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.”