with the image of his old self. He thinks that if he could get me back he might get his talent back too.”

“Are you so sure he’s lost his talent?” Driscoll was surprised by the sharpness in his own voice.

Joyce smiled at him. “You’ve got a tiny case of author-worship yourself, haven’t you. I’ll bet you’ve got a half-finished novel tucked away somewhere just waiting until you get the time to finish it.”

Driscoll started a quick retort, but pulled it back. “Not now, but I did have. Then one day I read the whole thing over and threw it out. Every chapter read like a parody of whatever author I was reading at the time. It was embarassing to read pseudo-Kerouac followed by pseudo-Goldman. No, I’ll never be a writer, but I do appreciate how really tough it is. And yes, I do admire Dean Hardeman. To me his books crackled with power and vitality. He’s not an old man, and I don’t want to believe he won’t write like that again. I won’t believe it. If that makes me a fan … then I’m a fan.”

Surprisingly, Joyce Hardeman reached across the low table and touched his knee. She said, “I like you, Conn Driscoll. You have a streak of honesty in you.”

Driscoll was startled by the sudden warmth of the spot on his leg where Joyce’s fingers had touched him. Making his tone light and bantering, he said, “I hope it doesn’t show too badly. A streak of honesty can put a publicity man right out of business.”

“I promise not to tell anyone.” Joyce Hardeman’s smile was slow and intimate.

“I’d better go,” he said, not moving.

“If you’re in a hurry.”

He forced himself to get up off the sofa and pull his eyes away from this disturbing woman. He said, “As a matter of fact, I’m meeting your ex-husband and my current boss at a discotheque on the Strip. I don’t suppose you’d want to come along?”

“No, but thanks for the invitation.”

On his way to the door Driscoll stopped and turned back into the room. “Joyce, won’t you reconsider? About seeing Dean? It might do him a lot of good if you talked to him. Maybe he’s changed.”

She appeared to think that over, her eyes never leaving Driscoll’s. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he has changed, at that. Let me think it over. Call me, okay?”

“I will. Goodnight.”

At the elevator Driscoll turned to see Joyce Hardeman still standing in her doorway, watching him. She acknowledged him with a fractional nod of her head. He saluted and stepped into the waiting elevator.

Not until he was in his car and a mile from Westwood did Driscoll remember that he had not asked Joyce for her unlisted telephone number. He would feel foolish going back for it now. No problem. It just meant he would have to see her again.

He snapped on the car radio and was greeted at once by a Billy Lockett record. It was, Conn Driscoll felt, a good omen.

CHAPTER 11

The action at Waldo’s started out in front on the sidewalk. Young men and women moved in ever-changing patterns. They wore velveteen and glitter, leather and suedes, tailored denims and tie-dyes. Puka shells, gold chains, medallions. Boots, klunkers, platforms. Makeup, mascara, false eyelashes. A constant high-pitched, spaced-out chatter and mindless laughter. Everybody happy as hell.

Dean Hardeman rolled down the Cadillac’s tinted side window and peered out as Al Fessler eased the car carefully along Sunset.

“Disneyland with Dexedrine,” he remarked.

“They call it free expression,” Fessler said sourly.

“Are we really going in there?”

“You want a look at the rockers, don’t you?”

Hardeman touched his necktie. “Won’t they think I’m a vice cop or something?”

“No way. On this beat vice cops dress like Sammy Davis, Jr. They may think you’re a little strange, but nobody will bug you.”

Hardeman studied the young, flushed faces. “God, I feel old. What happens to these kids when they turn thirty? Are they set adrift on an ice flow or something?”

“As far as I know, nobody on the Strip lives that long.”

Fessler parked the Cad in the lot of a liquor store, ignoring a Patrons Only sign. He and Hardeman walked back up the crowded boulevard to Waldo’s. As they drew near, the amplified drums inside thumped steadily louder like the heartbeat of the Strip.

The entrance to Waldo’s was an unmarked doorway that opened onto a flight of narrow carpeted stairs leading up one flight. Below the club was a coffee shop, brightly lit and active as an anthill.

Hardeman followed Fessler up the stairs, breasting the waves of sound like a surfer wading out against the tide. At the top, Al nodded to a bearded man at the door. The man waved them inside. As he stepped through a beaded curtain, Hardeman looked back and caught the doorman eyeing him curiously.

Inside, the sound was everywhere. It came at you from all directions without mercy. Fragments of light skittered in and out of psychedelic patterns on the walls, the ceiling, the young faces.

“It’s like the inside of a jukebox,” Hardeman said, putting his mouth close to Fessler’s ear so he could be heard.

Fessler nodded and pushed his way through the bodies to the bar. He ordered a glass of 7-Up. Hardeman asked for a bourbon and water, tall. There was no need, he thought, to carry temperance to extremes.

They found a table next to the wall where a hanging velvet drapery damped the noise somewhat. The tops of the round tables had 12-inch records encased in clear plastic. The record embedded in their table was Red Octopus by Jefferson Starship.

On a level several steps below the main room a quartet of young musicians in tight pants and bare chests provided the mind-numbing sound. On a dance floor the size of a double bed an uncountable number of bodies jerked and writhed roughly in rhythm with the music. Hardeman wondered how many were carried out nightly with fractures and contusions. Unconsciously, he pressed himself closer to the wall.

“Is it like this every night?” he asked Al Fessler.

“Sometimes it’s livelier.”

“Jesus.”

Now and then someone would detatch himself from one of the ever-changing groups and come by the table to greet Fessler.

“What’s happenin’, baby?”

“Same old jive. What’s happenin’?”

“Not much. Stay cool.”

“Hang in there.”

Fessler made no move to introduce the author. “Damned if I know who they are,” he said. “I only come in here often enough so people will know I’m still in business.”

Hardeman swiveled on his chair to look around at the people of Waldo’s. There was a superficial similarity, if you took away the din and the kaliedoscopic lights, to a New York cocktail party. There was the same incessant talk and shrill laughter and nobody listening to anybody else. The difference was in the intensity of the fun. Everyone in Waldo’s worked full-time at enjoying himself. No introspection allowed. And as always, there was the youth. Hardeman and Fessler were easily the oldest ones there.

“Who are they all?” Hardeman asked, waving an arm at the crowd.

“Some are entertainers,” Fessler said. “There’s also the boy wonders from the record companies, groupies, gofers, pill heads, and pushers. And a few respectable kids from the Valley trying to pass for freaks. What you’ve got in here tonight is mostly the glitter trippers. That’s because Lucy Moonstone is playing up the street. Rock fans take on the look of the groups they go to hear.”

“Is Lucy Moonstone somebody new? I don’t think I’ve heard of her.”

“Lucy’s been around a couple of years, which is a long time in this business. And it’s not a her, it’s four guys.”

“I’ve got a lot to learn,” Hardeman observed. “What other categories are there besides your ‘glitter trippers’?”

Al Fessler ran a hand back over his scalp, smoothing a pompadour long since gone. “Well, there’s groups they call heavy metal. That’s for the banks of amplifiers they use. Take up an entire wall, cost a fortune. Grand Funk and Led Zeppelin are heavy metal. They attract the real uglies — the hard dopers and the bike freaks. They throw things and start fires.

“Then you got the country-funk groups like Cat Stevens and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Their fans wear scruffy jeans and droopy moustaches, and couldn’t get within twenty miles of Nashville. There’s still a few folkies around — Joni Mitchell and Melanie. Their fans are usually clean, quiet, and wear flowers in their hair. The music appreciators go for Yes and Chicago. They’re a little older crowd who like to listen. Young marrieds will go to hear the Carpenters or the Fifth Dimension. They’re already into nostalgia. If you get a blockbuster like Bob Dylan or the Rolling Stones, everybody turns out.”

“Quite a spread.”

“And I didn’t even mention the bubble-gummers, the fourteen-and-under bunch that made David Cassidy a saint.”

“Where did Billy Lockett fit in?”

“I’d have to say Billy was a special case. I was building him an image as a pretty face — but straight — like Rod Stewart or Peter Frampton, but more gutsy like James Taylor or Springsteen. And it was working, too.” Fessler shook his head sadly. “We could have made it all the way. Balls!”

Hardeman sipped at the watery drink. It pleased him that he felt no urge to gulp it down. He leaned back in the chair and drew a deep breath. An air conditioner kept the room cool, but he could still detect traces of the sharp, dry smell of marijuana.

“There are only a couple of black faces in here,” Hardeman said. “How come?”

“Rock music is a white, middleclass scene. The blacks have their soul groups, and R and B.”

“R and B?”

“Rhythm and blues. More beat, more bite. Sexier than white rock. A few groups cross over — Stevie Wonder, the Bee Gees — but mostly pop music is a segregated world.”

“Hi, men, what’s the action?”

At the sound of the voice Hardeman and Fessler looked up to see Conn Driscoll standing at their table. He looked comfortable and at ease in a suede jacket and deep open collar. Hardeman reflected that Driscoll was the kind of man who could fit into any millieu. He wondered what you’d find under the PR glaze.

Fessler pulled another chair over to the tiny table and Driscoll sat down. Despite the crowd, there was no shortage of chairs. The people in Waldo’s kept on their feet and moving.

“Enjoying the show, Dean?” Driscoll asked.

“It’s an education.”

“I’ll bet.”

Driscoll waved over a waitress in mesh stockings and high-rise leotard. “How about a round?” he asked the two men.

“Not for me,” said Fessler. “A man can drink just so much soda pop.”

“I’m still working on this one,” Hardeman said.

Driscoll ordered a Scotch for himself and leaned across the table. “I talked to Rick Girodian today. He’ll be meeting us here. I figured you’d want to talk to him, Dean.”

“Yes, I do. Thanks.”

Al Fessler chewed his lip. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea for me to be here. Me and Rick aren’t exactly best friends.”

“Don’t hang around on my account,” Hardeman told him.

“You can get back to your hotel all right?”

“No sweat.”

“Then if nobody minds, I think I will take off. Madeline gets nervous if she’s left alone too long.”

Fessler left the table and made his way to the exit through the constantly shifting crowd like a swimmer through floating debris.

Hardeman turned to the young publicity man. “Do you think Al Fessler really likes this kind of music? Do you like it?”

Driscoll shrugged. “Who knows? Al likes anything that will turn him a buck. To me all music sounds the same. It’s a living.”

“I suppose so.” Hardeman pushed his glass around the plastic top of the table. He wanted to ask whether Driscoll had talked to Joyce and what she had to say. But he did not want to sound too eager. If Driscoll saw her, he’d get around to mentioning it.

“How about a refill, honey?” Driscoll called to the waitress, holding up his empty glass. Hardeman declined another. His own glass was still half full.

While Driscoll collected his fresh drink, Hardeman pulled a folded sheet of hotel stationery from his pocket and scribbled a few quick notes — a word or two of description, a snatch of dialog overheard. On the lower level the band took a break, providing a blessed period of relative quiet as the canned music was switched on.

“That’s your notes for the night?” Driscoll said when Hardeman folded the sheet and put it away.

“Memory joggers. When I get back to the hotel I’ll type them out to three or four pages.”

“I wrote a novel once,” Driscoll said. “Never sent it to a publisher.”

“I hope you’re not going to ask me to read it,” Hardeman said. “I never read anybody’s manuscript.”

“Don’t worry,” Driscoll said. “This one is long gone. I burned it a page at a time after reading it a year later and realizing it was a piece of crap.”

“You’ve got more sense than most ‘aspiring writers.’ God, how I hate that term. Aspiring, my ass. You write or you don’t. The curse of this profession is that it’s so much more fun being a writer than it is writing.”

Hardeman saw the younger man hanging on his words and relaxed into a grin. “I’m a hell of a guy to give lectures on writing.”

Driscoll took a thoughtful pull at his Scotch. “Can I ask you something, Dean?”

“Try me.”

“Why did you stop? Writing?”

That was twice he had been asked that tonight. One time too many. “It’s none of your business.”

The PR man nodded, and seemed to take no offense. Maybe there was something under the veneer.

“I saw your wife,” Driscoll said suddenly.

“Joyce?” Now that was stupid. What other wife would he be talking about?

“She wasn’t sure she was ready to talk to you. Said she’d think it over.”

“Better than nothing, I guess. Thanks for trying.”

“It might work out yet. She didn’t say no.”

Hardeman moved reflexively to finish his drink, then remembered the work he wanted to do tonight, and set the glass down.

He said, “Have you ever been so much in love with a woman it made your teeth ache?”

“Not my teeth.”

“I’m not talking about horny, I’m talking about in love. Where you could be sitting right in the middle of all the best things in the world and they don’t mean crap if the woman’s not there to share them.”

“No, I’ve never been in love like that.”

“You’re probably better off.”

“Is that the way you loved Joyce?”

“Yeah, that’s the way. In between the fights. Oh, we did fight in the last years. With our fists, but worse, with our mouths. A mouth is a terrible weapon. It can wound like a bullet and leave a scar like acid. But between the fights, my God, how we did love.”

Driscoll said nothing, peered down into his drink.

“I quit because I couldn’t stand the idea of losing,” Hardeman said.

The younger man looked up, puzzled. “What’s that? Quit what?”

“Writing, that’s what you asked, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I wrote a bad book, and they sent it back and told me it was bad. I’d never lost at anything before, and I couldn’t handle it. Hell, I didn’t need that book. I had three big ones going for me. I had people around all the time telling me I was the new Mailer or the new Hemingway or the new somebody else. People fell all over each other to hear me talk about writing. I didn’t have to write anything. I was more interesting than any book.

“Then after a while the people weren’t coming around so much. I found myself standing alone at cocktail parties. So I quit going to the parties. I holed up in the house in Great Neck and waited for them to come around and beg me to do the Big Book. Nobody came. I tried going to parties again, but it was all different now. I wasn’t pointed out as the new anybody. I was known as the drunk who starts fights. Finally Joyce moved out, and I’d lost everything.”

“Did the two of you try to get back together?” Driscoll asked.

“Oh, yeah. At least I did. Made an ass of myself while I was at it. Joyce came to California to get away from me. She even quit answering my letters.”

Driscoll looked away, embarassed, and Hardeman caught it. He changed the subject. “How well do you know Rick Girodian?”

“Not very. He’s three or four years older than Billy, kicked around quite a while in the business before Al Fessler teamed him with Billy and he had a few good paydays.”

Driscoll broke off and peered through the haze and flickering lights toward the entrance. “But Rick can tell you about it himself. He’s here now.”

CHAPTER 12

Dean Hardeman followed Driscoll’s gaze and saw a black-haired, fierce looking young man standing just inside the entrance of Waldo’s. At his side was a girl with the same shade of blue-black hair and a gentler version of the young man’s dark good looks.

Driscoll got up from the table and went over to meet the couple. He guided them back to the table and made the introductions.

“Dean Hardeman, this is Rick Girodian, and Rick’s sister …”

“Kitty,” the girl supplied.

Chairs were provided for Rick and his sister, but before anyone could speak, the musicians began a new set and conversation became a painful shouting match.

Girodian scowled around at the patrons of Waldo’s. “What a sewer.”

“You’re not a regular here?” Hardeman asked.

“Are you kidding?”

Kitty watched the ongoing action with wide, intelligent eyes. Hardeman could not tell if she approved or not.

“These really aren’t the best conditions for talking,” Hardeman said loudly.

Girodian nodded toward Driscoll. “It was his idea.”

Driscoll spread his palms in a sorry-about-that gesture.

“Is there someplace else we could go?” Hardeman asked.

“I don’t have a whole lot of time. My sister has to be up early to go to work.”

“No, you go ahead,” said Kitty Girodian. “This is my first time in a private club on the famous Sunset Strip. I’m enjoying it. Mr. Driscoll will keep me entertained. Won’t you Mr. Driscoll?”

“Be glad to,” Driscoll said without a lot of enthusiasm.

“You’re sure it’s all right?” Rick said.

Kitty laughed and touched his cheek. “Yes, big brother, it’s all right. You two go ahead and find a quiet place to talk. Don’t worry about me.”

Rick switched his gaze from Kitty to Driscoll. To Hardeman he said, “We could go downstairs to the coffee shop.”

“That’s fine with me,” said Hardeman. He left what remained of his drink and followed Rick Girodian out of the club and down the stairs to Sunset Boulevard.

The coffee shop on the street level was swarming with people who looked like the overflow from Waldo’s. The clash of silverware and heavy china provided a constant background. Still, it was a relief after the crush of sound and bodies upstairs. Hardeman and Rick Girodian found a small booth and ordered coffee.

“So you’re writing a book about Billy Lockett,” Rick said.

“That’s the plan.”

“I don’t know how much I can tell you about him. We only worked together two years, then we split up. Then Billy got famous and I got lost. Now Billy’s dead and I’m alive. What else do you want to know?”

“Tell me about you, Rick.”

“For instance?”

“Your family, for instance.”

The young man’s mouth turned down in a hard line. “My father was a pool hustler, my mother worked in a supermarket when her back wasn’t hurting her too much. I was in and out of juvenile court until I finally got the guts to leave home. The only one of the family worth anything was my sister Kitty.”

Rick paused and studied Hardeman for a reaction. The author’s face showed nothing, and Rick continued.

“This was back in New Jersey.” Rick’s tone softened and his expression became less challenging. “And it wasn’t always so bad. Sometimes, when he wasn’t down at the pool hall or in a card game somewhere, my old man would stay home and play the piano for us. He played like a dream, those pool-shooter’s fingers of his just flying over the keys. The family used to gather around him and sing. Real Norman Rockwell, right?

“I wanted to play the piano like the old man, but he never had time to teach me. So I bought a fifteen-dollar guitar and taught myself to strum chords. I’d carry it around with me, strumming and singing anywhere they’d let me. I couldn’t afford sheet music, so I started writing my own songs. I was making a few bucks then, playing in little clubs and coffee shops around Atlantic City. It was a time of change in music. The Beatles had just been discovered over here, and the new style was pushing out all the Presley imitators.

“I could see Atlantic City was a dead end for my kind of music, so I moved on to New York. There were a hundred little clubs around Greenwich Village then, and I must have played all of them. Everybody had a band then. The names changed everyday, and we jumped from one to another without thinking about it. It was a frantic time, but it was kicks. No money, but kicks.

“It couldn’t last. I was serious about my music, and wanted to go somewhere with it. I was also a better musician than the dudes I was playing with. They’d juice it up all day or turn on, then go out and try to play a gig. I didn’t hang around with any of them. I spent my days listening to records — The Beatles, Chuck Berry, Roy Orbison. I knew I had to get out of that Village scene if I wanted to make it, so one day I packed up my guitar and came to California.”

Rick Girodian broke off his narrative with a scowl, and Hardeman turned to see Conn Driscoll and Kitty enter the coffee shop.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Kitty said. “I just wanted to let you know Conn will take me home, so you don’t have to hurry.”

“He’s taking you home?” Rick repeated, frowning at Driscoll.

“For heaven’s sake, Rick, I’m twenty-four years old and a certified woman,” Kitty said.

“And I’m practically harmless,” Driscoll put in.

Rick did not smile. “Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow, Kitty.”

Driscoll and the girl went out. Rick followed them with his eyes.

“You say you came out to California,” Hardeman said to get Rick back on the subject. “When was that?”

Reluctantly Rick pulled his attention back to the booth. “Seven years ago. I tried San Francisco first. That’s where the real action was supposed to be. Shit, the action in Frisco was all flower children and dopers. Psychedelic horseshit. Unreal. I got out of there and came to L.A.”

“It was different here?”

“For one thing, it was warmer. Frisco has a wet, cold wind that will chill your insides. L.A. didn’t look much better at first, with all the plastic hippies from Encino cruising the Strip on Friday night. There was more variety in the music being played, though. I played gigs here and there with pickup bands, but I was still hungry.

“Then I signed with Al Fessler. Things got a little better. Al got me steady work for a couple of years — small clubs, but clean. Then he teamed me with Billy Lockett. We clicked right away, and the good money started to come in. Man, I’d been so long on the outside lookin’ in, I felt like Cinderella. Like they say, I was an overnight success after nine years.”

“How did you and Billy get along personally?” Hardeman asked.

“At first it was okay. We were both getting our first taste of being famous, and it was great. Of course, I worked a lot harder to get that far, but I didn’t begrudge Billy anything. We got along all right, but we didn’t pal around off the job. Different wave lengths.”

“What about musically?”

“Billy was never much more than a four-chord guitar player. He did have a nice clear voice, and something about him made people shut up and listen. I wrote all our songs, sang harmony, and covered him with my guitar. The combination worked, and we were on our way. Simon and Garfunkle had just split up, Lockett and Girodian were set to move in.” Rick stopped talking and let the breath hiss angrily out between his teeth.

“What happened?” Hardeman asked quietly.

“What’s the use of talking about it? Billy’s dead, so why bad-mouth him now?”

Hardeman said nothing.

“He didn’t want to share the stage any more,” Rick continued. “Billy was a performer. I was just a musician. He got to thinking the people out front were paying just to see him. Hell, maybe he was right, but they paid to see him do my songs. Anyway, he wanted to break up the team. Al Fessler tried to talk him out of it at first, but Billy wasn’t having any. He told Al to book him as a single, or he’d find a new manager. The argument didn’t last long.”

“So then you and Billy each went out on your own,” Hardeman said.

“Yeah. I could have stayed on with Fessler, but I could see he was more interested in pushing Billy, so I said to hell with him.” Rick took a drink of his cold coffee and banged the cup down in the heavy saucer. “After that Billy went straight up in the charts, and I went back to playing Downey. End of Cinderella story.”

“Are your feelings about Billy any different now?”

Rick’s dark eyes flashed. “No. Why should I be a hypocrite? Billy Lockett was a self-centered son of a bitch. He used me to get into the big money, then dumped me. It’s ironic that by dying he got me a shot at the Forum. It’s the only unselfish thing he ever did.”

CHAPTER 13

Conn Driscoll sat with Kitty at the table in Waldo’s, sipping at his drink and pretending to listen to the music. They had said little to each other since Rick Girodian and Dean Hardeman went downstairs to the coffee shop. Conversation was near impossible in the din from the amplified band. Driscoll did not really mind. He did not feel much like talking.

After a while the musicians took another break. Kitty leaned across the table and spoke to him. “You’re not really enjoying this, are you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Your mind is somewhere else. You’ve been smoking an unlit cigar for ten minutes.”

Driscoll took the cold cigar out of his mouth and examined it. “So I have. To tell you the truth, I’m not all that crazy about this group.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Kitty said, “because they’re giving me a headache.”

“Then what do you say we get out of here?” Driscoll suggested.

“I’m for it. Would you mind very much driving me home? I hate to break in on Rick while he’s talking to Dean Hardeman.”

“Sure, where do you live?”

“I have an apartment in Palms. Do you know where that is?”

“Down by Culver City. It’s right on my way.”

They left the noise, the people, the smoke and the dancing lights of Waldo’s and walked down the stairs to Sunset Boulevard. They savored the cool quiet of the evening for a moment before entering the coffee shop.

Inside they walked back along the counter and found Rick and Hardeman deep in conversation in a small booth at the rear. Kitty interrupted them just long enough to tell her brother that Driscoll was taking her home. Rick did not act pleased.

When they were back out on the street Driscoll said, “I don’t think your brother likes me a whole lot.”

“That’s just his way,” Kitty said. “Rick has always been protective of me. He thinks men are all after just one thing.”

“Yeah, well, he’s got a point.” Driscoll was only half-listening to the girl. A big part of his mind was back in the Westwood apartment with Joyce Hardeman.

They were silent for several minutes as Driscoll drove south on La Cienega past the big restaurants and through the machine shop area as they neared the Santa Monica freeway.

Finally Kitty spoke. “Are you connected with show business, Conn?”

“Not exactly.”

“I’m glad of that.”

“Why glad?”

“I don’t much like the people in the business that I’ve met through Rick.”

“Well, performers are a pretty insecure lot.”

“It’s not only that. There’s a shallow attitude toward everything, a falseness in the life. It’s all frosting with no cake.”

“You’re generalizing, you know.”

“I know, and no doubt some of your best friends are in show business, but the scene makes me uncomfortable.”

“Most girls think it’s exciting.”

“I’ll bet they do.”

Driscoll pulled onto the freeway for the short stretch before getting off again at Overland.

“What is your connection with all this?” Kitty asked.

“I’m a publicist. A PR man.”

“Do you work for Al Fessler?”

“Right now I do. I’m for hire, I work for anybody who will meet my price.”

“Do you like what you do?”

“Hell, yes, I like it. Why would I do it if I didn’t like it?”

“I know a lot of people who work at jobs they can’t stand.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not one of them. Publicity and public relations are legitimate and necessary fields. I happen to be good at it, and I enjoy it. There is nothing immoral or illegal about what I do.”

Kitty answered him softly. “Conn, I didn’t say there was anything wrong with what you do. I only asked whether you really like it.”

Driscoll gripped the wheel and drove on for a while in silence. Slowly his frown relaxed. He looked over at the girl and grinned. “Sorry. I guess I’m too ready to defend my profession. ‘The guilty flee where no man pursueth,’ right?”

Kitty smiled back at him. It was the first time Driscoll had noticed her smile, and he liked it.

“I was in advertising for three years after I got out of college,” he said. “I seldom admit it, but I enjoyed that too. The trouble was, I had too many bosses. So five years ago I used some of the contacts I made through the ad agency and went into business for myself. Now I work when I want to, and I give myself long vacations between assignments.”

“It sounds marvelous,” Kitty said.

“I may be over-selling a little now,” Driscoll admitted. “When I do work, it’s a 24-hour job, and sometimes it involves doing things I’m not proud of. I have to be enthusiastic selling the person or the idea or the cause whether I believe in it or not. It’s not a good line of work for an idealist.”

Though he kept his eyes on the road, Driscoll could sense Kitty studying him. She said, “Do you believe in what your selling now?”

“You mean Billy Lockett and the big memorial concert? I suppose so. I haven’t really thought about it. That can come after it’s over. My job now is to put it across.”

When she did not respond, Driscoll went on. “What about you, Kitty? Do you like what you do? And what is it you do, anyway?”

“I’m a secretary,” Kitty said. “I know that’s an unfashionable thing to be in these days of liberated women, but that’s what I am, and I like it just fine. My boss appreciates what I do for him, and he treats me accordingly.”

“How long have you lived in California?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth Driscoll recognized that he was slipping into the automatic question-and-answer game of the singles bars.

The girl caught it too. “Do you really care?”

He laughed shortly. “I’d like to know.”

“I came out here a year ago. That was when Rick broke up the partnership with Billy Lockett. Rick was always a moody, impulsive boy, and I got a letter from him that sounded so depressed it scared me. I was living in Philadelphia at the time, and I was afraid if no one were here with him, he might do something crazy.”

“So you dumped everything and came out here to look out for your brother?”

“It wasn’t as noble and self-sacrificing as that. Moving from Philadelphia to Los Angeles isn’t that tough to take. I had no roots back there, and I was in a deadend job. If it hadn’t been for Rick, I might have spent the rest of my life there out of sheer inertia.”

“I doubt that,” Driscoll said. “What were you like as a little girl? And yes, I really care.”

“I was very normal and dull,” Kitty said. “My parents were divorced when I was ten, but there’s nothing unusual about that. Rick took it a lot harder than I did. I was always able to cope better. Rick never did get along with Daddy, and our mother never understood him. Rick was terribly shy when he was a boy. I think taking up music and going out in front of crowds of people to entertain was a way of fighting his shyness. He still keeps to himself and doesn’t make friends. The breakup with Billy Lockett was a real blow to Rick, coming just when he was starting to get somewhere. Now he’s back professionally to where he was five years ago.”

Driscoll noted that Kitty had quickly switched the focus from herself to her brother Rick, but he made no comment.

As they drove into the section of Los Angeles called Palms, Kitty directed him down a street lined on both sides with apartment buildings. She lived in one called La Golondrina. Out in front was the usual tropical shrubbery illuminated by the usual colored lights. Driscoll pulled up at the driveway.

“I’d ask you in,” Kitty said, “but you might feel obligated to make a pass at me, even though you’re not really in the mood.”

“Do you read minds a lot?” he said.

“It’s an occupational hazard. I forget to tell you I work for a clinical psychologist.”

“That must be entertaining,” Driscoll said. He was a little irritated by the girl’s self-assured manner, and even more by the fact that she had read him correctly.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said, letting herself out of the car. “See you.”

“Sure, see you.” He watched until she was safely into the building, then pulled away.

Driving home alone, Driscoll oddly felt the absence of Kitty Girodian more strongly than he had felt her presence. The light floral scent of her perfume lingered in the car. Usually, when he was deeply involved in an assignment, Driscoll could channel his sex drive into energy for the job. However, the physical nearness of the dark-eyed girl tonight had stirred up his desire for a woman. The problem was that the woman he wanted was Joyce Hardeman.

Angry with himself, he snapped on the radio and punched the button tuned to KFAC, the “good music” station. The rhythms of one of Brahms’ Hungarian Dances filled the car. Driscoll turned up the stereo speakers and tried not to think about going home to an empty bed.

CHAPTER 14

Iris Ames stood in the center of her living room and turned slowly in a circle to check out her apartment. It looked pretty good, she decided. Housecleaning was definitely not one of her favorite things, but she had worked at it several hours today to make sure the place was presentable when Oscar Pincus came up for the first time.

As Iris had expected, Pincus called her early Monday after getting the message she left with his answering service. He had wasted no time getting to the point. Thursday he said was the soonest he could see her. Thursday was his wife’s backgammon night. That was perfectly all right with Iris. She didn’t care how seldom the little record executive came around, just so he helped out with the rent.

The Billy Lockett posters were all gone from the walls now, leaving only a framed 8-by-10 glossy that Iris kept on an end table. She had scented candles burning around the room and had dabbed her body in strategic spots with perfume after taking her bath.

Iris went into the bedroom for a last look at herself in the full-length mirror. The white hip-hugging jeans were taut and flat across her stomach, and the silky blouse clung to her body, leaving her breasts nicely prominent. She went back into the living room and put a Rod Stewart record on the player with the volume turned way down. Everything was as ready now as she could make it.

Oscar Pincus arrived right on time. He wore a too-tight pair of polyester slacks and a choking turtleneck that made his round pink face look bloated.

Iris let him in. She was happy to see that he was carrying a flat box of the type expensive clothes came in. Iris loved presents. If Pincus had the taste of most men, she figured he would buy something she could not possibly wear. No problem, though; you could always exchange clothes.

“Sorry to hear about Billy,” Pincus said, as though in a hurry to get the formalities out of the way. “He wasn’t a bad kid compared to some of them.”

“Yes, too bad.” Iris hoped they wouldn’t have to do a whole number about poor Billy. That was over. Billy was dead and she was alive and that was the way of the world.

“I’m just glad I unloaded his contract to that hoodlum Al Fessler when I did,” Pincus went on. “Made a bundle for Gamma on the deal. And now Fessler has a dead singer to worry about, not me.”

“That was very smart of you.”

“Mostly luck,” Pincus admitted. “Look, I haven’t got a lot of time. I want to be home before my wife gets back from her backgammon.”

“I’m ready any time you are, honey,” Iris said. “Let’s get it on.”

Pincus set the box on the coffee table and began to undo the cord that bound it. About time, Iris thought.

When he removed the cover and pulled away the tissue paper, Iris was disappointed to see that it was not a gift after all. At least, not the kind she had in mind. Instead of the furry or frilly piece of woman’s clothing she expected, the box contained several neatly folded articles, all black. Iris lifted them out and examined them one by one.

There was a brassiere in thin, leather-like vinyl, constructed so it would push her breasts together and up, creating a deep cleavage. Next, a garter belt of the same simulated leather material, with black elastic garters attached. There was a pair of long stockings in black net. At the bottom of the box was a pair of black patent leather pumps with four-inch spike heels.

Pincus did not look at her directly. “Will you wear it?” he asked.

Iris smiled at him and shrugged. “Why not?” She recognized what the outfit was, of course. Pincus was a punishment freak, one of the men who liked to be dominated by a woman. It was a fairly common perversion these days, and there were surely a lot kinkier scenes than that going down among the Hollywood crowd. Iris had tried most of them herself and heard about plenty of others. She would go along with anything that didn’t involve knives or lighted cigarettes. A girl had to draw the line somewhere.

“Where’s the whip?” she asked.

Oscar Pincus began to perspire. He pointed to the layer of tissue paper that remained in the box. Iris lifted the paper and found a narrow bamboo rod twenty-four inches long, split halfway down its length. She gripped the unsplit end and slapped the rod into her palm. It made a solid whacking noise and left the skin across her hand tingling.

The little fat man licked his lips, unable to keep his eyes off the rod.

“Do you want me to change into these things out here?” Iris asked.

“No, go into the other room and get dressed. Call when you’re ready for me.”

Iris picked up the box with the costume and carried it into the bedroom. The room was dominated by a king-size bed covered with a spread of fake leopard skin. Billy had wanted to buy her a waterbed, but Iris had a fear of one springing a leak.

She wriggled out of the jeans and took off the silky blouse, draping them over a chair in the corner of the room. She tried on the black bra first. It was a tight squeeze, stuffing her big round breasts into the little restraining cups. They overflowed at the top and squashed against each other. Iris took a practice deep breath, and the bra did not burst. Next she pulled on the garter belt. It stretched tight and sleek across her belly. No G-string was included with the costume, so the triangle of pale hair was left open and accessible.

The garters were only for effect, as the elasticized net stockings stayed up quite easily by themselves. Iris fastened them anyway, knowing little details like that could be important.

Last she put on the spike-heeled shoes. It was not easy at first standing up in them and keeping her balance, but she soon got the hang of it. She walked carefully across to the mirror on the back of the door and looked herself over. Pretty damn sexy, she decided. The bra and garter belt were a couple of sizes too small, but that only made it tighter and shinier below and pushed out more boob at the top. Iris shook the tawny blonde hair down loose around her shoulders. She stuck out her lower lip in an arrogant pout. I could almost go for you myself, she told her reflection silently.

Iris walked back to the bed and picked up the bamboo rod. She put the box down on the floor out of the way. “All right, honey,” she called through the door. “I’m ready for you.”

The door opened slowly and Oscar Pincus came into the bedroom. He was completely naked. The round little head on the fat pink body, supported by the chubby legs made him look like a cartoon character drawn with circles. His pathetic little penis, dangling from the scrubby patch of pubic hair, looked like the severed finger of a rubber glove.

Iris was very careful not to smile. She knew that would ruin everything.

Pincus moved toward her tentatively, holding one hand a little in front of his body. Iris understood what he wanted. She grasped him firmly by the wrist and pulled him toward the bed. He made a soft whimper of protest, but let himself be pulled easily along.

Iris propelled him forward until he fell stomach-down across the bed, his fat white buttocks exposed and quivering. The pale flesh bore faint white scars of previous canings. Iris wondered if he ever had his wife do it to him. Probably not. People like him, when they were married, usually had super-straight wives.

“Please … please …” the fat little man cried in a piteous voice.

Iris raised the bamboo rod and brought it down with a sharp smack across the pale buttocks. Pincus gasped. A thin pink line appeared on the flesh where the split bamboo had struck.

“Do it harder,” he said. “Call me names.”

Again Iris hit him, putting more of her strength into the blow.

Whack!

“Prick,” she said.

Pincus moaned in pleasure-pain.

Whack!

“Asshole.”

Pincus writhed on the leopard spread, but made no move to avoid the blows.

Whack!

“Cocksucker.”

The little man’s backside glowed red with the mark of the rod. He rolled his head to look up at Iris with feverish eyes. “Yes, that’s right,” he gasped. “Make me do it now. You know.”

Iris grasped him by the wrist again and pulled him easily up from the bed. Pincus fell immediately to his knees in front of her. She spread her legs wide apart and planted her feet. Pincus was breathing in fast little puffs, staring straight ahead at the patch of skin and golden hair below the taut black garter belt.

With her hands on the back of Pincus’s head, Iris pulled him firmly toward her. He offered only a makebelieve resistance.

With a little snuffling sound, he buried his round little face in the cleft between her legs. Iris felt the pulsing tongue dab at her, then slip inside. The sensation for Iris was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It was just there.

She kept her hands on the back of his head, pressing his face into her. From that position she could see how large the bald spot was that he tried to conceal with carefully combed hair.

Oscar Pincus grew steadily more excited as he licked and nibbled at the girl. At last he pulled his head back and looked up into her face.

“Now,” he said.

Iris moved to the bed and lay down on her back, spreading herself to receive him.

Pincus rose unsteadily to his feet. The flesh of his body was moist and mottled red. His little penis, thin as a pencil, was stiff and erect. When he fell on top of her, he felt like a hot, overstuffed sausage.

Half a dozen sweaty little jabs and it was all over. He lay on her for several more minutes until his breathing returned to normal. Then he got up and walked back into the living room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Iris took off the S-M outfit and got back into her jeans and shirt. She waited until she was sure Oscar Pincus had time to get dressed, then went out to the living room to join him.

Pincus was standing at the window, looking down at the lights of the Sunset Strip. He was fully clothed, smoking a long brown cigarette. He did not turn around when Iris came into the room.

“Nice view,” he said.

“I like it,” Iris answered.

“Who pays the rent?”

“I do,” she lied.

“From now on it will be taken care of.”

“Okay.”

He turned from the window to face her. His color was back to normal, his expression bland. “There’s something for you on the coffee table.”

Iris looked down and saw a plush jeweler’s box that hadn’t been there before. She opened the hinged lid and drew out a fine gold chain on which was mounted a single small diamond. At intervals along the chain were gold-filled studs where more diamonds could be added.

“Honey, it’s fantastic,” Iris said.

“We’ll add to it from time to time,” said Pincus.

“When will I see you again?”

“Probably not before next Thursday. I’ll let you know if I can get away before then. I’d like you to be dressed when I get here from now on.”

“I will be.”

“Good.” With no move to kiss her or even touch her hand, Oscar Pincus nodded goodbye and went out the door.

Iris looked down again at the gold neck chain with the diamond. She was no expert, but it had to be worth two or three hundred dollars. Tomorrow she would take it to a jeweler and have it appraised.

She dropped the chain back into the plush box and walked over to the window. Down on the street Oscar Pincus’ blue Mercedes was pulling away. She supposed that she ought to feel some sense of accomplishment. After all, she had got what she wanted. She could probably hang onto Pincus as long as she was willing to whack him on the ass with the bamboo rod. There would be more diamonds added to the golden chain, and Pincus would probably come up with cash too. Still, she felt restless. Disappointed.

It was not the kinky sex that turned her off. She had done much wilder things with the rock stars during her groupie days. Especially with the English boys. They were unusually inventive. No, the reason for her dissatisfaction was that Oscar Pincus, for all his diamonds and his Mercedes and his position at Gamma Records, was a nobody. His name probably meant nothing once he was off his own floor in his own office building. Whom could Iris tell that she had balled Oscar Pincus? Who would give a damn if she did tell? If he was a good lover it wouldn’t matter so much, but that little thing of his was never going to get her off.

Oh well, the little man would do for now. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about the rent. And it was not like Pincus would make a lot of demands or tie up a lot of her time. There would be plenty of chances to scout around for somebody else. Maybe tonight she would take a walk down to the Strip; see what they had going at the Baked Potato. Maybe Trina and some of the kids would be there.

Humming to herself, Iris danced off to the bedroom to brush her hair.

CHAPTER 15

Friday morning in Los Angeles was cold, damp, and gray. A suitable day, thought Conn Driscoll, for visiting a cemetery. He drove in through the tall gates of Greenacre Memorial Park and followed the curving roadway through the pine trees to the tasteful white building that housed the business office, chapel, and casket display room.

The building had pillars at the entrance, giving it a dignified Grecian look. On a brighter day the scene would be idyllic, with the sheltering Hollywood Hills behind and the San Fernando Valley spread out before. Today, with the sun out of sight behind ragged gray clouds, it was dismal.

Driscoll parked his car and went into the office. He was met by the funeral director, a man named James Walraven whom Driscoll had dealt with over the telephone in setting up arrangements for Billy’s funeral. Walraven was a medium-sized man in his early fifties with just the right amount of gray in his hair and a face that was sober but not gloomy.

Walraven came around the desk to shake Driscoll’s hand. The director’s clothes had been carefully chosen. They were light enough to avoid the cliché of the somber black-clad undertaker, yet they maintained the dignity expected of his profession. Walraven’s handclasp was warm and dry.

“This shouldn’t take long,” Driscoll said. “I’d like to eyeball your setup, make sure everything will go smoothly tomorrow.”

“I think you’ll be satisfied with the arrangements,” said Walraven. His voice was resonant and reassuring but not sincere in the overdone manner that could be so off-putting in this business. The man was good at his job, Driscoll decided. He liked that.

“Where is the body?”

Walraven blinked but did not lose his composure. “We have your Mr. Lockett in a special cold room behind the chapel. Would you like to see him?”

“No,” Driscoll said quickly.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“Not for you, maybe. In my opinion the idiotic custom of walking past a coffin to look at a prettied-up corpse is barbaric. In this case it’s necessary for publicity purposes, but that doesn’t mean I have to look at it. No offense.”

Walraven gave him a small smile. “No offense. I understand.”

“When do you take Billy off the ice?”

“He’ll be placed in the casket and brought into the chapel half an hour before the services.”

“About these services,” Driscoll said, “I did make it plain, I hope, that there are to be no religious trappings of any kind?”

“Yes, I only used the term for lack of a better one. We will have removed any of the chapel furnishings that suggest religion. That will be no problem. We use interchangeable … props, I guess you’d call them, to suit the tastes of our clients.”

The two men walked through a curtained door from the office into the chapel.

“We’ll take down the cross,” Walraven continued, “and switch the paintings of saints for something secular. I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about the stained-glass window.”

Driscoll looked up at the colored panes of leaded glass over the entrance. It was a modern design that suggested a star and an open book. No angels, saints, holy family, or anything that might bug Billy’s irreverent fans. After the effort Driscoll had expended to establish a Christlike image of Billy Lockett, he wanted no competition from the original.

Driscoll lowered his gaze to the double-door entrance. “Will you be able to funnel people in and out through there for the casket viewing?”

“We’ll set up poles and guide ropes after the services.”

“Like at Disneyland.”

“If you insist.”

“Okay. Now, these services, as you keep calling them, are going to be brief. Just a few simple words. Most of the action will be out by the grave. This place can’t seat more than forty, so the bulk of our crowd will be outside. We don’t want them getting restless.”

“This crowd,” said Walraven uneasily, “how many, exactly, are you expecting?”

“I can’t give you a firm estimate,” Driscoll said, “but for our purposes, the more the merrier. In a manner of speaking.”

Walraven winced.

“I mean the whole idea of this funeral is to get a good turnout and make sure everybody knows who’s being buried here. I explained that to you.”

“Yes, I know,” said Walraven, “but I still had some difficulty convincing the board of directors that it is in our best interests to stage this kind of a funeral. Especially since we’re giving it to you at cost.”

“Mr. Walraven, remember that the publicity Greenacre will get out of burying Billy Lockett could not be bought for many times the cost of this funeral. Young people of Billy’s generation are becoming death-conscious. Death is In. These are your clients of the future, Mr. Walraven. After tomorrow, when they think of dying, they’ll think of Greenacre.”

The funeral director hitched his shoulders uncomfortably. “I doubt that the board of directors would care for your choice of a slogan.”

“That was just off the top,” Driscoll said. “Seriously, if you people are ever interested in a promotional campaign, give me a call. When I put my mind to it I can be as tasteful as anybody.”

“I’m sure you can, and I’ll mention it to the board. Right now my concern is that any publicity coming out of tomorrow’s funeral presents us in a positive light. No trouble, in other words.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve touched base with the L.A.P.D., and they’ll have a specially trained squad here to see that nobody gets out of line.”

“Police? Here?”

“Sure. I could have hired a motorcycle gang to keep order, but they get a little raucous.”

“Don’t you think that having police on the premises could be, well, unsettling?”

“No problem, these cops know how to keep a low profile. After all, we don’t want our mourners rousted just for the hell of it.”

“I suppose not,” said Walraven.

Driscoll led the way down the center aisle of the small chapel and stepped out onto the pillared portico. The funeral director stepped up beside him.

“Okay,” said Driscoll, “once we’ve hustled everybody through for a look at the remains we close up the box and carry it out this way. Where’s the grave from here?”

“The memorial crypt is on the slope over there across the road. It’s a very nice section of the park called Sheltering Faith.”

“Balls.”

“Little touches like that can be comforting to some people,” Walraven said.

“I suppose so. Let’s go take a look.”

The two men walked through the parking lot and across the roadway to a gently banked section of the cemetery. In the modern fashion, Greenacre did not use upright tombstones. The graves were marked with bronze plaques set flush with the ground. The thoughtfully placed trees and the white stone benches indeed gave the place a park-like atmosphere. Driscoll half-expected to come upon a set of swings or a softball diamond.

Here and there among the bronze plaques a decorous marble statue marked the resting place of some more prominent client. Usually it was an angel or some other devout figure, stony eyes turned optimistically upward. It would have been a nice touch, Driscoll thought, to have a statue of Billy and his guitar out here to mark the grave. Maybe wired for sound. Ah well, there was no time for such flourishes now.

They came to the raw hole in the earth that would tomorrow receive the mortal remains of Billy Lockett. A canopy covered the open grave. The mound of earth beside it was poorly disguised with a carpet of Astroturf. The color reminded Driscoll of the shredded green paper in Easter baskets.

Between the grave and the iron fence that marked the border of the cemetery was a broad, gentle slope of lawn. A good vantage point for the spectators, Driscoll thought approvingly.

“Is there electricity out here?” he asked, turning back to James Walraven.

The funeral director answered guardedly. “There are soft floodlights in the trees for night services. Why?”

“We’ll need outlets for the musicians.”

“What musicians?”

Driscoll laid a friendly hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Jim, Billy Lockett was a singer and a guitar player. We could hardly stage his funeral without music, could we?”

“Well, I guess it will be all right … but why electrical outlets?”

“We’re not dealing with Dixieland honkers, you know. These boys need someplace to plug in their instruments and their amplifiers.”

“Amplifiers?”

“Sure. An electric guitar sounds like nothing without an amplifier. Look, Jim, it will be all right. Everything in good taste.”

“I hope so. I really went out on a limb for you with the board.”

“And I really appreciate it,” Driscoll said. “Will there be somebody here to show the television crew where the action is going to be? They’ll want to take measurements and get set up early.”

“Television?”

“They can park the truck on the road there between the chapel and the grave. We won’t do any shooting inside, of course, but they’ll want to follow the procession as we carry the box up the hill. Then there’ll be the graveside interviews and commentary.”

James Walraven began to look ill.

Driscoll squeezed his arm. “Hey, don’t worry. This operation is going to put Greenacre on the map. Once Billy’s in the ground here, other celebrities will follow. They’ll be dying to get in.”

Walraven turned to look directly at him. “Mr. Driscoll, at the risk of sounding stuffy, I’d better tell you that I take my job here quite seriously. I’d appreciate it if you’d cut out the jokes. Especially that joke.”

“Sorry,” Driscoll said: “It’s a way of keeping my spirits up. Sort of whistling past the … oh-oh.”

The funeral director held his disapproving expression for a moment but finally could not suppress a smile. The two men left the open grave and walked back toward the office.

“I hope the weather is better tomorrow,” Driscoll remarked, peering up at the drab clouds. “Nobody likes a dreary funeral.”

Walraven pointedly ignored him, and they went inside to complete the necessary paper work. When it was done they shook hands and Driscoll turned to leave.

“One thing more, Mr. Driscoll,” said Walraven from his desk.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering, have you made any arrangements for yourself?”

“Arrangements?”

“A plot. For when your own time comes. ‘In the midst of life …’ and all that.”

Driscoll stared hard at the other man for a moment before he recognized the faint twinkle in Walraven’s eye.

“Not yet, Jim, not yet,” he said. “But you have my word Greenacre gets first crack at me.”

• • •

Driscoll was out in the parking lot and about to get into his car when the sun finally burned through the cloud cover. He looked around and saw the cemetery transformed by the pale sunlight. There really was a sense of peace and serenity about the place. It was in the rich green lawn, the dignified pine trees, the splashes of color where fresh flowers had been left on a grave. Driscoll dropped the car key into his pocket and walked back across the grass toward the hills.

James Walraven’s last remark had gotten to him. All of his glib chatter in the chapel and out here among the dead had been a screen to block out any real thoughts. Thinking of death was distasteful to Conn Driscoll. Hell, when you’re thirty years old and you have plenty of money and your health is good, there is no death. And yet … and yet, an instant of lapsed attention on the freeway, and he, Conn Driscoll, could be as dead as any of the boxed piles of bones lying here beneath his feet.

As he walked, Driscoll’s eyes were drawn to the bronze plaques set into the earth. Juanita Burrack, 1941-1971, Beloved Wife and Mother … Donald Mabrey, 1889-1970, Beloved Husband … Barry Endicott, 1953-1972, Beloved Son …

Reading the names of the people buried there seemed to give them an existence in Driscoll’s mind where before they had been merely bones, or less.

Did you know at thirty, Juanita Burrack, that death was so terribly near? Did it hurt, Donald Mabrey, to grow old? What was it, Barry Endicott, that killed you at nineteen?

Driscoll sat down on one of the stone benches. He listened to the songs of the birds, who seemed to have come out with the sun. On the roadway below him a shiny old Plymouth pulled to a stop. An old man in a neatly pressed suit got out of the car and walked carefully across the grass to one of the grave markers. He laid a small bunch of orange flowers on the plaque, stood silently for a moment looking down, then turned and went back to his car. Watching the old man made Driscoll feel uncomfortably like a trespasser.

I am not harming anyone, he told himself. I am only doing my job. I mean no disrespect to the dead in this place, nor to the living who mourn for them.

But what, after all, did he really know about death? Conn Driscoll’s life had been touched very little by death. The first time had been his grandfather. He was a gruff, humorous man who always smelled nicely of the farm where he spent his life. He had treated the little boy with a grownup dignity, talking to him exactly the way he talked to adults. This deep-voiced, gentle man in overalls had no connection with the pink-faced stranger Conn saw lying in a coffin, immaculate white hands clasped across white-shirted breast.

The second time it was a fifth-grade classmate, Fred Cleary, drowned swimming in the Willamette River. Fred had not been a particular friend, but for days the boy Conn had a hushed, creepy feeling, as though some stranger watched him from just out of sight.

The third time, and the closest yet, was the sudden loss of his mother four years ago. An open, loving woman, she had gone to the hospital for a minor operation and had never come out of the anaesthetic. Driscoll’s father, who had always seemed the strong one of the family, had been crippled with grief. He had never fully recovered and now seemed merely to be waiting out his time in the big empty house in Portland. Driscoll’s older brother and his wife had flown in briefly for the funeral, leaving all the arrangements to Conn, who simplified everything as far as possible. His mother’s ashes had been shipped to her home town in Michigan, to be joined there eventually by his father’s.

As for his own mortal remains, Driscoll had never given the matter a moment’s thought. The funeral director’s half-serious question had caught him by surprise. As a nonpracticing agnostic, Driscoll had no illusions of an afterlife. Now, for the first time, he wondered if anyone in this life would truly care when he checked out. Would anyone even notice?

With a sudden exclamation Driscoll jumped to his feet. Enough of these morbid meanderings, he told himself. He marched back across the cemetery lawn to his car. This time he was careful not to read any of the names on the plaques. Dead, dry bones, that’s all they were. Anything they had once been was gone like yesterday’s laughter.

He slid in behind the wheel and fired the engine with an angry twist of the key. He had to get out of this park for dead people. He needed to go where there was life.

CHAPTER 16

Al Fessler flapped through the pages of the Friday Herald-Examiner, looking for mention of Billy Lockett. Earlier in the day he had gone through the Times and clipped out a two-paragraph story about the funeral tomorrow. Also Greg Neely’s column in the entertainment section, which included a nice plug for the memorial concert in September. Neely hinted at the participation of several top-name rock groups without actually naming any. Conn Driscoll had done a good job there. Fessler wondered what the payoff to Neely had been.

In the Herald he found the same story on the funeral with only minor changes in the wording. It was probably a handout written by Driscoll. There was no word here of the concert, but Billy’s name was prominently mentioned in an editorial on the need for safety regulations for skydiving. Anything that kept the name before the public was good.

Tucked away with the art and theater news was a small item announcing that author Dean Hardeman was in Los Angeles. Fessler was disappointed to see that Hardeman’s purpose in the city was reported only as “doing research for a new book.” That wouldn’t sell any concert tickets. Of course, it was too soon for them to have printed last night’s interview with Vernon Karp. That would probably be in Sunday’s paper.

Al took up the long-bladed scissors from the end table and carefully cut out the Herald’s version of the funeral article. He did not bother with the paragraph about Dean Hardeman since there was no mention of Billy or the concert.

Over all, Fessler decided, he had no complaints with the job Conn Driscoll was doing. He distrusted PR men on principle and especially a gypsy like Driscoll who took only short-term assignments then vanished from the scene for weeks at a time. No sense of responsibility. Still, he did good work. But then he should, considering the prices he charged.

Al did wish Driscoll would touch base with him before pulling some of his surprises. Like bringing Rick Girodian to Waldo’s last night, for instance. He hadn’t even seen Rick since shortly after the breakup with Billy, and it would have been uncomfortable as hell facing him again with Hardeman there. It was too bad that he had to dump Rick when he did, but Billy was the hot property, and a man had to go with the action.

He put down the newspaper and looked over at Madeline. She sat across the room from Al reading a magazine, looking cool and beautiful as always. When he came home last night Al had wanted very much to make love to her, but he found the door to her bedroom tightly closed. Although they had no formal set of rules, Al understood that when his wife was available for sex she would leave her door slightly ajar. The door had stayed closed since last Sunday night.

“There’s a nice story about the funeral here in the Herald,” he said.

Madeline glanced up from her magazine, marking with a finger the place she was reading. “Oh?” The tone of her voice clearly said she could not care less.

“Conn Driscoll was going out to the cemetery today,” Al persisted. “Make sure everything’s set up for tomorrow.”

“Good for him.”

“I’m not boring you, am I?”

“No, Al, you’re not boring me.”

“Would it be so hard for you to show a little interest in what I’m talking about?”

“It’s hard for me to be enthusiastic about a funeral.”

“I’m not crazy about them myself, but this is business. Besides, I’m a pallbearer. You are going with me tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Certainly I’m going with you, Al. I’m your wife.”

Well for Christ sake, he wanted to say, why don’t you act like a wife at night then? He wanted to say, Jesus, Mad, I love you so much, I need you so much — can’t you give just a little? But he did not say any of these things.

The doorbell chimed.

“I’ll get it,” Madeline said. She rose gracefully from the chair and glided out of the room. Cool, slim, blond, and always just beyond his reach.

Maybe, Al thought, when this Billy business is over, things will get better.

The front door opened, and the sound of a man’s voice speaking to Madeline snapped Al out of his reverie. The low-pitched, emotionless tone sent a chill between his shoulder blades.

Madeline came back into the living room, followed by the visitor. Carl Vico was about Al’s height, but half-again as broad through the shoulders and chest, tapering to a narrow waist. He wore a lightweight gray suit and a dark tie. His eyes were unreadable behind fleshy lids.

“Hello, Al,” said Vico. There was no warmth in the greeting.

Fessler got up from the chair, feeling awkward and stiff. “Hello, Carl.”

Madeline stood between her husband and Carl Vico, looking uncertainly from one to the other. “If you will excuse me, I have some things to attend to.”

Al knew that Madeline had nothing to attend to, but she was sharp enough to see that Carl Vico’s business with him was private.

“How you been, Al?” Vico said when the two men were alone.

“Not too bad, considering.”

“We heard you had a little bad luck. My friends and me.”

“Bad luck?”

“That kid singer who killed himself jumping out of an airplane — that was your boy, wasn’t it?”

“Uh, Billy Lockett, yes.”

“He’s the one, isn’t he, that you wanted to buy up his record contract?”

Fessler nodded.

“And that’s what you needed the loan for, am I right?”

An invisible hand closed around Fessler’s throat, making his voice come out high and weak. “Yes, but you don’t have to worry about the money.”

“Worry? Al, me and my friends never worry about money. We always get paid. We’re just a little curious is all, about how you’re going to make records with a dead singer.”

“Listen, there won’t be any problem,” Al said, talking fast. “I’ve got plans that are going to make the money back easy.”

“Such as?” Vico’s eyes were dark and dull as slate behind their hoods of flesh.

“First I’ve got a big memorial concert coming up in September at the Forum.” Al leaned down to pick up his clippings from the day’s newspapers. He was surprised by the unsteadiness of his hands. “There’s a story about it in the Times.”

“Never mind the story in the Times,” Vico said. “All that matters is that you’re sure this concert thing will pay the bills.”

“It will pay the bills,” Al assured him. “Definitely.”

“That’s fine. My friends will be very happy to hear that.”

Al relaxed a little.

“Exactly when in September are you putting on this concert thing?”

“It’s scheduled for September 4. That’s the Saturday before Labor Day. It’s a really good date, just before the kids go back to school.”

“Fine, fine. Then there should be no sweat for you to pay back the loan by September 15. In full.”

“Well, now, I-I don’t know about that,” Al said. “That gives me less than two weeks. There’s an awful lot of paper work to do after the receipts are in. I’m not sure I’ll be able to lay my hands on the cash.”

“You’ll find a way, Al,” Vico said quietly.

“If you could make it the first of October, just to give me a little breathing room.”

“Al, you know my friends never extend the due date on a loan. We can’t do business that way.”

Al swallowed to clear his throat. “I’ll get the money to you by September 15.

“Sure you will,” Vico said. “I never doubted it for a minute. He walked back toward the front door with Fessler close behind him. With his hand on the knob, Vico turned and nodded toward the rear of the house where Madeline had gone.

“Your wife?” he said.

Fessler nodded silently.

“Pretty lady.” The words were spoken in the same flat voice, but to Fessler they seemed charged with menace.

“Yes,” he said, “she is.” He stood in the doorway and watched Carl Vico get into his car and drive away.

He closed the door carefully and wiped his hands down the sides of his pants. Madeline came back into the living room and sat down to resume reading her magazine. If she had heard any of the conversation between himself and Carl Vico, she gave no sign and showed no curiosity. He wished she would show a little curiosity. Something.

Al crossed to the sliding glass doors and gazed out at the swimming pool without seeing it. There was no mistaking the threat in Carl Vico’s quiet words. It was simply unthinkable that he not be ready with the money to pay off Vico’s “friends.” It had all looked so simple when he had a live Billy Lockett as security. Now somehow Al had to make a dead man pay his way out.

The problem had weighed heavily on Al’s mind all week, and he had come up with an idea that might turn everything around. He was not yet ready to confide in anyone … not until he was sure. Much would depend on an appointment he had scheduled this afternoon with Babe Feldman at an old rehearsal hall on Santa Monica Boulevard. If the booking agent had turned up what Al was looking for, he would rest a lot easier. Not only would the concert then be an assured smash, the concert would be only a beginning.

He walked back into the room and spoke to Madeline. “I’ve got to go downtown for a while.”

“Will you be home for dinner?”

“I think so. If not, I’ll call and let you know.”

Al waited a moment for his wife to ask where he was going. He did not want to tell her; he was not ready. Still, it would have been nice if she had asked.

But Madeline said nothing. She gave him a cool smile and returned to her magazine. Al walked over to her chair for a goodbye kiss. She offered her cheek.

He left the house feeling restless and unfulfilled. He concentrated on the business he had this afternoon with Babe Feldman. Not even Conn Driscoll knew about it. It was too personal at the moment to share with anyone. When the time came he would surprise everyone. To put it mildly. Al backed the Cadillac out of the driveway and headed for Hollywood.

CHAPTER 17

By the time Conn Driscoll had driven back into Hollywood from Greenacre Memorial Park the skies were blue and bright with the white, puffy clouds of travel posters. However, the depression brought on by the visit to the cemetery stayed with him.

Feeling depressed was not Driscoll’s style, and he did not know how to handle it. In his profession he had to be perpetually tough and optimistic. The attitude carried over into his private life. Good old Laugh-a-Minute Driscoll. On an impulse he turned down Wilshire Boulevard and headed for Westwood.

He found the street where Joyce Hardeman lived and parked the Firebird a block from her apartment, still not quite sure what he was doing there. He walked briskly back up the street, not giving himself time to think about it.

Joyce Hardeman sounded surprised to hear his voice over the house phone, but she told him to come on up.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” she said when she opened the door.

“I would have called first, but I don’t have your phone number.”

“That’s all right. Come in.”

Driscoll entered the neat, comfortable apartment and dropped into a chair of white simulated leather. “I talked to Dean last night. Told him you were undecided about seeing him. He was disappointed.”

“Life is full of disappointments.”

“Aren’t you being a little hard on him?”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about Dean and me, Conn.”

“Maybe. I told him I’d ask, that’s all.”

Joyce let a moment go by before she answered. “I suppose I am being a little childish,” she said. “I’ll talk to Dean if he still wants me to, but I don’t want him to think I’m ready for a reconciliation.”

“He’s still in love with you,” Driscoll said.

“I know. It’s too bad, because it keeps us from ever being friends.”

Driscoll made a vague motion with his hand. “I’ll tell him you’re willing to talk.”

Joyce looked closely into Driscoll’s face. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, thanks, I don’t think so.”

“Is anything wrong?”

“Why?”

“You look sort of … down.”

“It’s the effect of the cemetery, I guess. Intimations of mortality.”

“Do you hang around cemeteries a lot?”

“I had to go out to Greenacre to arrange the details for Billy Lockett’s funeral tomorrow. Set up those warm and human touches like television cameras and a rock band.”

“My, aren’t we cynical.”

“Just tired, Joyce. Lack of sleep, maybe.”

“Lack of something.”

“I think I will have that drink.”

Joyce Hardeman went to the bar and poured a generous jigger of Scotch into a low glass. She added ice cubes and a splash of water and brought it out to him.

Driscoll tasted the drink and said in a dramatically husky voice, “You remembered.”

“We don’t have to play games, do we, Conn?” she said.

“Maybe you don’t. Game-playing is my life.”

“Do you get like this often?”

“Hardly ever. Usually I’m as full of fun as the Mouseketeers. For some reason I feel plain shabby today. And for some reason I picked on you to talk to. Why do you suppose I did that? I barely know you.”

“Maybe that’s the reason.”

“Maybe. Listen, am I keeping you from anything?”

“I’ll let you know when you are.”

Driscoll took a long, slow swallow of the drink and settled lower into the chair. He felt warm and safe and isolated from the worries of the world. There was no logical reason for him to feel that way, but he would not let his mind question it.

After a short, easy silence, Joyce spoke. “Don’t you like your job, Conn?”

He looked at her strangely. “That’s the second time in two days somebody has asked me that.”

“No kidding. What did you say the first time?”

“I said I loved my job, and I went into an eloquent defense of the publicity game.”

“You’re sticking to that answer?”

“Until I think of a better one.”

“I’ll bet you didn’t always want to be a publicity man. What was your ambition when you were a boy?” She frowned at his change of expression. “Don’t tell me somebody else just asked you that, too?”

“No, it was the other way around. When I was a boy it was my ambition to be a football hero.”

“To get along with the beautiful girls?”

“Exactly. I might have made it too, had it not been for a skateboard.”

Joyce sat on the sofa and tucked her long legs up under her. “It sounds like a fascinating story. Tell me about it.”

“I was a freshman in high school, and I had already made the team. Fast and shifty — a natural halfback, the coach called me. Then, a couple of days before our first game, I was walking along the sidewalk in front of my own house and I stepped on a skateboard some rotten kid had left out there. I took a really spectacular fall. It tore up my knee and left me in a cast for eight weeks. Goodbye football team.

“I tried it again the next fall, but I wasn’t fast any more and I wasn’t shifty. Goodbye gridiron hero. Goodbye beautiful girls.”

“A promising athletic career in ruins,” Joyce observed.

“An entire life deflected by a loose skateboard.”

“Imagine where you might be today.”

“Married to a pompom girl, holding down a nice job in a respected industry, paying off a mortgage in Encino, growing a paunch, and fathering kids.”

“But instead?”

“But instead, here I am living in the entertainment capital of the world, working in the super-glamorous field of public relations.”

“All because of some rotten kid’s skateboard.”

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

Joyce studied him for a little while before she spoke again. “Aren’t you indulging in a little self-pity, Conn?”

“What if I am? Oscar Levant once said self-pity is the only kind worth having.”

“Do you want me to freshen your drink?”

“No, I’d probably get maudlin and cry all over your white leather chair.”

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him. “Do you know who you remind me of right now?”

“Who?”

“Dean. Sometimes he used to carry on like that. Make bitter jokes about how the Fates were playing games with him.”

“There’s a big difference,” Driscoll said. “Dean Hardeman at least had something behind him. Three best-selling novels. What do I have? A swinging funeral for a dead rock singer.”

“Dean used to talk that way sometimes about his books. He had a secret inner fear that they weren’t really any good — that he had somehow fooled people into thinking they were worthwhile. The more he thought that way, the harder it was for him to write again. He went downhill fast. I wouldn’t like to see that happen to you, Conn.”

“Why not?”

“Because I like you.”

Driscoll set down the glass and looked into the woman’s clear hazel eyes. “I like you too, Joyce. A lot.”

A moment’s pause, then Joyce said, “Do you want to go to bed with me?”

“Very much.”

“Well, what’s stopping you?”

Driscoll stood up. Joyce came forward and took his hand. Together they walked into the bedroom.

Joyce undressed with a total lock of embarrassment, hanging her clothes neatly in the closet. Driscoll took off his own clothes and slid into bed with her. She turned down the spread and the blanket so that their bodies were covered only by the sheet.

Driscoll rolled onto his side, facing her. He put out a hand and moved it along the cool, firm flesh of her hip.

“Conn, relax,” she said.

“What?”

“Relax. Lie next to me. You’re tense.”

His male vanity stung, Driscoll pulled his hand back. “What are you going to do, direct the performance?”

“I don’t want a performance, I want a shared experience. You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“Who says I’m trying to prove something?” He was up on an elbow now, anger overcoming his desire.

Joyce rolled her head on the pillow and fixed him with a level gaze. “Aren’t you?”

“I am not. I don’t have to prove anything to anybody.” For a moment he glared at her, then the anger drained away. He let his breath out in a long sigh and fell back on the pillow. When he spoke again his voice was subdued. “No, that’s a lie. I am always having to prove myself to everybody. I have to prove I’m clever, I have to prove I’m tough, I have to prove I can hold my liquor, I have to prove I’m virile. And I have to keep proving it over and over again.”

“Who says so?”

“I say so. Nobody but me.”

“Okay, you have just met one human being you don’t have to prove a damn thing to. You wanted to take me to bed, I wanted you to. So here we are. It happened. Things that are supposed to happen do happen. If you let them.”

“You’re very philosophical today.”

“Not really. Perceptive, maybe.”

“Compared to the women I’m used to down at the marina, you’re philosophical.”

“I’m older than you are, remember?”

“I remember. Eight years. You’re not going to tell me I’m looking for a mother, I hope.”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Are you?”

“No.”

“That settles that. Am I the first older woman you’ve been to bed with?”

“‘Older woman.’ You make me sound like John-Boy Walton.”

“Am I?” she persisted.

“No, you’re not, if you have to know. While I was at USC I fell in love with an actress who was, I guess, about thirty. She was also married, which made it even more exciting and sophisticated. We had a steamy affair that lasted almost six months.”

“What happened?”

“After a while she started talking about leaving her husband.”

“And scared you off?”

“No, I wanted her to. I was in love. I was shattered when I realized she was just talking. She had no intention of dumping a perfectly good husband for some halfass college kid. I was used and cast aside like an old shoe.”

“Poor Conn.”

“Poor me.” He looked over at the woman lying next to him and laughed. He laughed at himself, his first honest, happy reaction of the day.

“There, you see, isn’t it better to relax a little than to leap instantly into a performance?”

“It’s better,” he agreed. “What do I do next?”

“Uh-uh. From this point you’re on your own.”

Driscoll pulled her close and kissed her on the mouth. The kiss was long and sweet. Her body moved against him, and his arousal was instant and complete. So accustomed was he to the energetic coupling of the beach bunnies that the gentle, knowledgeable lovemaking of Joyce Hardeman was a revelation. She stroked his skin and kissed him and touched him with her body in a slow, delicious dance. The tempo built up slowly until the shuddering climax drained him of the day’s frustrations and dammed-up emotions.

Afterwards they lay for a long time in each other’s arms.

“You know,” Driscoll said, “usually I can’t wait to get dressed and get out.”

“Having completed the performance.”

“Something like that.”

“And this time it’s different?”

“I don’t want to leave at all.”

She kissed him. Her lips were cool against his eyelids

“Can I see you again?” he said.

“Of course.”

“I’d better get your phone number.”

“Yes.”

At last, reluctantly, he got out of bed and pulled on his clothes. Joyce watched him, smiling. The sheet molded itself to the dips and rises of her long, lush body.

“You wouldn’t want to go to a funeral with me tomorrow?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“I don’t blame you.”

Joyce swung out of bed and crossed the bedroom to get a robe from the closet. She put it on and tied the belt at her waist. “I’ll walk you to the door.”

They said goodbye and Joyce kissed him lightly on the mouth. He pulled her close and kissed her more emphatically. His hands slid down the velour robe to caress the firm mound of her buttocks.

“Call me,” she said.

“I will.”

Driscoll walked out of the building and up the street to his car feeling so good he laughed aloud. An elderly woman walking her dog in the other direction looked at him strangely. He gave her a big pleasant smile and got into his car.

Not until he pulled onto the freeway several minutes later did the smile fade. He had just remembered Dean Hardeman.

CHAPTER 18

They started showing up at six o’clock Saturday morning. By eight the road past the front gate of Greenacre Memorial Park was lined on both sides with parked vehicles. Prominent were curtained and carpeted vans, little Japanese pickups, and flowered Volkswagens. The day was bright and sparkling with a fresh wind off the mountains. Perfect weather, thought Conn Driscoll, for a funeral.

Most of the growing crowd ranged in age from mid-teens to early twenties. They brought blankets and jugs of wine and transistor radios and plastic bags of marijuana. Many of the boys, and a few of the girls, took off their shirts to enjoy the sun. They sprawled on the grass and threw Frisbees and started a softball game. The scene was like a swinging high school picnic or an outdoor rock festival.

Driscoll was there with the earliest arrivals, moving around constantly, seeing that everything stayed cool. The police, true to their word, were keeping a low profile. The special rock squad, put together after fans of Pink Floyd had ripped up the Sports Arena, lounged around the perimeter of the cemetery dressed in jeans and cotton shirts, wearing moustaches and hair in un-coplike styles. Everybody knew a little grass was being smoked by the mourners, but no arrests were planned unless the smokers became unruly.

• • •

When James Walraven arrived, the memorial park had taken on the look of a youth fair. The funeral director took a quick disapproving look around and set out to find Conn Driscoll.

Driscoll was, at the moment, arguing with a vendor of fruit drinks in souvenir plastic cups printed with Billy Lockett’s likeness. Since the juice vendor had no authorization from him, Driscoll was telling the man to move his operation outside the gates. When he saw Walraven coming Driscoll hastily concluded a compromise whereby the juice wagon could stay inside the cemetery, but would move far enough away from the action so it would not appear to be an official part of the ceremonies.

The funeral director, wearing a slate gray suit with a blue and silver tie, threw an angry glance at the departing juice wagon, then turned to face Driscoll. “This place looks like a hippie convention,” he said. “Why are all those blankets spread on the grass?”

“It gives the kids a place to sit down,” Driscoll said. “I didn’t think you’d want us to erect bleachers.”

“Very amusing.”

“Jim, believe me, you don’t have to worry about a thing. I am personally keeping an eye on the action, and the cops are here in case of emergency.”

“This is going to be the longest day of my life.”

“You go ahead and check out the chapel. I’ve got things under control out here.”

Walraven shook his head sadly and made his way toward the chapel. He kept looking around with the expression of a man whose garden had been invaded by loathsome insects.

• • •

Al Fessler’s Cadillac was waved through the gates by the security guard, and Al drove slowly along the curving road that led to the chapel parking lot. Madeline sat beside her husband in the front seat looking pale and ill at ease. “So many people,” she said.

“I’ll say,” Al agreed happily. “One thing you can say for Conn Driscoll, he delivers.”

• • •

When Driscoll saw the Fesslers drive in he started toward them but was diverted by a commotion at the gate. The mobile unit from Channel Six had arrived, and a curious crowd was gathering around it. Driscoll gave Al an I’ll-see-you-later wave and took off for the gate. He showed the driver of the truck where he wanted him to go while the Channel Six technical crew strolled around looking bored. TV technicians always looked bored. Driscoll thought it might be a reaction to the manic good cheer displayed by most of the on-camera talent.

A representative of the talent end of the business arrived in the person of Wally Mayor, who roared into the parking lot in his wedge-shaped TR-7. The newsman sat there gunning the engine, waiting for someone to recognize him. Conn Driscoll hurried over to oblige.

“Hey, glad to see you, Wally. Everything here is moving on schedule.”

“Is the truck here?”

“Just moving into position over there by the tree. Your director’s there and the cameramen are ready to go any time you are.”

Mayor checked himself over in the rearview mirror before climbing out of the sports car. He gave his scissor-styled hair a touch with the comb. His healthy California tan had already been applied by the makeup people at the studio.

“Many celebrities yet?” he asked.

“We’re expecting some really big names, but so far these are mostly fans of Billy’s.”

“Who cares about fans? My audience will want to see celebrities.”

Looking around anxiously, Driscoll spotted a familiar face. “There’s Rick Girodian standing over by the fruit juice wagon. He used to be Billy’s partner. That ought to be good for an interview.”

“I already used him as a voice-over when we did the death story. Who’s the cupcake with him?”

“That’s his sister, Kitty.”

“Is she anybody?”

“No, she’s not in show business.”

“Too bad. Where’s the corpse?”

“In the chapel over there. They’ll have a very short ceremony inside, then the procession up to the grave. You can see the grave up there with the striped canopy over it. That’s where you ought to get some good shots — the pallbearers and all that.”

“Driscoll, I’ve been in this business long enough to know where the good shots are.”

“Sure, Wally. If there’s anything you need, just say the word.”

“Some coffee. I’ll be up at the truck.”

“I’ll have it sent up.”

• • •

Thomas Lockett and his wife sat silently in the deep back seat as the Greenacre limousine rolled through the gates into the memorial park where their son’s remains would be laid to rest. On the other side of the blue-tinted glass hundreds of young people sprawled on the lawn and wandered among the grave markers.

The limousine pulled up in front of the chapel, and the driver got out and came back to open the door for Helen Lockett.

“You go on inside,” her husband said. “First there’s a man I want to talk to.”

• • •

Having arranged coffee for Wally Mayor and the Channel Six crew, Conn Driscoll had moved on to join the rock group that would entertain at graveside. The young musicians were intrigued by the electrical outlets.

“Oh-wow, far out!” enthused the Fender-bass player. “Plug right into the trees!”

“Outasight!” agreed the lead guitarist.

“Electric trees, man,” commented the drummer, and they all laughed immoderately.

Driscoll eyed the group closely. “What do you say we play it semi-straight, men, at least until after the ceremony?”

“Oh-wow!” the bass player said again, and they were off into new gales of laughter.

Driscoll turned away with a sigh and concentrated on showing the eager volunteer helpers where to set up the amplifiers.

“I want to talk to you, Driscoll.”

The tone of tightly suppressed anger made Driscoll turn at once toward the speaker. He flashed on his welcoming smile, then, remembering the occasion, switched to a look of warm sympathy.

“Mr. Lockett, hello. I didn’t see you drive in. Have you been to the chapel?”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Pardon me?”

“This … this open air zoo! Is this the ‘fitting ceremony’ you promised me my son would have?”

“Mr. Lockett, these people are Billy’s fans. It wouldn’t be fair to lock them out.”

“Let’s get something straight, Driscoll. I am a small businessman from a small town in the Middle West, but I am not stupid. I understood from the beginning that the reason you and Al Fessler wanted Billy’s funeral held out here was to squeeze whatever capital you still could out of his name. I knew what you were doing, but I didn’t know it would turn into as shoddy a performance as this. My wife is a dear, good-hearted woman, and she believed that phony line of yours. For her sake I did not make an issue of it. And for her sake I hope this debacle is over with as quickly as possible. However, I do want you to know that you are as corrupt an excuse for a man as it has ever been my bad luck to meet. If it is ever possible for me to give back to you some of the hurt you have caused my family, I will do so gladly. That’s all.”

Thomas Lockett turned his back on Driscoll and walked erect and square-shouldered through the milling crowd of young people to the chapel.

For several minutes Conn Driscoll stood where he was, looking after Billy’s father, oblivious to the confusion around him.

“Want a cup of coffee?”

Startled, he looked down to see Kitty Girodian holding two Styrofoam cups. She offered one to him and he took it.

“Thanks. Right now I could use something stronger.”

“You aren’t the only one.” Kitty gestured with her cup toward a group of teenagers seated in a circle around an angel statue. They were passing a marijuana joint from hand to hand.

Driscoll closed his eyes and opened them slowly. “Alcohol is more my style. After all, I’m thirty years old.”

“Are you all right, Conn? You look a little sick.”

“It’ll pass. Where’s your brother?”

“Some smoothie in a blazer and pancake makeup took him away to be interviewed on television.”

“That would be Wally Mayor.”

“Whoever. I left them together.”

“Did you hear what Rick was telling him?”

“A bunch of lies about how much he thought of Billy Lockett and respected him as a musician.”

“Good, I was a little worried, knowing the trouble between Rick and Billy.”

“You needn’t have been. My brother is a professional.”

“I know he is.” Driscoll was silent for a moment. “Tell me something, Kitty, do you think I’m corrupt?”

“Why?”

Driscoll waved an arm taking in the scene where more gallon wine bottles were showing up all the time and some of the young people were trying out new dance steps on the grave markers. “All this. I’m pretty much responsible for it.”

“It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“I thought it was at the time. Right now I’m having painful second thoughts.”

“Conn, it’s your job. It won’t make any difference to Billy whether he’s buried here like this or with some solemn church ritual. After all, these are his people. They are the ones who made Billy what he was. So it’s not terribly dignified. No one is really being hurt.”

Driscoll let his eyes roam down across the crowded green lawn to the chapel where Thomas Lockett was going in to join his wife.

“I wonder,” he said.

Rick Girodian approached them, jogging up from the direction of the television truck. “Come on, Kitty,” he said, “they’re getting in line to view the body.”

“I think I’ll pass,” Kitty said. “You go ahead.”

Rick shrugged and glanced coolly at Driscoll, then joined the general movement of the crowd toward the chapel. Driscoll reflected that he had never seen Rick Girodian look happier.

• • •

At the rear of the chapel Dean Hardeman, his hands jammed into his pockets, leaned against the wall as inconspicuously as possible. Up in front, standing by the head of Billy Lockett’s coffin, the long-haired young editor of a local fan magazine was delivering what passed for a eulogy. His speech was so studded with you know’s and I mean’s as to numb the mind of the most dedicated listener. Hardeman had given up early trying to follow the sense of what was being said and busied himself looking around at the people seated in the chapel.

They were an older crowd than the merrymakers outside on the cemetery lawn, and a few of them at least seemed to have some legitimate connection with the deceased. Hardeman figured the middle-aged couple who kept themselves apart from the others had to be the parents. The mother cried quietly while the young editor mumbled on. The father looked like he wanted to leap from his seat and hit the mindless kid in the mouth.

When the speaker’s tone seemed to indicate he was drawing to a close, Hardeman eased out through the door and stepped off the Grecian portico onto the lawn in front of the chapel. Out here the celebrants — Hardeman could not think of them in any other way — were lining up to go inside and take a look at the body of their hero.

Off to one side a television reporter was interviewing an eye-popping blond girl in an India-print dress. Hardeman sidled over to listen.

“Just what was the relationship between you and Billy Lockett, Iris?” the reporter was saying.

“We were, oh, very close. Billy was a really special person to me. I didn’t need anybody else, and he felt the same way.”

“Would you and Billy have gotten married if he had lived?”

“That’s something we never talked about. I mean, we didn’t have to have any piece of paper saying we were committed to each other. We were together. That’s all that mattered.”

“Is there any special memory of Billy you’d like to share with us today?”

The girl smiled and her eyes looked off somewhere. “There’s one thing I’ll bet a lot of girls are wondering about that I can clear up for them. Billy was dynamite in the sack.”

A young man standing behind the camera tore the earphones from his head and stepped angrily forward. “Goddammit, we can’t use that. Why can’t you keep these people in line, Wally?”

The newsman turned a cold eye on the speaker. “How the fuck am I supposed to know what they’re going to say?” Then to the girl, “Iris, honey, we’re taping this to show on television during the family hour. We don’t want that crap about your sex life. Now I’ll ask you the question again and you tell me how you remember Billy’s generosity or the way he loved animals or some shit like that. Got it?”

“Okay,” the girl said, unflustered. “For a minute I forgot we were on television.”

Hardeman smiled and started to walk away as Wally Mayor resumed his on-camera smile and picked up the interview again.

Someone moved up alongside him. “Excuse me, but aren’t you Dean Hardeman?”

“Yes, I am.” Hardeman studied the young man who had spoken. He wore a neatly trimmed black beard and a yellow blazer that identified him as a member of the Channel Six news team.

“I’m Stan Yarborough,” he said, “Wally Mayor’s director.”

“Glad to meet you. It’s been a long time since I’ve been recognized in public.”

“There was a picture of you last year in the alumni newsletter.”

“You went to Columbia?”

“Class of ’62.”

“Journalism?”

“That was it. I read all three of your books. Enjoyed them a lot.”

“Thank you,” Hardeman said. He glanced over to where Wally Mayor had wrapped up the interview. The blond girl looked back at him. “I was watching your man work.”

Stan Yarborough lowered his voice. “In real life Wally Mayor is a certified son of a bitch, but he’s got the kind of charisma that comes out through a television screen and grabs the viewers. We’re a small independent in a seven-channel market, but our late news rates right up there with the networks.”

“Congratulations.”

Yarborough grinned. “I didn’t intend to deliver a sales pitch for Channel Six. What I wanted to ask is whether you’d mind doing a short interview with Wally. I understand you’re writing a book on Billy Lockett.”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“That’s great. I’ll make sure we get in a good plug for the book.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Hardeman said.

“I’ll go set things up and get back to you in a few minutes.”

As Stan Yarborough walked over to talk to his newscaster, the blond girl from the earlier interview came over to where Hardeman was standing.

“Hi, I hear you’re a book writer.”

“Don’t tell me you read the Columbia alumni news too?”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. A bad joke.”

“Are you a very famous writer?”

“Not so very.”

“You must be, or they wouldn’t be putting you on television.”

“They put you on television. Are you famous?”

“That’s different. They just put me on because I’m pretty and because I knew Billy. You didn’t know Billy, did you?”

“No.”

“And you’re not pretty, so you must be famous.”

Hardeman chuckled. “I was once, I guess.”

“I knew it,” said the girl. “I love writers. They’re so intelligent.”

“Do you know a lot of writers?”

“I don’t know any writers, but I’ve always wanted to. Now I know one. Almost.”

“Let’s make it official. I’m Dean Hardeman.”

“Hi, Dean. I’m Iris Ames. You’re not from out here, are you?”

“No, I’m from New York. How did you know?”

“You look kind of, well, formal for California. That vest and everything.”

“Too stuffy?”

“A little. People are more laid back in California. If you were going to be around for a while, I could show you the kind of clothes you ought to wear.”

“I might just take you up on that offer.”

“Well …?”

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to write down my number?”

“Oh, sure.” Hardeman pulled out a folded sheet of paper and wrote down the telephone number Iris gave him.

“Don’t call too early. I like to sleep in.”

“I’ll remember that.”

A group of young people came by and called to Iris to come and get in line with them. She waved and started toward them, then turned back to give Hardeman a look that he could only interpret as raw sexuality.

By God, he thought, do you suppose I’ve just acquired my first groupie?

Stan Yarborough came back and told him they were ready for the interview. Down the slope people were coming out of the chapel and the line of youngsters began to file in.

• • •

“He did look nice, didn’t he, Tom?” said Mrs. Lockett as she and her husband came out into the sunlight.

“Yes, Helen, he looked fine.” Thomas Lockett put an arm around his wife and steered her onto the lawn in front of the chapel, away from the chattering line of people who were waiting to go inside and look at their son’s body.

“I had no idea there would be so many people here,” said Billy’s mother.

“Neither did I. Helen, what would you think about leaving right now? Going straight back to the hotel and taking the first plane home?”

“You mean not wait for the graveside ceremony?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Yes, I suppose that might be best. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

“I’ll go and find our driver and tell him we’re ready to leave.”

Thomas Lockett started to walk away but stopped short when he saw Conn Driscoll coming toward them from the direction of the television truck.

“Mr. and Mrs. Lockett,” Driscoll said, “I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”

“What for?” said Billy’s father. “Do you want to put us on television?”

“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am that — ”

“Spare us your sympathy,” Thomas Lockett said. “My wife and I are leaving now. I’m sure you and Fessler can carry on without us.”

Mr. Lockett spotted the driver of their Greenacre limousine then and waved him over. He took his wife’s arm and escorted her to the waiting automobile without looking again at Conn Driscoll.

• • •

Standing in the line of chattering young rock fans filing in to view the body of Billy Lockett, Rick Girodian found himself feeling steadily more depressed. He was not pleased about giving out that crap on television about what great buddies he and Billy were. Also, he did not want to be associated with these juveniles who were treating the funeral like some kind of rock-culture happening.

“I hear they had to rebuild his whole face.”

Rick shook off his own thoughts and turned to look at the boy who had spoken. “What’s that?”

“Billy’s face. I heard it was so smashed up they had to work from photographs and make the whole thing over out of wax. Dished out his skull, I guess, and laid the new face in there so he’d look presentable in the coffin.”

Rick tried to turn away, but the boy clutched at his sleeve to hold his attention.

“Hitting the ground the way he did will split you open like a watermelon. I’d like to see what’s left down below the neck, but you can bet they’ll keep that covered up.”

Rick pulled his arm away from the young man and stepped out of line. He walked slowly across the grass toward the grave site, breathing deeply. The scent of flowers was in the morning air, along with the tang of burning marijuana.

• • •

Driscoll watched uncomfortably as Dean Hardeman walked up the slope toward him. He realized he had been avoiding the author all morning. He just could not feel easy talking to a man whose wife he had screwed the night before. Ex-wife, even.

“How’s it going, Conn?” Hardeman said when he reached Driscoll’s side.

“So far, so good.”

“Wasn’t that Billy’s mother and father I saw leaving in the limousine?”

“That was them.”

“How come they left early?”

“I got the impression they weren’t too happy about the sendoff Billy is getting.”

Hardeman looked around at the colorful young crowd swarming over the cemetery. “You’ve got to admit that this isn’t everybody’s idea of what a funeral ought to be.”

“I admit it,” Driscoll said. What the hell, he thought, might as well get to it. “I saw Joyce yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“She says she’ll see you if you still want to.”

“Hey, nice going, Conn. Er, what do you think … I mean, what was her general attitude?”

“I really couldn’t say, Dean. You’ll have to check that out for yourself.”

“Yeah, sure I will. I really sound like a love-struck high school kid, don’t I.” He glanced up the slope toward the fence where a boy and girl lay on a blanket, their bodies pressed close together. “No, I take that back. Today’s high school kids have a lot more poise than I’ve shown. Anyway, thanks for playing John Alden for me, Conn. I appreciate it.”

John Alden, Driscoll thought sourly, a hell of an appropriate allusion. He said, “Don’t mention it. Who’s that Wally Mayor is interviewing now?”

Hardeman followed Driscoll’s eyes to where the newsman stood before a low hedge talking to a rangy man with a bony face and thinning brown hair. “I don’t know. Let’s walk over and listen.”

As they drew near, Stan Yarborough pointed his finger and Wally Mayor began to speak earnestly to the camera.

“I’m talking now to Nat Spieth, the jumpmaster who was in the airplane with Billy Lockett last Sunday, the day of the fateful jump.” He turned to the other man. “Mr. Spieth, what were your thoughts up there alone in the sky with Billy Lockett? Was there any premonition of trouble?”

“No, none at all. Everything was going smooth.”

“What kind of a person was Billy Lockett?”

“Just a nice, normal kid, that’s all I can say. He was a big star and all, but you’d never know it to talk to him. He was just like anybody else. He was a good jumper too. A natural. One of the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Did Billy say anything to you just before he took that last jump?”

Nat Spieth seemed to search his memory. “There was just the usual kidding around we always did, Billy and me.”

“Billy wasn’t nervous about jumping?”

“No, never. If you know what you’re doing up there, there’s nothing to be nervous about.”

“The reports say Billy apparently struck some part of the airplane as he jumped. How could that have happened to an experienced jumper?”

“What I figure is a freak air current caught him just as he pushed off. One of those things. People can get killed in their own bathrooms.”

Wally Mayor’s eyes flicked over to his director, who was gesturing toward some activity outside the chapel. “Thank you, Mr. Spieth,” he said wrapping the interview up quickly. He beckoned to the cameramen. “Let’s go, they’re getting ready to carry out the coffin. I want shots of the pallbearers and some reactions from the crowd.”

As the Channel Six crew moved away, a group of teenagers stepped in to get Nat Spieth’s autograph.

• • •

Al Fessler trudged along the path leading from the chapel up to the canopy-covered grave. He gripped the cold brass handle of Billy’s casket and wished it were all over. He suspected, despite Conn Driscoll’s assurances, that the three musicians serving as pallbearers were on something. They had the typical droop-eyed, slack-lipped look of pill heads. Al just hoped they didn’t freak out and drop the coffin or something. Luckily, two Greenacre employees were serving as anchor men, one on either side.

The shaggy rock group waiting at the grave with plugged-in instruments watched impatiently as the procession approached.

“Why are they draggin’ it out that way?” the bass player muttered.

“Dignity, man, it’s a funeral,” explained the drummer.

They all giggled at that.

One of the television crew came up the slope pointing his camera at them. The group took this as a signal to begin and whanged into their latest hit.

The crowd surged forward.

At his vantage point up near the fence, Conn Driscoll winced and turned away.

Somehow the pallbearers made their way through the crowd and deposited the casket safely beside the open grave. The sounds blasting from the amplifiers seemed to grow even louder. The crowd responded with enthusiastic screams. Driscoll pushed his way close enough to tell the scheduled graveside speakers to forget it. Nobody here was going to listen to eulogies.

As Driscoll retreated to a safe distance, a pale girl with stringy black hair dashed from the crowd and threw herself across Billy’s coffin, screaming hysterically. The television cameras recorded her grief happily, and Driscoll had to admit it was effective even though he hadn’t staged it.

After about half an hour of graveside entertainment the crew from Channel Six loaded their equipment on the truck and moved out. Wally Mayor had long since departed in his sports car. With nobody filming their efforts, the musicians soon packed it in. In a surprisingly short time the cemetery was empty and quiet. The crowd was gone, but the youngsters had left their mark.

The neat green lawn with its tasteful bronze plaques was littered in all directions with wine bottles, Coke bottles, beer cans, Pepsi cans, Big Mac wrappers, Colonel Sanders buckets, paper napkins, wax cups, plastic straws, odds and ends of clothing, and bits of food. As soon as the last of the Billy Lockett fans had gone, the Greenacre cleanup crew moved in and began restoring the memorial park to something near its former condition.

Not quite everybody had left with the crowd. Conn Driscoll stood with his back against the iron fence at the top of the slope. Kitty Girodian stood beside him. Below them workmen lowered the casket into the grave. When that was done they pulled the bright green Astroturf carpet off the mound of dirt and began to shovel it in on Billy Lockett.

Kitty was watching Driscoll’s face. She said, “Is there any reason you have to stick around now?”

Driscoll’s eyes ranged over the clutter left by the funeral fans. “I suppose not,” he said. “There are some details to be wrapped up with the funeral director, but I’m not really in the mood to talk to him now. I imagine he feels the same way.”

“You know what I’d like to do?” Kitty said. “If you’re not busy with something else?”

“What?”

“Go for a drive. Up into the mountains.”

“What for?”

“I just feel like it. There’s something about being up in the mountains with the crisp cool air and the tangy smell of the evergreens that makes you feel so …”

“Clean?” Driscoll suggested.

Kitty smiled at him. “That’s it. Clean. What do you say?”

“I say let’s go.”

Driscoll took the girl’s arm and they headed for the parking lot, not looking back at the grave.

CHAPTER 19

The funeral of Billy Lockett, in terms of results, was everything its promoters could have hoped for. Coverage by the media was excellent. Both Los Angeles papers gave the story a featured position, complete with photos. Both the AP and UPI had a staffer on the scene. Channel Six gave the funeral generous air time on all of its weekend news shows. On Monday, ten seconds of film showing the groupie throwing herself across the coffin appeared on CBS’s Walter Cronkite broadcast.

Interest generated by Billy’s spectacular death and nearly as spectacular funeral sent sales of his records zooming. This provided a windfall for his old company, Gamma Records, which was quick to re-release everything from its inventory with Billy Lockett’s name on it. Al Fessler, for whom Billy would now never record, was pained to see the profits going to Gamma, but he reminded himself that eventually he would reap his reward.

A number of well-known rock groups who had previously been noncommittal suddenly found they would be available for the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert in September. Conn Driscoll enjoyed the rare luxury of sitting back while the managers of the groups came to him. Overnight the name Billy Lockett had become pure gold, and everybody was eager to stake out a little piece of the claim.

Two movie producers were vying for the chance to make a movie based on Billy’s life and death. Driscoll stalled them both, waiting for their bids to go up, as he knew they would. Meanwhile, he gave the go-ahead for an animated series to be shown on Saturday morning television.

In supermarkets and sidewalk newsstands across the country multiple Billy Locketts smiled out from the covers of fan magazines. The garish titles — I Was Billy’s Last Love, Billy Lockett’s Forgotten Child, Billy’s Incurable Disease — and the pallid articles inside had little to do with reality, but they would sell T-shirts and trinkets and tickets to the concert.

More thoughtful articles appeared in magazines like New Times and Esquire and Rolling Stone. These largely condemned the Billy Lives! phenomenon as a ripoff, yet each did its part to help build the Billy myth. Radio talk shows in Los Angeles and other cities filled many hours with pro-Billy and anti-Billy phone callers.

The posters, the lockets, the T-shirts, and the other official Billy Lockett merchandise was selling at a rate that gladdened the heart of Conn Driscoll. At first he tried to discourage the pirates who were cranking out their own schlock with Billy’s name or likeness on it, but he was soon overwhelmed. The stores were full of unauthorized Billy trinkets like a plaster Billy death mask to hang on the wall, and a see-through Billy jockstrap that was popular in the gay men’s shops. Even the Billy Skydiver Doll that Driscoll had nixed originally was in the stores now, a hot item with the five-to-twelve age group. Driscoll had given up trying to collect a fee from any of these unsanctioned items and settled for the added free publicity.

Another unexpected phenomenon was the Billy Lockett fan clubs that had sprung into existence all over the country. They already had a national newsletter (Billygram) and were adding chapters in foreign countries. Their main activity seemed to be writing fan letters to Billy Lockett, eerily ignoring the fact that he was dead. The letters were delivered to Al Fessler, who turned them over unread to Conn Driscoll. Driscoll found that reading the childish messages (“… and please send me something you wear close to your body …”) made him feel creepy. He dumped the lot with a mailing service, giving instructions to send a wallet-size picture of Billy to everyone who enclosed a self-addressed stamped envelope.

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 his 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.”

“It will be a long time before I forget that,” Mr. Lockett said. “And a long time before I forgive the people responsible for it.”

“It was in doubtful taste,” Hardeman agreed, “but I’m sure the people there meant no disrespect to Billy or to you.”

Helen Lockett came through a swinging door and crossed the living room to join her husband. She brought with her the aroma of fresh baked bread. Thomas Lockett made the introductions.

“Please come in, Mr. Hardeman,” she said. “I hope you can stay for dinner.”

“Thank you, but I’ve got a car waiting for me outside. I’ll eat at the hotel.”

“The hotel food in this town is unfit for human consumption,” said Thomas Lockett. He looked out the open door toward the street. “I see you’ve got Art Ingersoll’s cab. If I know that fat blabberbouth, he’s already given you a few of his own notions about Billy.”

“As a matter of fact, he has,” Hardeman admitted.

“Why don’t you pay him off, and I’ll take you to your hotel after dinner.”

After a token protest, Hardeman accepted the invitation. He went out and settled with Ingersoll, who was surly about having his expected windfall cut off; then he carried his small bag back into the Lockett’s house.

Dinner was a generous pot roast in rich brown gravy. Potatoes, carrots and onions were roasted and browned with the meat. They drank rich coffee and finished up with squares of dark chocolate cake. Hardeman found the meal delicious and said so, to Mrs. Lockett’s obvious pleasure.

After dinner Mr. Lockett and Hardeman took second cups of coffee into the living room and sat down. Mrs. Lockett stayed behind to clean up the dinner dishes. She would just stack them in the sink, she said, then join the men.

The living room, or front room as Hardeman noted the Locketts called it, was furnished with overstuffed pieces from forty years ago and marble-top tables and shelves that used to be called knicknacks, along with newer things. There was no apparent attempt at achieving an effect or a certain style, but the room had a charm that made you want to smile when you walked in. Thomas Lockett settled into what was obviously “his chair.” Hardeman sat in a comfortable wingback facing him.

“All right, what was it you wanted to know about Billy?” Mr. Lockett asked.

“What kind of a boy was he?” Hardeman said, thinking as he did so how inane it sounded.

Thomas Lockett thought it over. “I guess if I had to come up with just one word to describe Billy, the word would be lucky.”

“Lucky?” Hardeman repeated.

“I’ll try to explain. Billy was my son, and I was always proud of him, you understand, but the truth is he was never awfully good at anything. Not bad, but just not outstanding. But one way or another, he always made out. He was no better than average in school, I could see that, but when the important exam came up Billy would somehow get the right answers and come out near the top. He played on the baseball team, that was the only sport he made a letter in. Outfielder. He couldn’t hit much, but it seemed when the winning runs were on base he could bloop one off the end of the bat that would drop just out of somebody’s reach, and Billy would be the hero of the game. Luck.”

Thomas Lockett paused to take a look back at the closed door leading to the kitchen. “I’d never say this with my wife present, but I personally don’t think Billy was much of a musician, either. I played some dance band trumpet in my younger days, so I know something about it. It’s true that Billy worked as hard at his music as he did at anything, which is not to say he knocked himself out. The thing is, he just never had any real talent. Not for music. What he had was a genius for making people like him and believe in him. That’s what came through when he played and sang — likability, believability. Luck.”

Abruptly the father’s shoulders slumped, and his face seemed to age. “But when Billy’s luck ran out, it ran out all at once, didn’t it.”

Mrs. Lockett came in from the kitchen, saving Hardeman from having to respond.

“Is anyone ready for another piece of cake?”

Both men declined the cake, and Mrs. Lockett took a seat near her husband.

“So you’re writing a book about our Billy,” she said.

“That’s right.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never read any of your books, Mr. Hardeman. But then, I never was much of a reader. Maybe Thomas has.”

“Afraid not,” said Mr. Lockett. “I don’t read much but John D. MacDonald any more. Everybody else is writing pornography or trying to sell me his crackpot political ideas. Pornography puts me to sleep and I can come up with my own crackpot ideas.”

Hardeman smiled, liking the man.

“I hope your book will treat Billy kindly,” Mrs. Lockett said. There was an unexpected quaver in her voice. “The things they’ve been writing in some of the magazines aren’t very nice.”

“I try never to write unkindly about anyone,” Hardeman said.

Mrs. Lockett looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “Maybe you’d like to see some pictures of Billy when he was a little boy?”

“Yes, I would.”

Billy’s mother left the room and returned with a thick album of photographs. Hardeman moved over to the sofa and sat next to her as she turned the pages. Thomas Lockett stayed in his chair.

The earliest pictures were of a round-faced, smiling baby posed in a crib or holding a toy or in the arms of a younger, slimmer Helen Lockett. The pictures that followed were those that might be found in any family album. A bundled up Billy standing next to a snowman. Billy holding onto a pet dog. Billy on a new bicycle. Billy looking uncomfortable in a necktie. Hardeman could almost see the boy grow before his eyes as a plant seems to grow in stop-motion photography.

Conspicuously missing were any pictures of Billy with friends his own age. Even in group shots he always stood a little apart. A solitary boy. A loner. A gift for being loved, but unable to love in return?

The last picture of Billy in the album showed a teenage boy with longish blond hair, holding a guitar. The boy’s eyes had the distracted look of seeing something beyond the camera that was so familiar in later pictures of Billy.

“He was sixteen here,” Mrs. Lockett said. “It was taken just before he left home. We have a scrapbook of pictures and clippings about Billy after he became famous, but I don’t suppose you’d want to see them.”

“Thanks, I’ve probably seen most of those,” Hardeman said. He cleared his throat, wanting to ask more, but reluctant to bring back painful memories to these people. “How … how did you feel about Billy’s leaving home?”

Thomas Lockett answered. “We were absolutely against it. I’d always thought Billy would go on to college, but the parents don’t make those decisions any more. Billy was too restless. He had a year left to go in high school. There was no way to stop him, so all I could do was help him. Billy did agree that if he wasn’t able to support himself in two years he’d come home and finish school. Well, I told you about Billy’s luck. A year after he left home he was working steadily in clubs and making records. Then he signed a contract with Al Fessler, and you know what happened after that.”

Mrs. Lockett put the album away, they all had another piece of cake, and at eight o’clock Thomas Lockett drove Hardeman to his hotel. It was a turn-of-the-century brick building with small, clean rooms that smelled of fresh linen. The night was so quiet it seemed lined with velvet. Hardeman slept like an innocent and was up early for a huge breakfast before taxiing to the airport to catch the twin Beech out of town.

On the flight back to Los Angeles Hardeman penciled a few notes on his impressions of Belford and the meeting with the Locketts. He read the notes over and nodded to himself, satisfied. He knew the writing would go well today, and tomorrow he would be with Joyce.

CHAPTER 21

Conn Driscoll stretched out on the bed until his joints creaked. He let out a long, contented sigh and turned his head to grin at the lithe, auburn-haired woman who lay beside him. He leaned toward her and kissed her lightly at the corner of her mouth.

“Delicious,” he said.

Joyce Hardeman smiled back at him. “My, aren’t we pleased with ourself today.”

“Go ahead,” he said, “tell me you didn’t enjoy it.”

“Better than watching a bad old movie,” she teased.

“What about a good old movie?”

She put a finger to her cheek and pretended to consider. “That would be a difficult choice. Who’s in the movie?”

Driscoll laughed. “Okay, I won’t insist on comparisons.” He laid a hand on the smooth, taut skin of her stomach. Joyce put her hand on top of his.

“Can you reach my cigarettes?” she said.

He turned away from her for a moment and took the package of Parliaments from the night stand. He shook one out of the pack and gave it to her, chuckling as he touched the flame of her lighter to the cigarette.

“What’s funny?” she said.

“I am reminded of an old joke.”

“Well?”

“The guy says to the girl, ‘Do you smoke after sex?’ and she says, ‘No, but I perspire a lot.’”

“God, I am trapped with a bedroom comedian.”

“Would you like to hear my impression of W.C. Fields?”

“Not if I have another choice.”

“John Wayne?”

“God!”

“You have no appreciation for talent.”

Joyce reached down and stroked his relaxed organ. “I don’t know about that.”

He kissed her, feeling his desire stirring again, but he could not help noticing that while she returned his kiss, she was carefully holding her cigarette so the ashes would not fall in the bed.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“A quarter to six. Hungry?”

“No, I had a late lunch.”

“Then who cares what time it is?”

“I have some work I brought home with me that I should be getting started on.”

“Work? After I connived to get a whole evening free from promoting Billy?”

“I have to earn a living, you know, I’m not a madcap heiress.”

“Why don’t you play hooky tonight? I’ve got a pair of freebies to the Dodger game.”

“No, thanks, baseball is not really my thing.”

“Is it baseball or is it Conn Driscoll?”

“You can lie here naked in my bed and ask that?”

“It’s just that I’ve known you three weeks now, and you’ve never let me take you out anywhere.”

“Don’t you like coming here?”

“Of course I do. It’s just that I’d like to take you somewhere once in a while. Show you off.”

“Like a trophy?”

“You know better than that.”

“Yes, I know, Conn, but you’re pushing me, and that makes me uncomfortable.”

“Well, excuse me,” he said moodily.

She reached over and ran a finger down his jaw and across the line of his lips. “We’re not going to sulk now, are we?”

Driscoll held the stern expression as long as he could, then relaxed into a grin. “Are you sure that at one time you weren’t a nurse?”

“Why?”

“All this ‘we’ business.”

She kissed him lightly on the mouth and stepped out of bed. “Shower time.”

“We?” he said hopefully.

“No, you. I really do have work to do, and taking a shower together would not put me in the right frame of mind.”

Driscoll sighed with elaborate resignation and padded into Joyce’s blue-tiled bathroom. There he showered, lathering himself generously with her scented soap, and came out into the bedroom rubbing himself dry with one of her oversize bath towels. Joyce was not in the room.

“How about tomorrow night?” he called.

“Can’t,” she answered from the living room. “I have an art class.”

“Friday?”

“I’m having dinner with Dean.”

Driscoll fastened the towel around his waist and walked to the doorway. “How come you go out to dinner with him but not with me?”

Joyce was seated at a small desk, wearing a short, pale green robe. She turned from the papers she was studying to look at Driscoll. “Would you rather I went out to dinner with you and brought Dean up here?”

“Damn it, Joyce, I’m serious.”

“I know you are.”

“And you’re not ready to be serious, is that it?”

Her answer was a long, level look.

Driscoll went back into the bedroom and hurried his dressing. He deliberately did not watch Joyce as she came in and prepared to take her shower. He recognized the dull ache in the region of his solar plexus as jealousy. Jealousy, for Christ sake, that most juvenile and unrewarding of emotions. He had thought himself much too sophisticated for that. Echoes of high school days — waiting in the shadows for the hated rival to emerge from the house of the loved one, terrible imaginings of their intimacies. By now, he told himself, he should be cured of such nonsense.

He finished putting his clothes on. She stood in the bathroom doorway, still wearing the robe, waiting for him to leave.

“Okay,” he said, putting on a smile, “no more serious.”

“Not for a while, anyway,” she said.

“It’s a deal. I’ll call you.”

She watched him, saying nothing.

He wanted to swing jauntily out of the apartment without looking back, but he could not make himself do it. He went over and put his arms around Joyce and kissed her. She kissed him back, but there was a coolness between them that had not been there before.

“See you,” he said.

“See you.”

He walked out through the living room and let himself out.

• • •

Driscoll’s mood was unsettled as he pulled onto the San Diego Freeway and headed south for the Marina. It was the closest he and Joyce had come to having a real argument, and he didn’t like it. What depressed him the most was that he knew he was wrong. Neither he nor Joyce had made any committments other than to enjoy each other when circumstances permitted. An arrangement like that had always suited him before, so why should it be any different this time?

Could he be falling in love?

He rejected the idea at once. He was too hip for such childish notions. Besides, he had too many other things going for him right now.

Tonight, however, he did need a diversion to keep his thoughts off Joyce Hardeman. The baseball game. That would do it. While he was not an all-out fan, Driscoll enjoyed baseball. The setting was restful and orderly — red dirt infield, clean white chalk lines, rich green grass. Yes, it was still real grass at Dodger Stadium. The geometric pattern of the diamond was pleasing to his eye, and the shifting strategies of the game itself stimulated his mind.

But whom to go with? Going to a baseball game alone was unthinkable. None of the women he knew cared anything about sports, and Driscoll hated it when they faked an interest. The married men among his friends were unlikely to go out on such short notice. The unmarried men who came to mind were more interested in adding to their scores at the singles bars.

A name popped suddenly into his mind. Kitty Girodian. She seemed like the kind of a girl who just might enjoy a baseball game. And he would not have to put on an act to entertain her. What the hell, he had nothing to lose.

At the first opportunity Driscoll pulled off the freeway and called Kitty’s number from a telephone booth outside a service station.

“A baseball game? Tonight?”

“I know this is short notice, but I just got the tickets from a sportswriter friend this afternoon.”

“Who’s playing?”

“Dodgers and the Reds.”

“That ought to be good. Will you feed me at the ballpark?”

“All you can eat.”

“You’ve got a deal.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.” Driscoll left the phone booth whistling.

The baseball game turned out to be a huge success. Not only did the Dodgers win a thriller from Cincinnati, 7-6, but Kitty Girodian showed a real knowledge of the game and an enthusiasm that delighted Driscoll. They ate hot dogs and drank beer and criticized the umpires.

On the way home they talked animatedly about the game. Sometimes in making a point Kitty would touch his leg lightly with her fingers. Driscoll found himself unusually sensitive to her touch.

“That was fun tonight,” he said, turning up Kitty’s street in Palms. “I mean it.”

“Good. It was fun for me too. That was my first ball game since I’ve been in Los Angeles.”

“I’m glad it was a good game,” he said.

“I think I would have had a good time even if we had lost 10-0.”

Driscoll looked over at the dark-eyed girl and laughed. “Me too, only not quite as good.”

She answered his laugh, and Driscoll returned his attention to the apartment-lined street.

“Am I seeing things,” he said, “or is that really a parking place right in front of your building?”

“I believe it is,” she said. “Fantastic. Another first for me in Los Angeles.”

Driscoll pulled into the vacant space and got out. He went around to open the door for Kitty, and they walked together through the tropical shrubbery to the entrance. Kitty fished through her bag for a key, found it, and looked up at Driscoll. Her eyes seemed luminous in the dark. Neither of them were laughing now.

“Thanks for the game,” she said. “I really enjoyed myself.”

“So did I,” he said. He put his hands behind her shoulders and she came easily into his arms. He kissed her and could not help comparing her kiss to Joyce Hardeman’s. Kitty’s was softer and not as insistent, but it seemed more spontaneous and promised other things to come. Driscoll knew she was going to ask him to come in. He also knew that if he went inside with her, they would wind up in bed.

He said, “I know you’ve got to go to work tomorrow, and so do I, so I won’t keep you out here necking until all hours.”

She looked up at him, a little surprised, then smiled and fitted her key into the lock. “You’re right,” she said. “We’ll have to try this on a weekend.”

“That’s a date. Goodnight, Kitty, I’ll call you soon.”

She squeezed his hand briefly, then slipped in through the door.

As he drove home to the Marina, Driscoll glanced up at himself in the rearview mirror. “Gallahad,” he muttered. “Protector of maidens. Stalwart champion of spiritual love. Who are you kidding?”

What had been his motive for sidestepping a certain invitation from Kitty Girodian? It certainly was not that she failed to attract him. Au contraire! Unlike him as it was, Driscoll finally had to admit that when and if he went to Kitty’s bed, he did not want it to be straight from the bed of another woman.

He realized, with a small start of pleasure, that this was the first time all night he had thought about Joyce Hardeman. There is nothing like a woman, he told himself, to take your mind off a woman.

CHAPTER 22

The ice cubes made nervous clinking sounds as Dean Hardeman swirled the drink around on the bar. It was the same tall bourbon and water he had ordered fifteen minutes earlier. He had taken only spare sips out of it.

He lit his third cigarette since arriving at the restaurant and looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. He had to stop worrying about Joyce, she would be here. Joyce had always been punctual.

He wished she would have let him come for her in a cab. That was the way he had always done it in New York. Meeting a woman in a restaurant seemed to lack class. No, he had to stop thinking that way. This was California; they did things differently out here. He had to be more flexible.

Henri’s, the restaurant Joyce had chosen, was a small, quiet, Frenchified place in Beverly Hills. It had male waiters, a crystal chandelier, and high prices. Hardeman mashed out his cigarette and was starting to light another when he saw Joyce come in.

She was tall and poised in a silver-trimmed black sweater and black velvet pants. Hardeman got up from the bar and went over to meet her.

“Hello, Joyce. You look … wonderful.” The words came out flat and dull, not at all the way he intended them to sound.

“Hello, Dean.” She offered her hand. Cool, strong.

The maître d’ escorted them to their table, and a waiter appeared instantly bearing Hardeman’s unfinished drink on a tray.

“A cocktail for madame?” The waiter asked.

Hardeman looked inquiringly to his ex-wife.

“No, thank you,” she said. When the waiter had gone away she spoke to Hardeman. “I’m not drinking these days, but you go ahead and finish yours.”

“The truth is I’m not putting it away like I used to either.” He lifted the glass toward her in an awkward salute. “But this is a special occasion.”

She smiled fleetingly, and Hardeman took a swallow of the drink.

“I understand you’re working on a book,” she said.

“Yes, yes I am. No big thing, an assignment, really. But it is a book, and I’m writing well. The important thing is I’ve got an idea for a really big one after this. It might even grow into a trilogy.”

“That’s wonderful, Dean.” She paused while he held a flame to her cigarette. “I’m glad for you.”

Did she really think it was wonderful? Her response was not as warm as he had hoped for. Guarded. Still, it was better than nothing.

“So you’re out at UCLA?”

“That’s right.”

“Not teaching?”

“No, nothing like that. I help with research projects in the sociology department. Not much of a topic for dinner conversation.”

All right, so she didn’t want to talk about her job. That was fine, neither did he.

“How do you like California by now?” Stupid question. What was the matter with him? He sounded like he’d been taking bore lessons.

“I love it,” she said. “I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live anywhere else.”

Was there a message there? Don’t try to talk me into going back to New York?

“You can’t beat the climate, that’s for sure.” Jesus, talk about inane dialog. How did his glass get empty so fast?

The waiter materialized silently at their table. “Another cocktail, sir?”

“No … well, yes, maybe I will.” He smiled across the table at Joyce. “Special occasion and all.”

“That was a bourbon and water, tall, sir?” asked the waiter.

“Yes, but this time in a short glass.” Was that a flicker of disapproval in Joyce’s eyes? “You can bring the menus back with you.” That should demonstrate that he was more interested in eating than in drinking.

Hardeman busied himself lighting a cigarette and pretending to study the décor until the waiter came back with his fresh drink and the menus.

“Nice place,” he said.

“Not bad.”

The return of the waiter saved him from having to force more small talk. He tasted the drink and ran his eyes down the dishes listed in the menu.

“What do you suggest?” he asked Joyce.

“They’re famous here for their filet of sole Côte d’ Azur.”

“Fine.” Hardeman gave the order to the waiter, then picked up the wine list. “And you can bring us a bottle of Musigny Blanc.” When the waiter had gone, Hardeman turned to Joyce. “You are drinking wine?”

She answered with a little shake of her head.

“No kidding. Well, here’s to sobriety.” He raised the glass and drank, the ice rattling against his teeth. As he set the glass back down he caught the waiter’s eye and signaled for another. He had to get loosened up if he was going to stop this idiotic chatter and tell Joyce the things that were really on his mind.

“This place is a little like Les Frères on 58th Street, isn’t it?”

“A little.”

What was he going to have to do to communicate with this woman? His drink arrived and he finished half of it immediately.

“We had some good times there,” he said. “Les Frères.”

Joyce studied him for a long moment, then deliberately crushed out her cigarette. “Yes, Dean, we had some good times there and at other places. We also had some rotten times. If we’re going to play Remember When, let’s talk about those too. Like the time you broke little Ellie Harlan’s nose because he didn’t laugh hard enough at one of your jokes. Or the time you broke down the door to the men’s room at the Red Chimney because you couldn’t get it open. Or the time Norman Fine brought his new wife over to our table in the Rose Room and you thought it was amusing to try out every four-letter word you knew on her.”

Hardeman held up a hand to say he’d had enough. His smile felt loose. “You win, there’ll be no playing Remember When. I was an asshole. I admit it, and I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Joyce.”

“Never mind. It’s over now.”

Jesus, so final.

“Tell me, is there anybody special in your life these days?” Oh, that was wonderful. Light and subtle as a belch.

“You mean men?”

“You haven’t switched to women, have you?” The forced smile wanted to slide off his face. Who was saying these dreadful things in his voice?

“No, Dean, I still like men. As for specials, there are a few. No one-and-only. How about you?”

“Oh, the usual. Like you, playing the field, but not looking for a fulltime thing.” What bullshit. He hadn’t been laid in three months, and that time it had been the orange-haired widow across the street who took on everybody in the neighborhood, including delivery boys. Hardeman wanted his wife so bad at that moment he could have cried.

The salad arrived, and the wine. Hardeman went through the ritual of examining the label and taking a small sip before nodding his approval for the waiter to fill the glass. The waiter went away, and Hardeman took a healthy swallow of wine before speaking.

“Are you happy out here, Joyce? I mean really, honestly happy?”

“Reasonably so. I have my good and bad days, like everybody else.”

“I wish I could say that. All I have lately is bad days and worse days.”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

“Are you really? I couldn’t blame you much if you kind of enjoyed seeing me go downhill.”

“I’m not that kind of a person, Dean, and you know it. We went through our bad times together, and we called it quits. Now you have your life and I have mine. It wouldn’t do me any good to see you hurt.”

Hardeman drew a deep breath. It was time to get it said. “Joyce, … can we try it again?”

She took a bite of her salad and chewed thoughtfully, not looking at him. When she met his gaze, her eyes were veiled and unreadable.

“No,” she said quietly.

“It wouldn’t be the way it was before. I’m back on the track now. I know where I’m going. I’m writing again, and I’ve got plans for the future.”

“It didn’t work before,” she said coolly, “and it wouldn’t work this time.”

“I’m not the same man I was, Joyce. On my next birthday I’ll be fifty years old, but I feel like I’ve just grown up.”

“For your sake, I’m glad to hear it, but it doesn’t affect you and me.”

Hardeman emptied the wine glass. The waiter hurried over to refill it.

“Everything about you affects me. Joyce, I was lying about playing the field. There are no women in my life to amount to anything. There haven’t been in five years.”

She shook her head sadly. “I’m sorry, Dean, that’s not my problem.”

“Damn it, don’t you know what I’m saying? I’m saying you’re the only woman in the world I want. I want us back together.”

“I know what you’re saying, Dean. I’ve heard it all before. We’ve been through this whole scene before. I’m tired of it. I don’t want to hurt you, but I have to make it plain that I do not want a reconciliation.” She spaced the words out carefully, as though speaking to a child. “It’s over, Dean.”

There was a dull ringing in his ears. When he spoke the words had a faraway sound, as though someone else was talking and he was standing apart listening. “What you mean is that things are different now that the royalty checks aren’t coming in.”

“You know that isn’t true.”

“Oh, isn’t it? I notice that you didn’t find our life together so hard to take when we could skip off to Cannes or Switzerland or Acapulco whenever you felt like it.”

“I loved you then, Dean.”

“Sure you did, and when the money stopped flowing in, you decided maybe you weren’t so much in love.”

Joyce put down her salad fork and looked him in the eye. “I was talked into coming here to meet you tonight. It was against my better judgement. I did it because it seemed important to you. But understand this, I will not take your abuse.”

“Oh, you won’t, won’t you? Whose abuse are you taking these days? Who’s paying the rent for your fancy Westwood apartment? How is he in bed? You used to have quite an appetite in bed, as I remember.” Who was the madman saying these things through his mouth?

Joyce’s eyes flashed, but she said nothing. She clutched her bag and started to rise from the table. Hardeman reached across and grasped her wrist.

“Let go of me, Dean, I’m leaving now.”

“Wait a minute. We haven’t talked yet.”

“You’ve done all the talking I want to hear.”

“Don’t get superior with me, lady. Remember, I’ve seen you with your clothes off.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You remember it, mister, because you never will again. Now, take your hand off me.”

“God damn it, listen to me. You make me say things I don’t really mean.”

“Let go of my arm, Dean. Or do you want me to call someone?”

The maitre d’, alerted by a signal from the waiter, moved smoothly to the table. “Is everything all right?”

“It’s all right,” Joyce said, keeping her eyes on Hardeman, “I was just leaving.”

Hardeman relaxed his grip and she stood up. The maitre d’ quickly removed the chair.

“Goodbye, Dean,” she said, and walked out tall, straight and proud, without looking back.

“M’sieur will be wanting dinner?” asked the maître d’, unruffled.

“No. M’sieur will be wanting a drink. Bourbon. On the rocks. Double.”

Hardeman sat watching glumly as the maître d’ relayed the order to the waiter. He had fucked up again. For a week he had been thinking about the things he was going to say to Joyce tonight. He had even typed out a page of prospective dialog. So what happened when he was actually sitting across the table from her? He opened his mouth and out came nothing but whining, complaining, criticizing crap. He could not blame Joyce for walking out.

The waiter came over and set the drink down in front of him, then went away.

Hardeman smiled a tight, humorless smile. “Set ’em up, Joe,” he said too softly for anyone to hear. “I’ve got a little story you ought to know …”

CHAPTER 23

Billy Lockett stood in the corner of Al Fessler’s office holding his white sequined guitar and looking as though he were about to start singing at any moment. Not the real Billy Lockett, of course, but a life-size plywood cutout with a photographic reproduction of Billy in one of his trademark glittery jumpsuits.

The effigy was a prototype that Conn Driscoll had dropped off for Al’s approval. The plan was that cardboard copies would go into record shops and ticket agencies all over the city. Fessler had liked the idea and told Driscoll to go ahead, but he still felt uneasy having the realistic Billy in the room with him, watching. After a while he walked over and turned Billy’s face to the wall. Now it was nothing but a piece of plywood.

Another white number clicked into place on Fessler’s digital desk clock. He had fifteen minutes before a scheduled meeting with Rick Girodian. It was not a meeting Al was looking forward to with pleasure, but Rick had flatly refused to deal any more with Conn Driscoll. He wouldn’t say why. Al decided this might be a good time to get Driscoll’s explanation. He reached over and buzzed his secretary on the intercom.

“Get Conn Driscoll for me, honey. You can probably find him at his home number.”

What a life, Al thought. Live in a high-priced Marina apartment, do a little work there now and then, and write off most of the rent as business expense. Today Driscoll was supposedly typing up a new batch of handouts for the press, but likely as not he was in the saddle with one of those cupcakes he hung around with. But what the hell, as long as Driscoll delivered, Al didn’t care what he did with his private life.

The telephone beeped, and Al picked up the receiver. Driscoll’s voice came over the line, professional and enthusiastic, as always.

“Al, what’s happening?”

“I thought maybe you could tell me. Our friend Rick Girodian calls me up and says he wants to talk about the list of songs I gave you for him to sing at the concert. ‘See Driscoll,’ I tell him. ‘Driscoll’s handling the concert.’ ‘I don’t want to talk to that prick,’ he says. What is it with you and Girodian, anyway?”

A short hesitation at the other end before Driscoll answered. “It’s probably because I’ve taken his sister out a couple of times. I don’t think Rick approves of me.”

“Sonofabitch, Driscoll, can’t you keep your pants buttoned at least until this promotion is over? It’s just some little thing like this that could fuck up the whole show.”

“Al, I haven’t laid a hand on the girl. I like her, that’s all.”

“If Girodian thinks you’re screwing her, it amounts to the same thing.”

Driscoll’s sigh came clearly through the phone. “Okay, Al, I’ll watch it. Was there anything else?”

Fessler found he was annoyed by the offhand tone of Driscoll’s voice. He said, “Yeah, as a matter of fact, there is something else. Your high-powered book writer, Mr.

Dean Hardeman. What’s he doing?”

“I don’t get your meaning.”

“My meaning is where the fuck are the pages? The publisher is getting antsy.”

A little of the assurance went out of Driscoll’s voice. “Dean knows what our deadline is. I’m sure he’s close to wrapping it up.”

“Oh, really? Just how sure are you, anyway? Have you seen him lately?”

“You know he doesn’t like to be disturbed while he’s working.”

“He’s working for me, goddammit, and I’ll interrupt him any fucking time I want to. He’s not writing the great fucking American novel. At least he better not be, because that’s not what I’m paying him for.”

“Dean knows what we want,” Driscoll said.

“Does he? What I want right now is some fucking action. When was the last time you talked to our Shakespeare, anyway?”

“Oh … it’s been several days, I guess.”

“How many goddamn days?”

“Let me see, I talked to him when he came back from the trip to Indiana …”

“Aha. That’s three fucking weeks ago.”

“Not quite.”

“Close enough. Listen, Driscoll, get your ass out of that pussy palace you live in and go find out what the hell our literary genius is doing. For all I know, the son of a bitch could be taking us for a ride. You get pages from Hardeman, or you write the goddamn book yourself while we still got time to get it printed. One way or another, I want action.”

“I’ll see him tomorrow,” Driscoll said. “Will that be soon enough?”

“Okay,” Al said, his anger suddenly drained. “Let me know what happens.”

He hung up the telephone and looked down at what he had doodled on his desk pad: dollar signs and daggers.

A beep from the intercom. Al punched the button.

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Girodian to see you.”

Al made an effort to pump some heartiness into his voice. “Fine, fine. Tell him to come on in.”

He pulled his face into a smile of greeting. Rick Girodian wore his customary Armenian scowl.

“Sit down, Rick, sit down. Take the comfortable chair. You and me haven’t had a chance to talk in a long time. How long’s it been, anyway?”

“It’s been since you dumped me on my butt after the breakup with Billy.”

“Now, Rick, I went over all that with you at the time. I had no choice, you know that.”

“We’ll let that go for now. What I want to talk about is the list of songs I’m supposed to sing at the concert.”

“What about them?”

“I’m not going to do them, that’s what. I don’t sing those chestnuts any more. They’re dated. I’ve got new material that says something about where I’m at today, and that’s what I’m going to do at the concert.”

Keep your temper, Al told himself. Remember, you do owe the kid something. He said, “Rick, the songs on that list, they’re the big ones you did when you were working with Billy.”

“Don’t you think I know that? I hear those songs in my sleep. I’m sick of them. What I’m telling you is that I don’t do them any more. I’ve got new material that’s better.”

“That may be, Rick, but new material ain’t what the kids are going to expect to hear from you. They want the golden oldies you did with Billy. Don’t forget, this is Billy’s concert.”

“The hell it is! Billy’s dead!”

Al Fessler’s expression hardened, the tone of his voice chilled. “That is not what it says on our concert posters. Take a look for yourself. Billy Lives!”

“I don’t care about that hype, I care about my career. I will not do those old songs.”

Fessler leaned across the desk, putting his face close to the younger man’s. His voice was cold as gunmetal. “All right, Rick, you don’t have to sing anything you don’t want to. You also don’t have to be in my concert. Maybe your career is going so great you don’t need the exposure. Okay. My concert don’t need you either.”

Although there was little change in Rick Girodian’s scowl, Fessler could sense that his rebellion was over.

“How about doing just one of my new ones?”

“You do your and Billy’s songs, just like on the list. If there’s time, maybe we can work something out.”

Rick’s dark eyes wavered, then looked away. He was beaten.

What the hell, Al thought, throw the kid a bone. “Listen, Rick, after this concert you’re going to be a hot property again. You’re bound to land a fat new record contract, and then you can cut all the new material you want to. Play ball with me now, and it will pay off for you later.”

Rick gave him a fractional nod, then got up and went out of the office.

Al drew a long, relieved breath. It would be all right now. He had no worries that Rick would doublecross him and pull some switches at the concert. The kid was hard to get along with sometimes, but he was a pro. He knew you didn’t cross a promoter unless you were such a big superstar that you didn’t need anybody. Rick Girodian was a long ways from being that big.

A commotion from the outer office brought Al out of his reverie. He walked over to the door to see what was happening. He stopped short when he saw five young girls and two boys, all wearing Billy T-shirts, kneeling on the carpet of the outer office. They were fingering their Billy Lockett lockets like crucifixes and mumbling incoherently. The only word Al could make out was the repeated name: “Billy.”

Al looked over at his secretary, who was watching the kneeling young people worriedly.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “They just came in, asked for Billy, and started … doing what they’re doing.”

Al took a firm stance. “Hey, you kids. You can’t stay in here. We have work to do.” As he spoke, the door opened and a half dozen more came in.

From outside in the courtyard a youthful voice began to call rhythmically, “Billy … Billy … Billy …” More voices took up the call, and soon it sounded like the cheering section at a high school basketball game. Only more ominous.

“Billy … Billy … We want Billy!”

The ones who had been kneeling had risen now and were facing him. Their faces were empty, their eyes bright and fastened on Al’s.

“Look, fun is fun, kids, but how about going somewhere else, okay?” Even in his own ears Al’s words had no conviction.

“We … want … Billy!”

More of them were coming into the office now, moving toward him.

“Billy … Billy … BILLY!”

Jesus Christ, thought Al, they were completely freaked out. Call the cops? No good. A rock promoter can in no way afford to become known as a friend of the police. Anyway, these crazies looked like they might tear him apart before the cops could get here.

“We want Billy! We want Billy!”

The outer office was jammed now, and still they kept pushing in from the courtyard. Al’s secretary had retreated into a corner behind her desk. Her eyes were wide, staring. She had both hands pressed to her mouth. Al was afraid she would scream and touch off a riot.

As the chanting youngsters kept coming relentlessly, Al backed into his own office. He held up his hands in a peacemaking gesture, talking all the while, saying anything that came into his head, trying to halt the oncoming surge of bodies.

“Billy … Billy … Billy … BILLY!”

Before he realized it, Al had backed into the wall opposite the office door. Something moved as his shoulder blades pushed into it. The plywood cutout. He whirled and seized the effigy in both hands, turning it around to face the chanting mass of young people who were flooding into his office.

“Here!” he shouted. “You want Billy? Here’s Billy. Take him!”

He thrust the wooden cutout forward. The surge of movement in the office and the chanting stopped as though a switch had been thrown.

“Go ahead,” said Al, speaking quietly, reasonably. “Take him.”

After a long ten seconds ticked by a thin girl in a Billy T-shirt stepped forward. She extended her arms slowly and took the wooden Billy gently, reverently from Al’s hands. She turned and walked slowly back out the door. The others parted for her like the Red Sea, filling in behind, and following her through the outer office, into the courtyard, and away. In minutes the office was empty and quiet, as though the terrible children had never been there.

Al looked down and saw his hands trembling. He gripped one hand with the other and held them until they were still. Then he went through the doorway to the outer office. His secretary was still standing backed into the corner where he had last seen her. Her eyes still held fear.

“Why don’t you go on home, honey,” Al said as gently as possible. “I’ll close up here.”

It took several seconds for his words to register. The girl looked at him, gave him an uneven smile, and nodded, unwilling to test her voice. She quickly straightened her desk, picked up her bag, and left him alone.

When the girl was gone, Al let himself relax. He walked back into his own office and dropped into the chair. He did not want to think about the deeper implications of what he had just seen. Put it down to a bunch of crazy kids. Nevertheless, it had left him shaken.

Had Conn Driscoll been here, thought Al, he probably would have gotten some publicity mileage out of the thing. Called the papers, got photographers over. Maybe even a television crew.

Or maybe even Driscoll, when he looked into the empty eyes of those children, would have felt the terror.

CHAPTER 24

The afternoon was bright and cheerful, but Conn Driscoll’s mood was dismal as he drove into Hollywood. This trip was one he would much rather have avoided. He had, in fact, been avoiding it for more than two weeks, ever since Joyce had told him of the disastrous dinner at Henri’s with Dean Hardeman. Driscoll had tried to telephone since then, but there had been no answer from the author. Maybe Hardeman had been so deeply involved in the book that he could not be bothered answering the phone. That was what Driscoll wanted to believe, but in his heart he knew better. After the call from Al Fessler yesterday, there could be no more avoiding the issue. Getting Dean Hardeman out here was Driscoll’s responsibility, and now he had to follow through.

He found a parking place on Franklin and walked the half block back to the apartment-hotel he had found for Hardeman. It was an L-shaped building, two floors with a small swimming pool tucked into the angle of the L. The manager was a friend of Driscoll’s.

Hardeman’s small apartment was on the second floor at the rear of the building. A good quiet place to work, so Driscoll had thought at the time.

He knocked on the door, waited, knocked again. Across the railing and one floor down, sunlight danced off the surface of the pool. Driscoll hammered on the door with the meat end of his fist. There were vague rustling sounds inside but still no response. More hammering. Same indistinct sounds.

Driscoll went down to the manager’s apartment and got the key.

“Need any help?” asked his friend.

“I don’t think so.”

Driscoll climbed the stairs back up to the second floor and went down the walkway to Hardeman’s door. He caught himself almost wishing he would find Dean Hardeman murdered by some mysterious intruder. That would get everybody off the hook.

Shaking off the unworthy thought, he unlocked the door and pushed it open. Something clunked against the base of the door and rolled silently away across the carpet. A whiskey bottle. One of several.

The room stank of sweat and stale cigarette smoke. Bottles and wadded paper littered the floor. The contents of a torn sack of Cheese Puffs were scattered across the room, some ground into the carpet. The sofa bed was pulled out, sheets and blanket twisted into a tangle. Dean Hardeman sprawled across the bed wearing only boxer shorts and a pair of blue socks. His face was dark with an uneven growth of beard. His mouth was open. He was snoring.

“Dean,” Driscoll called.

A slight shifting of the shoulders.

“Dean!” louder.

A muffled groan.

“Goddamn it,” Driscoll muttered through clenched teeth. He looked around and spotted the table with the typewriter on it. And another empty bottle. The table was covered with a profusion of papers. Driscoll poked through them gingerly. Notes, outlines, descriptions, manuscript pages. No semblance of order as far as he could see.

He turned and looked back at the prostrate author. “Goddamn it,” he said again. How the hell do you go about reviving a drunk. In the movies a dash of cold water in the face always seemed to do the trick. It was worth a try.

He went into the tiny kitchen and filled a tall glass with water from the tap, then carried it back to where Hardeman lay, now mumbling in his sleep. Driscoll held the glass out at arm’s length, then turned it upside down letting the water splash over Hardeman’s face and chest.

It worked just like in the movies. Hardeman jerked into a sitting position, spluttering and coughing up the water he had inhaled.

“What the hell? Who’s that?” Comprehension came slowly into the author’s face. He shook his head and blinked several times. “Hello, Conn.”

“You don’t look so good,” Driscoll said.

“I’ll tell you something, I probably look twice as good as I feel.” He touched his head where the hair was wet. “What did you hit me with?”

“A glass of water.”

“Thank God, I thought I was bleeding.” Holding his head with one hand, Hardeman groped on the floor and came up with a bottle. He scowled, seeing that it was empty. “How about a drink? There must be one around here somewhere with something left in it.”

“I don’t want a drink.” Driscoll said.

“What’s the matter, too early for you? What the hell, it’s Tuesday, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t got time for kidding around, Dean.”

“You’re not going to lecture me, are you?”

“Lecture you? Who the hell do you think I am, your father? I don’t give a damn what you do to yourself unless it concerns my job. Right now my job is to get the book out, and if I have to sober you up to do it, I will. But lectures? Forget it.”

“Wait a minute,” Hardeman said. He rose unsteadily to his feet and went into the bathroom. He closed the door and there was the sound of water running.

Driscoll walked over and pushed open the window that looked out over the walkway to the swimming pool. Pale gray smoke rolled out of the room through the open window. Driscoll leaned out and drew a deep breath of fresh air.

After several minutes Dean Hardeman came back from the bathroom. His eyes were red, his face pale. He seemed to have aged ten years.

“Have a seat,” he said. “If you can find one.”

Driscoll remained standing.

“Oh-oh,” Hardeman said with a shaky grin, “I think you’re mad at me.”

“Dean, we’ve got to talk seriously.”

“I knew it; here it comes. I’m going to get Sermon Number Nine, all about the evils of drink, with pointed references to the last years of Scott Fitzgerald.”

“Maybe that’s what you really want,” Driscoll said levelly, “but you’re not going to get it from me. I’m not interested in making moral judgements, so let’s knock off the bullshit and talk about the book.

Hardeman dropped any attempt at banter. “The book’s all right,” he said. “I’ll get it done.”

“How much have you got finished?”

“That’s hard to answer in actual numbers of pages. Part of it’s in marked up copy, some in rough draft, some still in outline.”

“That’s it on the table, I suppose.”

Hardeman looked over at the jumble of papers. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“It doesn’t look like much.”

“Don’t worry, it’s more than it looks like.”

Driscoll felt strange talking this way to a man who had been his idol, but it had to be done. “You’ve got two weeks to deliver it to the printer.”

“Two weeks! Be serious, man. I can’t possibly finish the thing in two weeks. What do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a professional, and now is the time to prove it.”

“But two weeks!”

Driscoll held his eye. “Dean, that is the latest possible date the publisher can take the manuscript and get a book on the stands in time to do us any good for the concert.”

“That’s right,” Hardeman said, “the whole purpose of writing this book is to sell tickets to your rock concert, isn’t it?”

“You’re damn right it is,” said Driscoll, “and don’t let’s forget it.”

“Okay, okay. But two weeks …”

“If you can’t do it, Dean, give me what you’ve got and I’ll finish the job. One way or another, the printer will get this book on schedule.”

Hardeman scrubbed his fingers through his short gray hair. “The book will be done on time,” he said quietly. “I can do it.”

“I’ve got to be sure,” Driscoll said.

“My word on it.”

Driscoll began to relax. “Thanks, Dean, that’s all I need. Now what do you say we go out and get something to eat?”

“Not a bad idea.”

“There’s a Denny’s two blocks from here. We can walk it, and I’ll buy.”

“You’re on.” Hardeman ran the back of a hand across his stubble of beard. “Let me shower and shave first. We might run into somebody you know.”

Driscoll grinned. “I think my reputation could survive that, but go ahead.”

Hardeman started for the bathroom, then hesitated and looked around at the shambles of the room. “I’d better get the maid up here,” he said. “I’ve kept the poor woman locked out for two weeks.”

“I’ll call down and pass the word,” Driscoll said. You go on and take your shower.”

Fifteen minutes later a much healthier looking Hardeman appeared, and the two men left the apartment together.

At the restaurant Hardeman put away a big plate of scrambled eggs along with a double order of ham and hash browns. Driscoll settled for a Reuben sandwich on toasted rye bread. After the meal they sat back with coffee and cigarettes.

“Pretty juvenile, isn’t it,” Hardeman said, “for a grown man — no, make that a middle-aged man — to go off on a bender because a woman turns him down.”

“It’s as good a reason as any, I guess,” Driscoll said, not wanting to talk about it.

“She walked out on me, you know. Joyce.”

Driscoll sipped his coffee and said nothing.

“Conn, I sat there with Joyce in that little Frenchy restaurant, and I swear I had no control over the idiotic things that came out of my mouth. I couldn’t have done worse if I’d been trying to say everything wrong.”

“Yeah, well …”

“It’s been that way every damn time I’ve seen her since the divorce. Her cool and poised, me stumbling over my tongue. Grace Kelly and Huntz Hall. I simply could not get the idea out of my head that we were eventually going to get back together. This time, though, I think I finally got the message.”

“How so?” Driscoll asked, because he knew Hardeman wanted him to.

“It wasn’t easy, but at long last I got it through my head that it’s over. Reconciliations do not work. You can’t reheat an old soufflé.” He paused, staring down into his coffee. “Besides, she’s making it with somebody else.”

“Did Joyce say that?” Driscoll asked, keeping it casual.

“She didn’t have to. There are ways a man can tell. But why shouldn’t she? What the hell, Joyce is a healthy, good-looking woman. I never expected her to go into a convent.” He smiled without a lot of conviction. “You know, this is the first time I’ve been able to think lucidly about Joyce being with another man, let alone talk about it. A good sign, wouldn’t you say, doctor?”

“A good sign.” Driscoll stole a glance at his watch.

“Hey, if you’ve got to be somewhere, go ahead. I don’t need any more babysitting. I promise there are no bottles hidden in the chandelier.”

“I do have an appointment this afternoon with people from the Forum.”

“Take off. I’ll have another cup of coffee or two here to clear out the cobwebs and give the maid a chance to shovel the dirt out of my place.”

“If you don’t mind, then …”

“I don’t mind. And, Conn … thanks.”

“Forget it.”

“And don’t worry about the book. The publisher will have it in two weeks. There may be blood on the pages, but he’ll have it.”

“I’m not worried,” Driscoll said. He shook hands with the author and paid the check on his way out.

He should be feeling proud of himself, Driscoll thought, now that he had Hardeman and the book moving again. Anyway, Joyce Hardeman and her ex-husband were washed up long before he came into the picture.

So why did he feel guilty?

CHAPTER 25

When he finally left Denny’s and walked back to the apartment-hotel, Dean Hardeman was shaky and bone tired but clear-headed and fully sober for the first time in many days.

He found that the maid had thoroughly cleaned his room, changing all the linen and letting in the fresh air. She had gathered up all the bottles and conscientiously lined up on the kitchen counter those that still had some whiskey in them. Hardeman put the bottles away in a cupboard out of sight.

He did not have the energy to do any real writing in what was left of the day, but he did spend several hours organizing his manuscript. This involved throwing out most of what he had written in the last two weeks. It was rambling, self-indulgent prose done while he was drunk, and it was an embarrassment to read.

When he had pared the manuscript down to just the good pages, Hardeman sat back and figured out how much he had to do in the next two weeks to deliver as he had promised. It was going to be a difficult job, but not impossible. He folded out the freshly made sofa bed and slept deeply and without dreams.

In the morning Hardeman returned to Denny’s for a big breakfast, then hurried back to his room, eager to be at the typewriter. At first the words came slowly and painfully, with much wringing of hands and grinding of teeth. But by noon Hardeman had the old rhythm back and was writing smoothly and well. He smoked continuously, as always, but left the window wide open to keep the air in the room breathable.

By evening he had exceeded his personal page quota for the day, and felt he could have kept going for another couple of hours. He knew, however, that it was time to quit. If he worked on now he would be tempted to keep going past the point where the brain gets soggy and the writing starts to blur. By knocking off now he could leap right in tomorrow without missing a beat.

The trouble was that he was restless now. He was not ready to go to bed, did not feel like reading, and found nothing in the TV Guide that would hold his interest. He considered and discarded in the same moment the idea of calling up Joyce to apologize. A phone call like that could produce a number of results, none of them good. Sometime before leaving California he was going to have to talk to his ex-wife again, but he was not yet ready for it.

Hardeman wandered aimlessly about the small apartment. The closed door of the cupboard where the bottles were kept falling into his line of vision. He knew better than to open that door.

He might go for a walk, he thought, but that really didn’t appeal either. He had seen Hollywood Boulevard, and it depressed him. The idea of picking up a hooker occurred to him, but he rejected it. It would be just his luck to find one with a bunch of friends waiting in an alley to bust his head.

Still, company of some kind would help him relax tonight. Whom did he know in town? Conn Driscoll? No, Hardeman was still a little uneasy about seeing Driscoll again after yesterday. When someone has seen you in as wretched a condition as that, you like to give the memory a chance to fade before the next meeting.

Al Fessler? No, Fessler really didn’t seem like his kind of people.

There was nobody else, really. His friends, those who remained his friends, were all back in the New York area. Why not give somebody back there a call? A telephone conversation was no substitute for human companionship, but it was better than nothing.

Hardeman pulled out his wallet to get the small address book he kept in one of the pockets. As he did so, a folded sheet of paper fell to the floor. Hardeman opened it up and saw a name and telephone number in his own handwriting: Iris Ames. For a moment the name did not register, then he remembered. At Billy Lockett’s funeral — the blond girl with the great body in the Indian dress. The groupie. Hardeman smiled, remembering the girl’s pleasure at learning that he was, or at least had been, a famous author. He started to tuck the sheet of paper back into his wallet, then hesitated. What the hell, give it a try.

He sat down and pulled the telephone over, dialing the number written beneath Iris’s name. After three rings a girlish voice answered.

“H’lo?”

“Hello, may I speak to Iris?”

“This is me.”

“Hi, this is Dean Hardeman.” He paused for a beat, but there was no sign of recognition from the other end. “I don’t know if you remember me, but we met at Billy Lockett’s funeral.”

“I remember the funeral …”

“You and I were both interviewed for television,” he said hopefully.

“Oh, sure, you’re the book writer.” She sounded honestly pleased.

“How’ve you been?”

“Okay.”

So much for the preliminaries. Hardeman took a deep breath and continued. “Look, are you doing anything tonight?”

“I’m not sure.”

Hardeman mentally kicked himself. Someday, perhaps, he would learn better than to use that particular opening line. No woman ever wants to admit that she is not doing anything.

“Well, I’m not,” he said, “and I thought we might get together.”

“Sure, I guess so.”

As easy as that.

“Wonderful,” he said. “What time do you want me to pick you up?”

“My apartment’s in such a mess I’d hate to have you see it. Why don’t I come to your place?”

Didn’t men ever come to pick up their women in California? He told Iris his address on Franklin.

“That’s not far,” she said. “Give me a couple of hours to get cleaned up and I’ll see you there.”

“Do you have a car?” he asked.

“No, I’ll come on my bike.”

“Bike?” he repeated.

“I’ve got a ten-speed Fuji Road Racer.”

“Oh. Good for you. I’ll look for you here, then, in about two hours.”

“Right. ’Bye.” She hung up, and that was that.

Hardeman sat for a minute looking at the silent telephone. “Did I do the right thing?” he asked the instrument. “Hell, yes,” he answered himself, and broke into a wide grin.

He went into the bathroom and shaved, splashing his face liberally with Brut. Choice of athletes. He leaned closer to the mirror and examined himself. He tried thrusting his chin forward to firm up his jawline.

“Nothing to be done about it,” he told his reflection. “You’re forty-nine years old, and you look it.”

He consulted his watch. There was more than an hour and a half to kill before Iris would arrive. On an impulse, he left the apartment and headed for Hollywood Boulevard. He pinned a note to the door for Iris in case she came early.

Hollywood Boulevard, in addition to the skin flicks, the schlock shops, the tattoo parlors, and the Orange Julius stands, had a dozen bookstores in the six-block stretch between Highland and Wilcox. Hardeman went into four of them before he found one that had a copy of one of his books — upstairs with the remainders. Hardeman paid the marked down price for Yesterday’s Years and carried the book back to his apartment.

The note was still pinned to the door, so he had not missed Iris. He took the book inside and wrote on the title page: “To Iris, with affection, Dean Hardeman.” It was the first book he had autographed in years.

Shortly after eight o’clock Iris arrived at his door, bicycle and all.

“Hi. You don’t mind if I bring this in, do you?” she said, rolling the Fuji Road Racer across his threshold. “A person can’t leave a bike outside five minutes without getting it ripped off.”

“Bring it on in,” Hardeman said expansively. “There’s plenty of room for all of us.”

Iris leaned the machine carefully against a wall, then turned to face Hardeman, giving him time to look her over. She was wearing a striped tube top across her big breasts, and white jeans so tight they showed the V-shaped crease of her crotch.

“Do I look all right?” she asked.

“You look better than all right.”

She smiled and made a kissing mouth at him, then looked around.

“So this is where you live,” she said.

“For the moment.”

She prowled around the apartment, examining pictures, poking at furniture, like a cat checking out new surroundings. Hardeman stood by the door waiting for the girl to complete her tour.

“Kind of small,” was her judgement.

“It’s big enough for me and my typewriter.”

“You’re not going to live here all the time, are you?”

“No, just a month or so.”

“Then where are you going?”

“Back to New York, probably.”

“Oh.” Iris had little interest in New York. She crossed to the window and drew aside the drapery. “At least you’ve got a pool.”

“It’s something,” he agreed. Hardeman realized that he was suddenly quite hungry. He said, “Do you want to go out and have some dinner?”

“Not especially. Why don’t we have something sent up here? Do you like pizza?”

“Sure.”

“We can call Pizza Man. They’re pretty good, and they don’t take all night to deliver it.”

“Good enough.” Hardeman looked up the number of Pizza Man in the directory and dialed. To Iris he said, “What do you like on yours?”

“Everything but anchovies. They’re too salty.”

He ordered a large deluxe combination pizza, hold the anchovies. “What do you want to drink?” he said, covering the mouthpiece with his hand.

“Diet Coke, if they’ve got it.”

Pizza Man had no diet cola, so Iris agreed to settle for regular Coke. Hardeman relayed the message, and Pizza Man promised to have the order there in minutes.

“Why don’t we go down and look at the pool while we’re waiting?” Iris said.

Hardeman agreed, and they walked downstairs and stood at the edge of the sparkling blue oval, illuminated now by underwater lights. Iris sat down, took off her shoes, and splashed her feet in the water while Hardeman enjoyed the envious glances of a couple of his bachelor neighbors.

“It’s not heated,” Iris said. “It’s always better when the water’s heated.”

“It doesn’t matter to me,” Hardeman told her. “I can’t swim, anyway.”

She looked at him as though he had confessed to some incredible character flaw. “Really? As old as you are?”

For some reason the reference to his age did not bother him, coming from Iris Ames. “Really,” he admitted. Then, to let her know he was not entirely unathletic, “I can ride a horse, though.”

“Pooh, who cares about that? I’ll bet I could teach you to swim.”

“As old as I am?”

“Older people than you have learned. I’ll just bet I could.”

“I doubt it, but it might be fun trying.”

Iris nodded decisively as if the matter had now been settled.

Pizza Man arrived with their order, and they went back upstairs to eat it. Hardeman found that three of the thick pizza wedges, along with a beer from the refrigerator, filled him up. Iris had no difficulty polishing off the rest of the pizza. Hardeman enjoyed watching her eat. She had the enthusiastic appetite of a healthy young animal. When she finished a slice she would lick the tips of her fingers, glancing at him playfully.

When nothing remained but the empty pizza box, Iris thrust her legs out in front of her and stretched luxuriously with her arms up over her head. Her breasts rose and bounced sensually under the thin knitted top.

Hardeman wondered how, exactly, to bring up the topic of sex. It had never been a problem before, but in this case he was dealing with a girl thirty years younger than himself. He did not want to make some terrible generation gaffe.

Iris laid a hand casually in his lap. “I’ve got an idea,” she said, “let’s take off all our clothes and go to bed.”

For a moment Hardeman stared at her, then he laughed out loud. “You’re a wonder, Iris. You must have read my mind.”

She moved the hand in his lap, rubbing him. “I read you, all right, but it wasn’t your mind.”

No further conversation was necessary. Hardeman rose, pulling Iris up after him, and folded out the sofa bed while the girl got undressed.

Naked, Iris Ames’s body delivered everything it had promised clothed. Hardeman sat on the edge of the bed looking at her, liking the way she looked. Iris lay back easily on the bed with a soft smile.

“You really have a hell of a body,” he said.

“Yes, I know.”

He traced a finger across the soft globes of her breasts. “Nice tan too. How come no swimsuit line?”

“I sunbathe in the nude up on my roof.”

“Is your roof high enough so you don’t get peeping Toms?”

“Who cares. Anybody can watch me who wants to. I like it.”

Hardeman leaned down and kissed her mouth. Her lips were cool and tasted lightly of oregano. He kissed her chin, the hollow of her throat.

Once more, Iris seemed to know exactly what he wanted. She shifted her position on the bed, bringing one round, tan breast up into his face. He took the nipple into his mouth, then, cradling the resilient breast in both hands, he kneaded the flesh gently with his teeth, savoring the smooth, salty taste. When he brought his face back up next to hers, Iris again knew all the right moves.

• • •

She seemed in no hurry to get out of bed afterward, and that suited Dean Hardeman’s mood completely. When the only sex a man has had in three months is an overfed, orange-haired widow, he wants to enjoy every moment he can lying naked beside a beautifully built nineteen year old. Looking down at his own thickening middle, Hardeman wished he had done more to keep in shape.

“That’s all right,” Iris said, patting his stomach, “I kind of like it. You’d better not put on any more, though.”

“You must be a witch,” he said.

“Why?”

“The way you always know what I’m thinking is uncanny.”

“I’ve always been able to do that,” she said. Not boasting, merely stating a fact. “Just with men. People tell me I would have made a sensational hooker.”

“Did you ever consider it? Becoming a hooker?”

“Not really. I like to choose the men I go to bed with. Hookers can’t do that.”

“True,” Hardeman admitted. He kissed her on the ear. She turned her face to him and gave him a deep French kiss, then pulled away.

“You’re not going to fall in love with me, are you?”

“Maybe. A little bit.”

“No, I mean it. I like you, and I love to listen to you talk, and you’re fun in bed, but I don’t want love messing up things for us.”

“Okay,” he said seriously. “I promise. I will not fall in love with you.”

She relaxed and came into his arms. “That’s good. Now tell me about all the famous writers you know and what kind of things you talk about when you get together.”

Hardeman tried to remember what he talked about with other writers. All that came to mind was whose agent was robbing him and what publisher was excessively slow with the royalty checks and how come some Hollywood hack was doing the screenplay of a New York novel. He doubted whether such paranoid palaver would interest Iris Ames, so he dredged up from memory a string of Hemingway-Fitzgerald anecdotes, some of the Algonquin Round Table crosstalk, and a few Oscar Wilde ripostes and retold them, placing himself in the midst of the action. Iris loved the stories, even though most of the famous names he dropped were unfamiliar to her.

He sat up suddenly in the bed. “I almost forgot, I have a present for you.”

“Oh, good, I love presents.” Iris clasped her hands beneath her chin, looking much like a little girl, until you looked at her woman’s body.

Hardeman got out of bed and walked over to the typewriter table, where he had left the copy of his book. “Don’t get too excited,” he told her, “it’s just a book.”

He handed her the copy of Yesterday’s Years, and grinned with pleasure at the unfeigned look of delight on the girl’s face.

“One of your books!” She hugged the volume to her, squeezing her breasts out around the edges. “I love it! You couldn’t have gotten me anything I’d like better. Did you sign it?” She opened the book and flipped quickly through the introductory pages until she found where he had written.

“Oh. That’s nice.”

He sensed her disappointment. “Only nice?”

“It’s all right, but I wish you’d written something a little sexier. I mean, when I show it to people I don’t want them to think I just came up to you on the street like any old autograph fan.”

“When I wrote that,” Hardeman said, “I didn’t know you as well as I do now. But we can fix that.” He picked up his pants from the floor and dug a ballpoint pen out of the pocket. He took the book from Iris and sat down again on the edge of the bed to revise his dedication. When he handed it back to her it read: “To Iris, the best lay in California. With lust and affection, Dean Hardeman.”

“Much better,” Iris said, nodding her approval. Then she looked over at him mischievously. “But only in California?”

He took the book back from her again. With the pen he crossed out “California,” and wrote in “the West.”

“Okay?” he asked.

She batted her eyes at him. “What about the East?”

“Now just a minute, young lady, you’ve got to remember that I spent nearly fifty years on the Eastern Seaboard. It would be premature, not to mention disloyal, for me to immediately award you the national championship.”

Iris reached out for him. “We’ll see about that,” she said with the confidence of youth.

Forty-five minutes later Hardeman lay happily exhausted, his head sunk into the pillow. On the title page of his book, “the West” had been heavily X’ed out, and in it’s place he had scrawled, “the whole damn world and parts of New Jersey.” Iris sat beside him reading the words over and over again, thoroughly pleased.

“What does the title mean?” she said. “Yesterday’s Years?”

Hardeman rolled his head so he was facing her. “It’s from a poem, The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám.”

“How does it go?”

“The verse I took it from goes like this:

Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears

To-day of past Regrets and future Fears:

Tomorrow! — Why, Tomorrow I may be

Myself with Yesterday’s Sev’n thousand Years.”

Iris was quiet for so long that Hardeman thought she had fallen asleep. Then he heard a muffled sob and raised up on one elbow. She turned her face toward him, and her cheeks were wet with tears.

“That’s beautiful,” she said. “Oh, God, that’s so beautiful. Is there more?”

“The poem has a hundred and one verses. That’s only one of them.”

“Do you know any of the others?”

“A few.”

“Tell them to me. Please.”

Hardeman lay back on the pillow while the girl moved close to nestle her head in the crook of his arm. The author reached back into his memory and recited as many of the quatrains from the Rubáiyát as he could recall. Iris lay still beside him and never spoke, but he could feel her catch her breath at some passage she found particularly beautiful. Hardeman had not thought much about the poem since he was a freshman at Columbia. Now he let himself discover all over again its simple rhythmic beauty and its uncomplicated philosophy. It seemed more meaningful to him now than it ever had before.

When at last he had turned down the empty glass, Iris hugged him close to her body for many minutes. She spoke with her lips against the hollow at the side of his throat. “I’d give anything I have to be able to write something as beautiful as that.”

Hardeman stroked the flesh of her firm young body. “No you wouldn’t,” he said. “Some of the things you have are too valuable to give up, even to be the best writer that ever was.”

Iris Was quiet again for a long time, and this time she really had fallen asleep.

CHAPTER 26

The night he spent with Iris Ames was like a transfusion of vital juices for Dean Hardeman. In the week that followed, the words flowed in an unbroken stream from his head through his fingers to the typewriter keys and onto the paper. And the words were good. Hardeman had no illusions about what kind of a book he was writing. Stripped to essentials, he was doing captions and text for a picture book, the purpose of which was to help sell tickets to a rock concert. But if a man is a pro, Hardeman had often said, he can write catalog for plumbing supplies that will have something to say to the reader.

Also, if it were not for this picture book, Hardeman reminded himself, he would still be sitting alone in the big house in Great Neck, complaining about fate, writing nothing, and slowly drying up.

He checked the pile of completed pages with satisfaction. At the rate he was writing now, he would beat the publisher’s deadline, and have a day or two to spend giving the work a final polish.

With that happy prospect, Hardeman was in an exceptionally good mood when the telephone rang on Wednesday morning and he heard Iris Ames’ voice on the other end of the line. It had been exactly one week since she had shared his bed.

“Hi, famous author. Working hard?”

“Always, but not too hard to talk to you.”

“I thought you might call. It’s okay any time, you know, except on Thursdays. That’s when my little record man comes over.”

“I’ve been writing,” Hardeman explained.

“That’s okay. Just so you didn’t forget me.”

“Not a chance.”

“Hey, I showed your book to a lot of people.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Some of them knew who you were, too.”

“Very gratifying,” Hardeman said, smiling.

“They said you really were a famous writer. The ones who knew who you were, I mean.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“One of these days when I have the time I’ll have to read some of your book.”

“Thank you.”

“But that’s not what I called about. What it is, there’s a party tonight at the Hackett House for Wildflower. Want to go?”

“Slow down a minute,” Hardeman said. “I know the Hackett House is a hotel up on the Sunset Strip, but what the heck is Wildflower?”

Iris made a small sound of exasperation. “Oh, Dean. Everybody knows Wildflower. They’re the most fantastic thing to come over from England since The Who.”

“It’s a rock group.”

“Naturally.”

“Naturally,” Hardeman agreed.

“Anyway, they open Saturday at the Roxy, and the party at the hotel starts tonight.”

Hardeman considered for a moment. He was ahead of schedule on the book and could use some recreation to break up the long work days. Besides, he had heard reports of some of the exotic parties thrown by and for rock groups at the Hackett House, and a first-hand look might give him some added material for the book. “Sounds good,” he said. “What time?”

“The party will get going about nine o’clock, but first we’ve got to get you something to wear.”

“Why?”

“Dean, you can’t go to the party in those icky clothes you brought from New York.”

“Not funky enough, eh?”

“Not even close. Can you meet me at noon?”

“I guess so.”

“I’ll be at the corner of Sunset and Alta Loma. We’ll go shopping.”

After he hung up, Hardeman sat grinning at the telephone. It had been a long time since anybody took him shopping. It might be fun. Then he went back to work until it was time to leave.

The Sunset Strip by day, at least the few blocks west of La Cienega, wsa not the same street it was after dark. The huge billboards advertising recording stars, cigarettes, and Las Vegas hotels were less imposing in the daylight. The sidewalks were alive with people, as they were at night, but the day people moved with a purpose in their stride. These were the people who worked in the show-business-connected offices and the expensive shops. The freaks and wandering weirdos would come out later.

Still, the Sunset Strip would never be mistaken for Spring Street downtown, or Wilshire Boulevard. The people here were young and eager and colorful. Even wearing his sportiest turtleneck and checked slacks, Hardeman felt old and drab. An outsider on the Strip.

At ten minutes past twelve Iris arrived. She stood back with her hand to her chin and looked him over critically.

“Not so good, huh?” Hardeman suggested.

“You’ve got possibilities,” she said. “Come on.”

Iris took him by the hand and led him down the block and across the street. There, set back from the boulevard, their names on bronze plaques in front, was a small cluster of stores with leaded window panes.

“You’re not going to put me into something all tight and glittery are you?” he said.

“No way. You’d look like a clown.”

“That’s what I thought.”

She steered him to a shop called The Jeans Experience. “I think denim is the best way for you to go,” she said.

“You mean those tie-dyed affairs?”

“No, no, that would look stupid. After all, you’re fifty years old.”

“Forty-nine.”

They went into the store. The interior was quiet and cool and smelled of sandalwood incense. Easy-listening rock played softly from hidden speakers. A salesman who looked like Sonny Bono came to greet them with a pleasant smile. Iris took over immediately and described in detail what she wanted for Hardeman.

Twenty minutes later the refurbished Dean Hardeman stood before the store’s three-way mirror and studied himself in the glass. Iris had selected a Western-cut jacket and pants of faded blue, brushed denim and a fitted shirt of gray muslin with needlework flowers across the yoke. On his feet were natural suede ankle boots.

“How do you feel?” Iris asked.

“Like Roy Rogers.”

She ignored the sarcasm. “It’s too bad we can’t do something about your hair.”

“What’s the matter with my hair?”

“It’s so short.”

“I’m afraid I can’t grow it out in time for the party, and if you’re thinking of a wig, forget it.”

“We’ll just have to make do, I suppose.” She reached over and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“Letting your chest show. You’ve got plenty of hair there, and chest hair is in, anyway.”

Hardeman took another look at himself with the top four shirt buttons open. “Don’t you think that’s a little too bare?”

“A medallion will take care of that,” she said.

“Around my neck?”

“Where else would you wear a medallion?”

Hardeman settled for a modest sunburst on a plain silver chain, which Iris reached around to fasten behind his neck. He grinned down at her as her breasts pushed against him.

With his old, non-funky clothes packed into a shopping bag, Hardeman paid the bill with a Master Charge card and walked back out to the boulevard with Iris.

“How about some lunch?” he said. Then, looking down at his Western flavored outfit, “Or, would you cotton to some chow, podner?”

“Can’t, I’ve got to run. I’ll meet you in front of the hotel tonight at nine.”

“Okay.” He was getting used to the girl’s impulsive comings and goings.

She looked up at him seriously. “One thing I hope is straight between us. I won’t actually be with you at the party.”

“You won’t?”

“I mean, I’ll get you in okay, but there will be a lot of people there I want to see, so I won’t have much time to spend with you.”

“No problem,” he said.

“And I can’t promise I’ll go home with you, either.”

Hardeman took both the girl’s hands in his and smiled down at her. “Don’t worry about it, Iris, I’ll find my way around. You don’t owe me anything. As a matter of fact, it’s closer to the other way around.”

She flashed him a dazzling, youthful smile. “You’re okay, famous author. See you.”

“See you,” he said, and watched, still smiling, as she walked away up the street.

As Hardeman strolled along Sunset, he contrived to get repeated glimpses of himself in the store windows. The soft brushed denim felt good against his body, and a fresh breeze cooled his bared chest. Suddenly he did not feel so much apart from the other people on the Strip. Suddenly he felt younger.

CHAPTER 27

At night the Sunset Strip was transformed once again into a carnival midway. Dean Hardeman made it a point to arrive in front of the Hackett House an hour early so he would have time to observe the sidewalk show. Fans and friends of Wildflower were out in a kaleidoscopic array of costumes.

There were boys with their faces painted in wild designs, girls wearing bib overalls with nothing underneath, young people of indeterminate sex in net stockings, leotards, loin cloths, and dashikis. One grotesquely fat transvestite strolled continually up and down the sidewalk holding hands with a soulful-eyed bearded boy. There were wild wigs and hot pants and glitter-sprayed eyelids. A few of the celebrants wore denims — not the neat, brushed style that Hardeman wore, but jeans with the coveted thrift shop look, bleached and patched and ragged at the cuffs.

From the number of young people who flowed on and off the terraces on the fifth floor overlooking Sunset, the party was already underway. They shouted down at passersby and occasionally threw something, especially when a police car went by. The hotel had thoughtfully installed a screen at the first-floor level, angling out over the sidewalk to deflect missiles from above. Hardeman wondered if the screen would stop a falling body.

Curious about how a hotel could exist in such a chaotic state, Hardeman went into the bright-colored, mod-decorated lobby and asked to see the manager. He was a man named Spangler, who the author reckoned to be no more than twenty-seven years old. He had hair to his shoulders and wore dark-tinted aviator glasses. When Hardeman introduced himself, the manager agreed to talk to him, but only for a few minutes as this was obviously a busy night.

“What I’m curious about,” Hardeman said, “is how your hotel can afford to cater to groups like this Wildflower.”

“Listen, we can’t afford not to,” Spangler said, speaking in a faint Bronx accent. “Ten years ago this hotel was going after the tourist trade, and they were flat not making it. The tourists would take one look at the Strip, realize the Mocambo is gone, and split for Disneyland. The hotel was near broke and desperate when they started to take in the rock groups. Nobody else would touch them because they raised hell and drove off the straight trade. The Hackett didn’t have that much straight trade to lose, so they put out the word that the groups were welcome here and started replacing the old employees with younger people to make the rockers feel more comfortable. They also raised the prices to forty dollars a room and fifteen hundred dollars for a whole floor like Wildflower has.”

“Didn’t that discourage them?” Hardeman asked.

“No way. Money doesn’t mean zip to these people. Any time they need pocket change they can give a concert and fill a fifteen-thousand-seat auditorium at seven dollars per seat.”

A loud metallic crash sounded from somewhere toward the rear of the hotel. Hardeman started at the noise, but Spangler hardly blinked.

“What about damage?” Hardeman said, gesturing in the direction of the crash. “I would think these kids might tear the place up a little.”

“Tell me about it,” Spangler said ironically. “I’ve had motorcycles in the hall, stereo equipment thrown out the window, walls painted with blacktopping tar.”

“And the groups are still welcome?”

“You can believe it. The damages are always paid immediately with no questions about the figures. Like I told you, money means nothing when you’re making a million dollars a year.”

“Well, it sounds like the new policy really works for the Hackett House,” Hardeman said.

“It’s all that saved the place. The really weird thing is that we’re getting more straight trade than ever. Word has gotten around about the crazy action here, and now the tourists check in when they know a group will be stopping here and stay up all night to watch the happenings.”

A young man in red velvet hot pants and bracelets up to his elbows rolled past the two men on a skateboard.

“You won’t see something like that at Disneyland,” said the manager.

“Amen,” Hardeman agreed.

Spangler excused himself then and went to attend to his managerial tasks. Hardeman strolled back through the lobby and out onto the street.

Iris arrived at a quarter past nine. Compared to some of the earlier arrivals, she looked almost conservative in tight pink cutoffs and a black T-shirt with LUST spelled out in sequins across her unrestrained bosom. She was accompanied by half a dozen other young people who seemed to be somewhere in orbit. Iris did not bother to introduce anyone, and no one offered to shake hands.

The girl linked her arm through Hardeman’s and led him into the hotel and down to the last in a bank of six elevators. A man stood in front of the elevator door with his arms folded, biceps bulging out of his sleeves. He eyed Hardeman suspiciously.

“It’s okay, Marcus,” Iris told him. “He’s an author. He’s with me.”

This seemed to satisfy the muscular security man, and he stepped aside while the party piled into the elevator. All the floor buttons, Hardeman noticed, were sealed, except number five. Iris touched that one with a fingertip, and the car rose swiftly.

When the elevator door slid open on the fifth floor, the first thing Hardeman saw was a couple fornicating against the opposite wall. The girl was holding the hem of her long skirt up at throat level while the boy whanged away with determination. The girl, whose back was against the wall, seemed more interested in checking out the new arrivals than in the boy’s lovemaking efforts.

All the doors up and down the hall were open. There seemed to be no coherent conversations going on, just a general meaningless gabble. Groups formed and dissolved and reformed with no apparent pattern. Young people wandered up and down the hall, in and out of doors. The elevator came up and disgorged another load. Nobody paid any attention to the couple screwing on the wall.

Hardeman felt a tug at his sleeve and looked down to see Iris peering up at him.

“Are you going to be okay now?” she asked.

“Sure, I’m fine. You go ahead with whatever it is you’re going ahead with. I’ll just look around for a while. If I don’t see you again tonight, I’ll call you.”

She raised on tiptoe and kissed him on the mouth. “Don’t forget,” she whispered, then danced off down the hall and vanished into a room.

Hardeman let himself be carried along with the surge of new people from the elevator into a large room where people were dancing to the music of half a dozen transistor radios, each of which seemed to be tuned to a different rock station. Forced to the far wall, Hardeman saw that his only way back was across the space where the young dancers cavorted. He gyrated out among them in a middle-aged version of whatever the hell the kids were doing. Moving in this way he was able to make it back to the door and escape into the hall.

Delighted laughter spilled out of the next room. Hardeman looked in to see what was happening and immediately recognized the burning-hemp aroma of marijuana. Someone thrust a thin tube of yellow paper, pinched at both ends, toward him, and Hardeman took it. Somebody else lit the joint for him and he inhaled deeply. He had not smoked much grass since his early bohemian days in New York, and he enjoyed the old tingly feeling that spread from his lungs out to his fingertips and down to his toes.

A young man whose face was obscured by hair sailed past. “That’s good shit, man,” he said, nodding at the marijuana cigarette.

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 image 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.”

“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 with 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.”

Al’s mouth worked, and the muscles of his throat contracted as he struggled to get the words out. “But … Why, Madeline? Why?”

“Because Billy Lockett was the only man who ever treated me the way I wanted to be treated. He made me feel all woman. I loved him.”

An agonized groan came from deep in Al Fessler’s chest. He slumped back in the seat and stared up at the curtained stage without seeing it.

“I’m going home now,” Madeline said. “Goodbye, Al.”

She rose gracefully and made her way back to the exit. Al did not turn to see her go.

The curtain moved at the side of the stage and Joel Nimmo came out. He was dressed in slacks and a sport shirt and carried the guitar in a case. He looked surprised to see Al Fessler sitting alone.

“I’m ready to go, Mr. Fessler,” the boy said.

Al answered with an effort to keep his voice level. “Look, why don’t you go on back to the hotel. I’ll meet you there in a while.”

“I thought we were going to your place,” Joel said.

“There’s been a change in plans. Go on, I’ll see you later. Don’t forget the hat and shades.”

Joel Nimmo looked at Al questioningly for a moment, but he obediently pulled on a stocking cap and tucked his blond hair out of sight. He put on the dark glasses, and the resemblance to Billy Lockett was gone. When he saw that Al had nothing more to say, the boy left.

Al Fessler sat alone with his head bowed for a long time.

CHAPTER 30

Joyce Hardeman’s smile faded when she opened the door to her apartment and saw Conn Driscoll’s face.

“What’s wrong?” she said at once.

“What’s right?” he countered. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” She stood aside, and Driscoll walked past her and dropped heavily onto the couch.

“Is there any Scotch left?” he said.

“I’ll mix you one.”

Driscoll lit a cigarette, found it bitter, and ground it out immediately in the ash tray.

Joyce returned carrying his drink. “Want to tell me about it?”

Before Driscoll could speak, the telephone rang. He looked at Joyce, and she shook her head. They stayed motionless while the phone rang six times, then stopped.

“How can you do that?” Driscoll said.

“It’s easy once you’ve determined who’s going to be master in the house, you or the telephone.” Joyce walked over and lifted the receiver. She listened for a moment, then laid it down gently next to the base. “Now we won’t be interrupted. You were about to say …?”

“For one thing, Al Fessler is missing,” he said.

“Missing?”

“Nobody has seen him since last Friday. The concert is the day after tomorrow, there are ten million details to take care of, and nobody to take care of them but me.”

“I don’t understand,” Joyce said. “Al Fessler missing? What happened?”

Driscoll took a long swallow of the drink and smiled gratefully at Joyce. “It happened last Friday. Al asked me and Madeline, that’s his wife, to come to a recording studio for a preview of the big mystery act he’s had me promoting for weeks. Al does the whole number on us with a stage, curtain, lights, and loudspeakers. You’ll never guess what he had for us.”

“I’m sure I won’t,” Joyce said.

“He had a kid who looked almost exactly like Billy Lockett. The kid sang Billy’s songs in Billy’s voice, wearing a Billy jumpsuit. This is the big surprise Al is going to spring at the concert.”

“My God, that’s appalling.”

“I’ve been in this business a long time,” Driscoll said, “and I’ve built up a high tolerance for hype, but this was too much even for me. What Al wants to do is send this kid, this Billy lookalike, on a tour right after the concert and milk all the dollars he can out of the publicity.”

Joyce Hardeman was watching him carefully. “That certainly makes Al Fessler out to be a son of a bitch, but really, what does it have to do with you?”

“Al asked me to sign on as a flack for the kid’s tour. Offered me a piece of the action.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t have the guts to tell him no. As disgusted as I was by the idea, I began to see all that money flowing in, and even though I wanted to tell Al Fessler to go to hell, I couldn’t do it.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d think it over. Good old wishy-washy Conn Driscoll.”

“All this was last Friday?”

“Yes, and now I can’t find him. He hasn’t been in his office since, and according to Madeline, he hasn’t been home either.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Right now I’m working out of Al’s office, trying to hold everything together until the damn concert is over.”

“Couldn’t you just … walk away from it?”

Driscoll looked down into his glass for a long moment before answering. “No, I couldn’t. The word sounds strange coming from me, I suppose, but I have a responsibility to Al and to this damn concert. For better or worse, I’m part of it to the bitter end.”

Driscoll swallowed what was left of his Scotch. “Can I have another?”

Joyce took his glass and went behind the breakfast bar. While she was mixing the drink, Driscoll saw a copy of Billy Lives! by Dean Hardeman on an end table. He picked it up and was leafing through it when she returned.

“I see you got the book,” he said.

“Yes. It’s quite good. I guess I didn’t really believe Dean could still write until I read it. How is it selling?”

“Like crazy. They’re already into the second printing.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Have you seen him? Dean?”

“Not since our disastrous dinner at Henri’s. Have you?”

“A few times. California seems to agree with him. He’s swimming every day, developing a nice tan, and looks in great shape.”

“Swimming?” she said. “He didn’t even know how when I knew him.”

“He must have learned somewhere. He’s writing too. Already making notes on a new book, he tells me.”

“He isn’t planning to stay out here, is he?”

“I asked him that,” Driscoll said. “He says not a chance. Once a New Yorker, always a New Yorker. He’s going back right after the concert.”

Joyce nodded slowly. “Yes, I think that’s where Dean belongs.

Driscoll sat for a moment playing with his drink. Then he got up and walked over to Joyce’s chair. He took her hands and pulled her up to stand facing him.

“Let’s go to bed,” he said.

“Just like that? No sweet talk? No flowers? No muted violins?”

“I’m not in a mood for games today, Joyce.”

She regarded him levelly. “All right. You know the way.”

Always before, their lovemaking had been a relaxed, shared experience in which they delighted in discovering each other. This time Driscoll’s need was too urgent for sharing. He used the woman’s body to calm his own tensions. He took her quickly and roughly.

Afterward they lay side by side in the bed. Driscoll felt loose and relaxed, as though the wires holding him together had been slackened.

“I didn’t intend it to be like that,” he said. “I just seemed to lose control of everything. Next time, I promise, it’ll be your turn.”

Several minutes passed with neither of them speaking. Then Joyce said, very softly, “Conn, there isn’t going to be a next time.”

Her words did not register immediately. “What?”

“This is the end of it for us.”

He sat up in bed and looked at her, serene and beautiful on the satin pillow. “Just because we miss connections one time in bed, you’re going to call the whole thing off?”

“It’s not that,” she said. “You and I are great in bed, but aside from that we haven’t a whole lot in common.”

“How the hell would you know?” he said, getting angry. “You’ve never wanted to do anything else.”

“I have my reasons,” she said.

“Am I going to hear what they are, or do I have to guess?”

“I’ll tell you if you insist. You awaken too many memories in me, Conn — the way you talk, the way you think, yes, even the way you make love. You’re like a younger Dean Hardeman. Today you came to me not out of love, but for sustenance. That’s what Dean used to do — try to suck the strength out of me when he felt his own going. I am not a fountain of strength, Conn. I have my own needs, and I want them satisfied.”

“Joyce, you’re wrong about me. I never thought of you like that. I found you the most exciting, stimulating woman I’ve ever met.” Driscoll continued to argue, but his words lacked conviction, and at last even he could hear it. He lapsed into a gloomy silence.

“You’re romanticizing us, Conn,” Joyce said softly. “I was a good lay, which is not all that hard to find in Hollywood. And I was able to talk to you in grammatical English, which is somewhat rarer, but hardly unique. I found the same qualities in you. You’re a good lover and a good talker. But you know in your heart that it was never going to be a long-term arrangement. I’ll even bet you had started to worry a little about how you were going to break it off when the time came without hurting me. Well, the time has come, and you’re off the hook.”

“Thanks a lot.” Driscoll kept the hurt expression on his face. He was damned if he would give her the satisfaction of admitting she was right. He would hold on to what remained of his dignity. Walk away wounded but upright.

He got out of bed and dressed quickly. Joyce slipped on her robe and went into the living room. Driscoll walked past her, then paused in the doorway and turned back.

“Are you sure this is the way you want it?” he said.

She stood across the room, back straight, arms at her sides. “Yes, Conn. This is the way it has to be.”

For a moment Driscoll thought he saw a shadow of mockery in Joyce’s sad smile. Something about the scene … the dialog … Abruptly, a picture from the Late Late Show flashed across his mind. George Brent walking away from Bette Davis. He turned away quickly, afraid he would smile and break the mood, and closed the door behind him.

Riding the elevator down to the lobby, Driscoll did allow himself to smile. The woman had read him like a showdown poker hand. And, yes, he had begun to wonder lately how he was going to ease out of the relationship. In a few days he would send her a huge bunch of flowers along with a note. Say goodbye properly to a truly remarkable woman.

Driscoll was still smiling when he stepped out of the elevator, crossed the lobby toward the building entrance, and almost ran into Dean Hardeman.

The smile congealed on his face. His throat clamped shut as though someone had grabbed him by the windpipe. “Hello, Dean,” he got out finally.

Hardeman’s eyes met his, then ranged upward. “Hello, Conn.”

For one of the few times in his life, Conn Driscoll was speechless. He could only nod dumbly and continue out of the building and down the walk.

• • •

Dean Hardeman watched the younger man walk stiffly away, a small smile on his lips. He understood now some things that had puzzled him. He turned away from the glass door and crossed to the security guard’s desk.

“Will you ring Mrs. Hardeman’s apartment, please.”

“You can use the house phone, sir, there on the wall.”

“I think her telephone is out of order,” Hardeman said.

The guard jabbed a button on a panel before him, and in a moment Joyce’s voice came over the speaker. He handed the microphone to Hardeman.

“Joyce, this is Dean. Can I see you for a few minutes?”

“Dean? I … I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know,” he said. “This won’t take long.”

“All right. Give me a minute, then come up.”

When she opened the door for him Joyce was wearing a soft white sweater and black pants. Her hair had a disarranged look, as though she hadn’t brushed it out thoroughly after pulling on the sweater. The door to the bedroom was closed, Hardeman noted. On an end table was his book, next to it a glass with ice melting into a half-inch of whisky.

Hardeman walked across the room and picked up the telephone receiver. He set it back in the cradle. “I tried to call you,” he said.

“I must have knocked it off while I was cleaning,” Joyce said, watching him warily.

“There are a couple of things I wanted to say to you, Joyce, and since I’m going back to New York Sunday, I thought I’d better get them said.”

She nodded, not completely trusting him.

“The first thing is an apology. A specific apology for being an asshole at the restaurant the other night, and a blanket apology for all the other times I’ve been an asshole in the last five years. Better make that the last sixteen years to include the time we were married.”

“Dean, it’s not necessary …” she began.

He held up a hand. “I know an apology is pretty cheap payment for some of the stunts I pulled, but at least it’s something. The second thing I’m here to do is make you a promise. There won’t be any more stunts. Ever.”

“I’m not sure I know what you’re saying.”

“What I mean is I’m finally straight in my head about you and me, Joyce. I had a make-believe world for myself, and I wanted to fit you into it. When you didn’t always fit, I tried to force you. I hurt you badly, and that’s the last thing I wanted to do. When I lost you, I would not believe it was really over. I thought I could get back my whole make-believe world if I could just get you back. I know now it wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t ever have worked. It’s time for me to live in the real world.”

When she looked up at him, her eyes were wet with tears. “Dean … oh, Dean, why couldn’t we ever talk this way before?”

“Maybe it just wasn’t time before. Now it is. I’m saying goodbye for real, Joyce, and you know something? I feel closer to you than I ever did.”

Joyce looked over at the unfinished drink sitting on the end table, then back at Hardeman. “You know something else? So do I. Would a kiss be out of order?”

“A kiss would be much appreciated.”

She moved into his arms, and he kissed her. The kiss was soft and gentle, and it said some of the things they could not put into words.

They stepped apart.

“Goodbye, Joyce,” he said.

“Goodbye, Dean. I’ll be looking for your next book.”

“It’ll be along.” He looked her over one last time, smiled at her, and walked away.

CHAPTER 31

On the morning of the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert Conn Driscoll was in the office early, feverishly working to untangle all the last-minute lashups. By this time he had expected to be finished with his part of the job and to be taking it easy for the first time in months. The sudden disappearance of Al Fessler had drastically changed the picture. Driscoll was winding up a full week in Al’s office handling all the late details that he would much rather have ignored. But somebody had to handle them.

After the first couple of hours, he began to feel that the telephone was permanently attached to his ear. Many of the incoming calls were people pleading for freebies. There was a very limited number of complimentary concert tickets to be passed out, and most of these went to members of the media. It was left to Driscoll to deal with all the actors, politicians, athletes, socialites, and old pals who felt that for one reason or another they should be let in free to the sold-out concert. For a very few of the callers, the ones Driscoll could count on for a return favor, he managed to dig up a comp ticket. For all the rest, he simply said that Al Fessler had sole control of the ticket distribution (a lie), and that Al could not be reached (true).

There were other problems such as a threatened strike by the Forum concessionaires at the last minute. This Driscoll averted simply by giving in to the union’s demands. It would cut deeply into Fessler’s share of the concession profits, but if Al wanted to argue about it, he should have been there.

Driscoll was still having trouble working out the logistics to squeeze Al’s new act, Joel Nimmo, into the concert lineup. Although he had not heard from Al since the big unveiling at the recording studio, Driscoll had to assume the boy would go on as scheduled. He had better go on, as the big Mystery Act had become the focal point of the advertising.

With a felt-tip pen Driscoll marked up a seating diagram of the Forum. The stage would be set up in the middle of what was normally the basketball floor when the Lakers played there. The performers would enter and exit through aisles leading to the dressing rooms under the stands. In order to save the time needed for the new act, one group would have to be waiting, ready to charge on stage as the other came off. There would be no time for encores. Driscoll had briefed the stage manager, a nervous man named McGee, who promised to do his best to keep them moving. The master of ceremonies was to be a hyperactive disk jockey from a local rock station who called himself Tiger Pawes. Driscoll had urged him to keep the introductions short and snappy. The Tiger yeah-yeah’d him, but Driscoll was not sure he’d been listening.

As if he didn’t have enough problems, an organization calling itself the Third World Liberation Front was threatening to demonstrate outside the Forum the night of the concert. As nearly as Driscoll could make out, their complaint was that no American Indian groups were included in the lineup of talent for the concert. Whenever Driscoll pointed out the scarcity of authentic Indian rock groups, the TWLF spokesperson (as she insisted on being called) would switch the subject to Rhodesia or Panama or Attica. Driscoll never did figure out what the Billy Lockett Memorial Concert had to do with any of these causes. He referred the whole matter to the Inglewood Police, whose jurisdiction included the Forum.

In one way, Driscoll was thankful for the chaotic activity. It kept his mind off Joyce Hardeman. Even though he saw the wisdom of breaking it off now, he saw it with his mind. His body missed Joyce painfully.

There was also his unresolved business with Dean Hardeman. Driscoll had not seen or talked to the author since their embarrassing meeting in the lobby of Joyce’s apartment two days before. Driscoll felt that it was up to him to call Hardeman, but he did not know what he could possibly say. A number of plausible lies explaining his presence at Joyce’s popped into his mind, but popped quickly back out. Dean Hardeman was not a fool.

But that was a problem he could set aside for now while he attended to the more immediate concerns of the concert.

Driscoll buzzed the intercom for Al’s secretary. He had asked the girl to call hotels and motels in search of a clue to Al Fessler’s whereabouts. Al had mentioned that he had been keeping Joel Nimmo stashed in a hotel, but he hadn’t said which one. The secretary had been calling in ever-expanding circles from the Hollywood-Beverly Hills area, asking for an Al Fessler or a Joel Nimmo on the register. To cover a bizarre possibility that occured to him, Driscoll had her also ask for anybody called Billy Lockett.

“Any luck?” he asked when the secretary answered his buzz.

“Nothing. I’m in Pasadena now, but so far we’ve struck out.”

“Keep trying,” Driscoll said.

No sooner had he shut the intercom off than the thing beeped at him again.

“Yes?”

“Mrs. Fessler is here.”

Driscoll hurried to the doorway between the two offices and ushered Madeline Fessler in.

“Have you heard something?” he asked.

She shook her head. For the first time since Driscoll had known her, Madeline did not look like an ad out of Vogue. There were loose strands around her blond coiffure, and dark smudges under her eyes.

“Can we talk privately?” she asked, glancing at the door to the outer office.

“Sure,” Driscoll said. He walked over to the door and eased it closed, telling the secretary, “No calls for a while.”

“I guess you haven’t heard anything from Al either,” Madeline said.

“No.” Driscoll sat quietly, waiting for Madeline to get whatever it was off her chest. Finally he said, “Do you have an idea where he might have gone?”

“No,” she said, “but I think I know why.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It’s my fault, really.”

“In what way?” Driscoll prompted.

She took a deep breath before continuing. “I told Al I was having an affair with Billy.”

Driscoll sat for a moment letting the words sink in. The idea was outlandish coming from this cool, poised suburban matron seated so decorously with her knees properly together, hands folded in her lap.

“The hell you were,” he said.

“It’s true.” Madeline met his gaze without flinching.

“Billy and I were lovers for four years.”

“And you told Al about it.”

“Yes. Last week at the recording studio, right after you left.”

“Madeline, excuse me for saying so, but that is about the dumbest thing I ever heard. People don’t make damn fool confessions like that unless they want to hurt somebody. Did you want to hurt Al?”

“No, I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“Then, why?”

“It’s all mixed up and hard to explain. I felt I couldn’t go on any longer living up to an unreal image Al had of me. It’s an image I’ve been stuck with since I was a little girl. Cool, aloof, ladylike. I have been told from as early as I can remember that I was all those things. The ice princess. My physiology had a lot to do with it, I suppose. I have delicate bone structure and this superfine blond hair. Maybe if I’d had thick brown hair, a dark complexion, and big boobs I could have acted out the sensuality I kept bottled up. But I didn’t have any of those things. I looked like a lady, so I was expected to be one. I played the part without even thinking about it. Then Billy Lockett, that young, beautiful, sensitive boy recognized the woman who was kept prisoner by the lady, and he set her free.”

When she stopped talking for a moment, Driscoll spoke. “I still don’t understand why you had to spill the whole thing to Al. Especially at this particular time.”

“Let me tell it my way,” Madeline said. “Al has always treated me like some sort of untouchable goddess. Oh, I don’t mean he never touched me, it’s just that he seemed to feel so guilty afterward, as though he’d left footprints on an expensive carpet. I think it was partially the guilt that made him keep wanting to give me things. Gifts. I was so deep into playing the part then, I couldn’t stop. Then the other day when I saw what he was trying to do — in a sense, give me another Billy — I had to stop it. I couldn’t go on pretending any longer.”

Driscoll sat drumming his fingers on the desk blotter. Finally he said, “Madeline, I’m sorry about your troubles with your husband, but you really screwed things up by dumping the whole business on him the way you did at the time you did.”

“I suppose I should have done it differently,” she said, “but don’t you see, I couldn’t let him bring another boy who was so much like Billy into our house. I don’t know what might have happened.”

Driscoll was as sympathetic as he could manage with Madeline Fessler and eased her politely out of the office as soon as he could.

Left alone once more, Driscoll was feeling gloomier than ever. Now he not only had Al Fessler’s whereabouts to worry about, he had the man’s state of mind. There is nothing like being cuckolded in your own home to jostle the molecules. Would Al show up tonight at the concert, Driscoll wondered? Would he bring the kid? What would be his mental condition? Driscoll pondered these new worries as he went through the motions of answering the calls that had come in while he was with Madeline.

By four-thirty that afternoon his nerves were like broken glass. He stopped what he was doing for a moment and saw that his hands were trembling. He spread them out flat on the desk and willed them to keep still.

Another beep from the intercom made him jump.

“Miss Girodian to see you.”

“Kitty? Tell her to come right in.”

Kitty Girodian looked fresh and lovely, making Driscoll feel even more wilted by comparison. She waved him back into his chair and took a seat across the desk from him.

“Hi,” she said. “I thought you might like some company on your way to the concert.”

“Would I ever! Do you feel like driving?”

“I can if you want me to.”

Driscoll held out his shaking hands. “I think it would be a good idea.”

“Poor baby, you must have had quite a day.”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Is there any reason you have to stay around here any longer?”

“Not really. Any problems that come up this late aren’t going to be solved anyway.”

“In that case, I suggest we go somewhere and get you a relaxing martini, then I’ll drive us to the Forum.”

“Lady,” said Driscoll with heartfelt gratitude, “you got a deal.”

CHAPTER 32

It was six o’clock when Conn Driscoll and Kitty Girodian drove into the parking lot of the pillared, neo-Grecian building called the Inglewood Forum. The starting time for the concert was two hours away, but traffic already jammed the surrounding streets and the Forum parking lot. Driscoll saw with some concern that there were clusters of people milling about the closed ticket windows. When they discovered there were no more tickets available, it could mean trouble.

Driscoll showed his pass to a uniformed security guard, and they were allowed into a chained-off section of the lot reserved for performers and others directly connected with the concert. Kitty parked the car, and they went into the building through an inconspicuous rear entrance.

“I want to take a look down in the dressing rooms to see if everything’s all right,” Driscoll said. “Do you want to come?”

“No, thanks,” Kitty said. “I’ll go on to our seats and wait for you.”

Almost the first person Driscoll saw as he walked down the ramp into the dressing room area was Al Fessler. Al’s clothes were wrinkled, his shave was a hit-or-miss job, and his eyes had a glazed, unfocused look. Driscoll hurried over to him.

“Al, where the hell have you been?”

“What? Oh, hello, Driscoll. It’s not important. Everything’s fine now.”

“Are you sure?” Driscoll said. “What about the kid?”

“The kid’s fine. I’ve got him in the trainer’s room with me. He’ll go on when he’s supposed to. Where’s that rock jockey we’ve got for an emcee? I want to be sure he knows I’m introducing the kid’s act.”

“Al, I’ve got to talk to you,” Driscoll said.

But Fessler was busy scanning the crowd. He spotted Tiger Pawes trying on his smile in front of a mirror and rushed off in that direction.

Driscoll started to follow but lost sight of Al as one of the performing groups came galloping down the ramp loaded with electronic equipment and amphetamine. Driscoll gave up and walked back up the ramp into the arena. The floor area that was not taken up by the stage now held rows of temporary seats to augment the rising tiers of permanent theater-type seats that ringed the symmetrical building.

The Forum management had apparently opened the gates ahead of schedule, and seats were filling up fast. Considering the jamup outside, Driscoll decided it was a wise move.

Kitty Girodian was already in her seat — tenth row, second from the aisle. Driscoll dropped into the aisle seat next to her.

“How’s everything downstairs?” she asked.

“It’s a mess. No place for me.”

“Can we relax then and enjoy the show?”

“I hope so.”

Looking over the crowd, Driscoll caught sight of Dean Hardeman. The seat Driscoll had got for the author was a couple of aisles away from him and Kitty, an accident for which Driscoll was now thankful. Sometime before Hardeman went back to New York Driscoll knew he was going to have to talk to him about Joyce, if only to ease his own mind. This, however, was not the time.

He was surprised to see Madeline Fessler come in and take her seat. The one next to her, reserved for Al, remained empty.

Half an hour before showtime the Forum was filled. The chatter of young voices was like a high-pitched electronic buzz.

A tug at his sleeve drew Driscoll’s attention away from the crowd. He looked around to see McGee, the stage manager, crouched in the aisle next to his seat.

“We’ve got a problem,” said McGee.

“Why tell me about it? Al Fessler is here now. I’m just a publicity man again.”

“Fessler’s locked himself in the trainer’s room with his mysterious act and says he’s not coming out until it’s time to go on. You ask me, I think the guy’s flipped out.”

“Okay,” Driscoll said wearily, “what’s the problem?”

“It’s outside. We got maybe a thousand kids out there without tickets, and they’re starting to get nasty.”

“Any police in sight?”

“A couple of black and whites, but they don’t like to move unless they have to. Every time they make a bust at a rock concert the papers jump on them for brutalizing the youth of America.”

“What do you expect me to do?” Driscoll asked irritably.

McGee shrugged. “Come up with an idea. My responsibility don’t go outside the building.”

Driscoll raked a hand through his hair as though he might find inspiration there. He said, “Do you know if they keep extra speakers and electrical wiring somewhere in the building?”

“There’s a storeroom full of electronic junk downstairs.”

“Okay, send somebody out to tell the kids we’re piping the music out to them. Then get enough speakers wired up out there so everybody can hear.”

“For free?”

“Hell yes, for free, unless you want to go out there and personally collect their admissions.”

McGee looked doubtful. “I don’t know as I can take the responsibility for that.”

“I’ll take the responsibility,” Driscoll said. “Just do it.”

The stage manager moved reluctantly away. Driscoll sighed and turned back to Kitty. “I wish I’d stayed home and watched a rerun of The Brady Bunch.”

• • •

The concert got underway at last, twenty minutes late — incredibly punctual by rock concert standards. The overhead lights dimmed, and a no-name house band struck up a thumping disco number. A spotlight hit the entrance to one of the tunnel ramps and picked up the dazzling smile of Tiger Pawes. The Tiger was colorfully turned out in a maroon velvet leisure suit, his hair freshly permed into a heap of bouncing curls. He boogied on up the aisle to the stage accompanied by a screeching ovation from his young fans.

Once on stage he let the shrill acclaim wash over him for several minutes before holding up his hands for silence.

“Alllll Rrriiiiight!” he shouted at the crowd, then stood aside as they shrieked it back at him.

“Are you havin’ a good time?”

“Yeaaah!”

“Are you all with the Tiger?”

“Yeaaah!”

“Alllll Rrriiiiight! We gonna boogie tonight!”

When the tumult finally subsided, the Tiger replaced his manic smile with the closest thing he could manage to a solemn expression. Taking their cue from the deejay, the crowd quieted down.

“Before we start the happenings,” he said, his amplified voice surrounding them, “let’s take a minute to remember what tonight is all about. Last March a boy we all knew and loved stepped out of an airplane. That boy was just beginning to live. You know his name.”

“Billy!” the crowd responded, picking up their cue.

“That’s right. Billy Lockett. Tonight was supposed to be Billy’s night. This was going to be the climax of his career. But Fate stepped in that day in March and silenced Billy’s voice.”

Driscoll turned a pained look on Kitty. “Fate?” he whispered.

“Yes, Billy’s voice is stilled now,” the Tiger continued. “His guitar is gathering dust. Billy is gone, but he left us all a big part of himself. He left us his music.”

“If he says Billy’s gone to the big discotheque in the sky,” Driscoll muttered, “I’m leaving.”

“Ssssshhh,” Kitty hushed him.

“Tonight the very best young talent in the world is right here at the Fabulous Forum to honor Billy’s memory. Before we bring on the first group, let’s have a moment of silence for the boy we knew and loved … Billy Lockett.”

The lights went dim again, and the crowd kept relatively quiet for a moment. Then, at a signal from the emcee, the lights came back up.

“Allllll Rrriiiiight!” shouted the Tiger.

“Alllll Rrriiiiight!” responded the crowd.

“You know why we’re here. We’re here for the sounds of today, and the Tiger’s bringin’ ’em to you. Now I want to hear it for the funky group that’s opening our show … Truckers Gap!”

Four overweight teenagers with guitars ran up the aisle wearing a wild assortment of castoff clothing and flashing obscene gestures at the audience, to everyone’s wild delight.

Driscoll settled lower in his seat and tuned out mentally. His attention wandered to one of the tunnels where Tiger Pawes had retreated when the performers took over the stage. The deejay was signing an autograph for a spectacularly built blond and gazing down the front of her peasant shirt at a pair of huge vanilla breasts.

Back on stage Truckers Gap was followed by Maude, a group of minimal talent that tried to disguise the fact by performing in drag. Next up was Rikki Lee, a flowers-in-the-hair folk singer with a tiny, sweet voice that could barely be heard even with the high-wattage amplification.

After Rikki came Black Dragon, an angry group of soul rockers who were signed mainly to qualify Al Fessler as an equal-opportunity employer. Dragon’s brand of social rage was received coolly by the Billy Lockett fans who packed the Forum.

Driscoll noted with satisfaction that the Tiger was doing his part to move the acts along briskly. With luck, they would not run much overtime, even with the addition of Joel Nimmo. The thought of Al Fessler’s Billy impersonator depressed Driscoll again. He began to worry about what kind of response the boy would get here.

Black Dragon glowered their way off stage, and Tiger Pawes sprang back to the microphone. “And now, direct from a dynamite two weeks at the Troubador, their records shooting up on the charts, let’s bring ’em on … the Peace Brothers!”

Kitty nudged Driscoll back to attention. “Listen to these boys,” she said. “Rick’s been writing some material for them.”

The Peace Brothers’ first song was a standard country rock number with little to recommend either the music or the lyrics.

“Not that one,” Kitty said, “that’s their latest record they’re plugging.”

“Good luck,” Driscoll muttered.

The next song by the Peace Brothers was a complete change of style and mood. The lyrics told a story of young love and loss in words that were both meaningful and poetic. The intricate three-part harmony fit perfectly the just-adequate voices of the Brothers.

“That’s one of Rick’s songs,” Kitty said.

Driscoll nodded his approval.

The response of the audience was unheard of at a rock concert for a song that was not presold as a top-40 record. There was a short, stunned silence when the Peace Brothers finished. The applause started slowly, then built with explosive power like a fire through dry chaparral. It climaxed in a standing, screaming ovation. Before the noise had quite died down the Brothers swung into a bouncing, up-tempo country-flavored number that had the crowd stomping the floor in time with the beat.

“Rick wrote that one too,” Kitty said.

“The kid’s got talent,” Driscoll admitted.

The Peace Brothers went off to another crescendo of cheers. The next act, a pretentious group from England called Sand, suffered from having to follow the smash of the evening so far.

After Sand had sneered their way back down the aisle, Tiger Pawes bounced back on stage with his tiresome “Allllll Rrriiiiight!” The echo from the fans was noticeably less enthusiastic this time.

“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 loudspeakers.

“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.

Then 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.”

Serving as inspiration for contemporary literature, Prologue Books, a division of F+W Media, offers readers a vibrant, living record of crime, science fiction, fantasy, western genres. Discover more today:

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This edition published by
Prologue Books
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
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www.prologuebooks.com

Copyright © 1976 by Gary Brandner
All rights reserved.

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
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6334-8

eISBN 10: 1-4405-6333-0
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6333-1

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Table of Contents
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Also Available
- Copyright