1980 - You Can Say That Again

by James Hadley Chase

  Not looking to see his reaction, I crossed to the lounging chair and sat down, aware Mazzo was gaping at me.

  Phoebe came to my side.

  ‘Coffee, Mr. Ferguson?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  By the time I had finished a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette, the aircraft was circling Miami airport.

  Durant came over to me.

  ‘We fly directly to the residence by helicopter,’ he said. ‘There will be the press again, but they won’t be allowed to get near you. You will be escorted to the helicopter.’ He paused to give me a glowering stare. ‘I don’t want any theatrics from you . . . understand?’

  ‘Sure, Joe!’ I said. ‘Anything you say.’

  By the slight flush that came to his hard face, I could see he hated me calling him Joe, but he knew he was stuck with it.

  Phoebe, now wearing her pillbox hat, came in to ask us to fasten our safety belts as we were about to land. Five minutes later, we landed at an obscure corner of the Miami airfield.

  There was a wait. Looking out of one of the windows, I saw the fifteen tough bodyguards had descended, and had made a menacing circle at the foot of the stairway.

  In the distance, under a blaze of lights and held back by a barrier was a crowd of reporters and camera men.

  Again, I experienced this tremendous excitement: these men were waiting to see me: to try to have a word with me: John Merrill Ferguson.

  Again, I heard the exciting baying of the press. Their shouts were Wagnerian music in my ears.

  The fifteen bodyguards closed in on me, forming a wedge. I was hurried to the waiting helicopter. I was tempted to pause and wave to the press, but I was hurried on. I was practically lifted into the helicopter with Durant, following me. The door slammed shut.

  The pilot turned in his seat.

  ‘Hi, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said with a wide respectful smile.

  Mazzo, sitting behind me, murmured, ‘Lacey.’

  ‘Hi, there, Lacey,’ I said in a hail-fellow-well-met voice. ‘Good to see you.’

  Obviously, this was the wrong thing to have said for the pilot’s eyes bugged in surprise, but I couldn’t care. I was up in the clouds with the immortals again. The fans began to revolve and the chopper took off.

  ‘Keep your mouth shut,’ Durant snarled under his breath.

  ‘Sure, Joe,’ I said. ‘No problem.’

  I was looking down at the crowd of press men, the photographers and the TV cameras outlined in the floodlights. I watched them drop out of sight.

  It took some twenty minutes before I had my first sight of Paradise City: and what a city! In the brilliant light of the moon, I could see the beaches, still crowded at nearly midnight with people swimming, the palm trees, the wide boulevards packed with cars, the luxe high-rises: a picture of opulent wealth.

  Flying over the big, luxury villas set in acres of gardens, the helicopter crossed a broad expanse of water, littered with motor cruisers and yachts to what looked like an island. I was to learn later this was Paradise Largo where the super-rich lived. Skirting the trees, I saw John Merrill Ferguson’s home: a baronial style house you only saw in 1959 movies: a huge, imposing structure, surrounded by lawns and flowerbeds, bursting with color.

  The helicopter settled on the lawn.

  I couldn’t resist saying to the pilot as I followed Mazzo, ‘Thanks for the trip, Lacey.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mr. Ferguson,’ he returned, his voice startled.

  Waiting, was an electric golf cart. Durant, looking like the wrath of God, waved me to the front seat and climbed into the back. Mazzo slid under the driving wheel, and we set off towards the house.

  Was I getting a bang out of this!

  ‘Listen to me, Stevens,’ Durant said, leaning forward and tapping me on my shoulder. ‘I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut. Mr. Ferguson never speaks to his staff.’

  ‘Sorry, Joe. I’ll know next time. Anything you say.’

  We pulled up outside the front entrance of the house.

  All the terrace lights were on. Double doors stood open. We got out of the cart, and led by Mazzo, I climbed the twenty marble steps, paused to look along the big terrace, set with lounging chairs and tables, and boxed in with banks of multi-colored begonias.

  We entered a big hall, walked down a long, broad corridor. On the walls hung modern works of art. We reached an elevator.

  ‘Take him to his quarters,’ Durant snapped to Mazzo. ‘Mrs. Ferguson will see him tomorrow morning,’ and he stalked away.

  Mazzo grinned at me as he opened the elevator’s door.

  ‘You heard what Mr. Big said, Mr. Ferguson,’ and he waved me into the elevator.

  As the elevator rose, I said, ‘I bet even his mother hated him.’

  ‘If she didn’t, her lid needed refixing.’ Mazzo said and gave his sighing laugh.

  The elevator decanted us into a lobby. Facing us were two doors.

  ‘Here’s where you live, Mr. Ferguson,’ Mazzo said and opened one of the doors. Clicking on the lights, he moved into an enormous room so luxuriously furnished, I paused in the doorway to gape.

  There was everything in this room a billionaire could desire: a vast desk with telephones and recorders, lounging chairs, two big settees, a TV set, a big, fully equipped bar, a big fireplace and wall-to-wall thick pale fawn carpeting. On the walls hung modern art paintings. I recognized at least four Picassos. There was a forty foot wide picture window and glass doors leading onto a big, flower decorated terrace.

  ‘Here’s where you sleep, Mr. Ferguson,’ Mazzo said, opening a door. He was grinning at the way I was gaping.

  I followed him into another vast room: the same fawn wall-to-wall carpet: built-in closets, another TV set and an enormous bed that could have slept six in comfort. Again, the walls were decorated with modern paintings.

  ‘Nice, huh?’ Mazzo said.

  I just gaped. This was the ultimate in luxury.

  ‘Well, okay. Let’s get some sleep,’ Mazzo said. ‘You’ll have a busy day tomorrow. The bathroom’s through there.’ He went to one of the closets and took out a pair of silk, grey pajamas and a pair of Gucci slippers. These he tossed on the bed. ‘See you in the morning,’ and he left me.

  I stood for a moment, staring around, then I heard a faint click.

  Mazzo had locked me in.

  * * *

  I woke from an erotic dream in which I was chasing Phoebe who was stark naked except for the pillbox hat. I was rapidly overtaking her when I felt a heavy hand on my arm.

  I opened my eyes to find Mazzo bending over me.

  ‘Must you do that?’ I snarled, sitting up. ‘I very nearly had her.’

  He released his sighing laugh.

  ‘Breakfast, Mr. Ferguson, then business.’ He went to a closet and produced a brocaded dressing gown.

  ‘Hurry it up!’

  Groaning, I struggled out of bed and went into the bathroom. I took a shower, shaved, put on the dressing gown and came out to find Mazzo wheeling in a trolley.

  I sat down as he poured coffee and served two sets of devilled kidneys.

  The meal over, he said, ‘You have all the clothes you’ll ever need, Mr. Ferguson.’ He threw open the doors of the closets. ‘Help yourself.’

  I went over and inspected the contents of the closets.

  Once, I had been invited to the house of one of the biggest movie stars who was a showoff. He had sadistically shown me his wardrobe, and I had been sick with envy. What he had shown me was peanuts to John Merrill Ferguson’s wardrobe. There must have been some two hundred suits, racks of shirts, racks of shoes and so on.

  ‘Before you dress, Mr. Ferguson, get with the mask,’ Mazzo said. ‘You’re going to be on show.’

  I went into the bathroom and put on the mask and completed the disguise, then I returned to the bedroom. It took me some twenty minutes to decide on a cream with a faint blue stripe suit that fitted me like a glove. While I was changing, I remembe
red Durant had said I was to meet Mr. John Merrill Ferguson’s wife.

  ‘What’s the wife like, Mazzo?’ I asked as I knotted a dark blue Cardin tie.

  He released a long, low whistle.

  ‘You’ll find out, the way I found out,’ he said. ‘Just watch it. Take a tip from me, play it light.’ He rubbed his shaven head as he regarded me. ‘That line of yours with Mr. D. is okay. He can’t do much about it, so he has to take it, but watch it with Mrs. F. To her, you are Jerry Stevens. Two-bit actors are something she happened to have trodden in on the sidewalk. Even the Boss handles her with care and Mr. D. acts like he’s scared of her. Me, she looks at like I was a three month old stiff, crawling with maggots, so watch it.’

  For a moment this information disconcerted me, but looking in the mirror, seeing John Merrill Ferguson looking right back at me, I relaxed.

  ‘Okay, Mazzo, I’ll treat her with care.’

  A buzzer sounded in the living room. Mazzo went in, lifted a receiver, said, ‘Yes, Mr. Durant. He’s all fixed.’

  I came into the living room.

  ‘Mrs. F. is on her way,’ Mazzo said. ‘Just watch it. You’re doing fine so far, don’t upset the crap cart.’

  Feeling suddenly the way I once felt when I first walked onto a movie set, I went across to the big desk and sat down. For something to do, I picked up a leather bound appointment diary and flicked through the pages. Every half hour of each day was filled with unknown names. John Merrill Ferguson certainly was an occupied man. Then I flicked on, coming to the month of June: three months ago. The diary began to thin out. July there were only three names. August one name. September was blank.

  I didn’t hear the door open. I was staring at the blank September pages, then I heard Mazzo give a slight cough. I looked up.

  She was standing just inside the door, regarding me.

  I felt, as long as I lived, I would always remember my first sight of Loretta Merrill Ferguson. There are women and women. In my trade, I had seen the best and the worst: the fat, the thin, the cuties, the beauties, the tough and the not-so-tough, the big stars, the starlettes, the gimmes, the desperates, the degenerates, the sex-starved, the nymphos and . . . but why go on? I had seen them all, but I had never seen any woman like Mrs. John Merrill Ferguson.

  She was the type of woman that would make any man catch his breath. There is no true way of describing her except to say she was tall, lean, with full breasts, long legs: something that most big stars have, but it was her face that riveted me. Framed in raven black Cleopatra hair style, her face was the color of old ivory and each feature was perfect: a short nose, a wide mouth and big violet colored eyes.

  She was not only the most beautiful, but also the most sensual woman I had ever seen.

  The sight of her turned my mouth dry and my heart racing.

  I just sat there, staring at her.

  Durant came into the room.

  ‘Stand up!’ he snapped.

  I got to my feet, still looking at this fantastic woman.

  ‘Walk across the room!’

  I limped across the room, turned and waited, aware she was regarding me as if I were a performing dog.

  Durant said to her, ‘I suggest, madam, he is acceptable.’

  ‘Tell him to say something.’ She had a low, sexy voice. She spoke as if I didn’t exist.

  ‘Say something!’ Durant snapped.

  I caught sight of myself in a wall mirror. I saw John Merrill Ferguson standing there. John Merrill Ferguson, one of the most powerful and richest men in the world! No one would dare tell John Merrill Ferguson what to do!

  I pointed to the door.

  ‘Get the hell out of here, Joe!’ I barked. ‘And you, Mazzo! I want to talk to my wife!’

  chapter four

  I stood by the desk, looking at Loretta Merrill Ferguson.

  We were alone.

  After my outburst, Durant, purple in the face, had begun to bluster, but Loretta Merrill Ferguson had silenced him with a wave of her hand.

  ‘Go away!’ she had said in a voice like the crack of a whip.

  Both Durant and Mazzo had left the room, closing the door as if it were made of egg shells.

  So we were alone.

  She studied me for a long moment, then walked to one of the settees and sat down.

  ‘Take off that mask. I want to see what you look like.’

  I went into the bathroom and carefully removed the eyebrows and the moustache, then slipped off the mask. I rinsed my sweating face, then returned to the living room.

  I stood by the desk while she regarded me the way a butcher regards a side of beef, but I was used to agents, film directors, camera men regarding me so she didn’t faze me. I waited, and while I waited, I stared directly at her, and my steady stare seemed to disconcert her, for after trying to stare me down, her eyes shifted: a tiny victory for me.

  ‘Sit down!’ Again the whip crack in her voice.

  Deliberately, I walked to the big window and looked down at the vast, immaculate lawn, my back slightly turned to her.

  ‘I said sit down!’ she snapped.

  ‘What a beautiful place you have here, Mrs. Ferguson, but less beautiful than you are,’ I said, then took out my pack of Chesterfields, shook out a cigarette and lit it. I didn’t turn, but continued to survey the garden, the big swimming pool and the three Chinese gardeners attending to the flower beds.

  ‘When I tell you to do something, you will do it! Sit down!’

  I turned and smiled at her. Mazzo had warned me about this woman. I was determined she was not going to dominate me.

  ‘I am being paid one thousand dollars a day to impersonate your husband, Mrs. Ferguson. For that money I have agreed to cooperate, but I will not be ordered around by anyone, even the most beautiful woman I have yet seen, who hasn’t the good manners to say please.’

  She sat for a long moment, staring at me, then she suddenly relaxed and became all-woman. The change was startling. Her hard, arrogant face softened, the violet colored eyes lit up, her mouth moved into a smile.

  ‘A man at last!’ she said, half to herself, then she patted the settee. ‘Please, come and sit here.’

  Although I was only a bit-part, unemployed actor, I wasn’t fooled by this sudden change. I had knocked around too long with bitches who played hell one moment, and were as sweet as honey the next. I had stood on a set, waiting for some glamour star who was no better than a whore, throw her weight around, holding up the shooting, while the director tried to placate her, and while I longed to kick her backside. Women who were too rich, too beautiful and who behaved with gutter manners were my idea of the genuine pain in the ass.

  I walked to a chair, facing her and sat down, making a point not to sit by her side.

  ‘I am at your disposal, Mrs. Ferguson,’ I said.

  ‘You could be, Mr. Stevens, you could be,’ she said, still smiling. ‘I could call that monkey man and tell him to spoil your handsome face.’

  I smiled at her: the smile I reserve for spoilt children.

  ‘Go ahead and call him. He and I have already sorted out who is the man and who is the boy. He landed up on the floor.’

  She leaned back and laughed, thrusting her breasts at me. It was a splendid, silvery laugh so infectious I had to laugh too. We laughed together, then she said, ‘You’re marvelous! What a find!’

  Another shift of mood? There were times when I wished I didn’t know so much about women. How often had women disillusioned me? If they didn’t get their way one way, they would try another and yet another.

  ‘Mrs. Ferguson,’ I said, ‘if you have any instructions for me, please tell me.’

  Her smile faded, and a wary look came into her eyes.

  ‘You are obviously hostile,’ she said, ‘and that is understandable. My mother-in-law imagines she is some kind of a dictator. I assure you it wasn’t my idea to have you kidnapped.’

  I felt a small triumph. At least, she was on the defensive.

  �
�Kidnapping is a Federal offence, but let that ride,’ I said. ‘I am being well paid. I am not complaining. I have agreed to impersonate your husband. Are you satisfied so far with my make-up?’

  ‘It is excellent, but not your voice. It might be necessary for you to speak to certain people on the telephone. Could you imitate my husband’s voice?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know until I heard it,’ I said. ‘I don’t think it would be a problem. Not so long ago, I had a nightclub engagement imitating the voices of well-known people,’ and I went into the routine of Lee Marvin’s voice, the voice of Richard Nixon and the rich voice of Sir Winston Churchill.

  She sat, staring at me.

  ‘You’re marvelous!’ she said in a voice that told me she really meant what she was saying. ‘I’ll get a tape of my husband’s voice and you can hear it.’ She got to her feet and smiled at me. ‘When you think you can imitate my husband’s voice, we will meet again, Mr. Stevens.’

  ‘This is only a suggestion,’ I said as I stood up. ‘I don’t know what you call your husband, but wouldn’t it be safer for you to call me what you call him?’

  She regarded me, her violet eyes suddenly remote.

  ‘I call him John and he calls me Etta.’

  ‘So I wait, Etta,’ I said.

  From my long and often depressing association with women, I knew when a woman was turned on. I knew from the softening of the face, the faint flush, the invitation in the eyes. The signs were all there and I knew that I had only to cross the division between us, to take her in my arms and she would have given herself. It was a temptation, but not the time.

  Instead, I smiled, then walked over to the window.

  I stood looking down at the garden for several minutes, then looked around.

  She had gone.

  I felt in need of a drink. I went to the cocktail cabinet and poured a stiff Scotch. Carrying the drink, I sat down. I felt some confidence that Loretta Merrill Ferguson was not going to be a problem.

  Half an hour later, while I was still sitting and thinking, Mazzo came in.

  ‘You’re doing fine, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said, grinning. ‘It’s my guess Mrs. F.’s taken a fancy to you.’ He crossed to the desk and taking the cover off a tape desk, he threaded on a tape. ‘She says you wanted this: one of the Boss’s business talks. Whatcha want for lunch? The Chef’s doing a clam chowder. Any good to you?’