You Can Say That Again
James Hadley Chase
You Can Say That Again
James Hadley Chase
1980
chapter one
For the past week, I had been sitting, alone, in my walkup apartment, staring into space and waiting. I had run out of cash, and even worse, out of credit. My lifeline, right at this moment, was the telephone.
When the bell rang — the first time in seven, gruesome days — I nearly broke a leg getting to the receiver.
‘This is Lu Prentz’s secretary.’
‘Hi, Liz!’ I wasn’t a bit-part actor for nothing. I instilled into my voice sincere pleasure: not a desperate screech for help, but smooth, no panic, completely at ease. ‘You just caught me. I was on my way out.’
I knew this crummy dialogue wouldn’t jell with Liz Martin, but I knew she would go along with it. She had had enough experience, working with Lu Prentz, to know all his clients were desperate for work.
‘Mr. Prentz wants to see you urgently, Mr. Stevens,’ she told me. ‘May he expect you?’
‘What does that mean — urgently?’
‘After lunch. Three o’clock?’
There was a time when Lu Prentz talked business with me over a lush-plush lunch, but that was in the dim past. The only time he wanted to see me now was to remind me I owed him five hundred and three dollars.
‘Is he worrying about what I owe him, Liz?’ I asked in my bored voice. ‘Is that what he wants to see me about?’
‘It’s a job, Mr. Stevens.’
‘I’ll be there at three o’clock.’
As I hung up, I took in a long, deep breath. Man! Could I use a job! Any goddam job!
A few years ago, I had been a big success, playing the baddie in Western movies. Then I moved onto the friend who never got the girl: strictly second role parts, then the guy who got shot early in the movie, then the character who sat around looking menacing for a fifty second take, then nothing much: a few bit parts, then a bigger part in a TV serial, and now, I was, what is known in the trade, resting.
I was pushing forty: tall, handsome, dark and divorced. My wardrobe, carefully cherished, was beginning to show signs of wear. I had been waiting and waiting. I was so far down the tunnel, I didn’t go out, scared to leave the telephone, didn’t eat more than a hamburger a day which was sent in, but still hoping for the big break.
Lu Prentz was known as the last line of retreat for the unsuccessful and aging actors and actresses. When all the big agencies, the not-so-big agencies, the minor agencies were no longer interested, Lu was willing to try. He often said with his oily smile: Who knows? Some sucker could buy you, and it’s dollars in my bank.
To give Lu his due, he had, over the past six months, staked me when the wolves were gnawing at my door. He had explained, when handing over the loot to me, that he had faith in me. He felt convinced he would get his money back, plus twenty-five percent interest. Taking his money, I was happy to agree with him, but I felt he was taking a risk. I had even sold my car.
But if Liz said there was a job, she meant just that.
Liz Martin was a worldly eighteen year old. She had been working for Lu for the past three years. If anyone had a heart of gold, she had. I’ve seen her cry when some skinny, aged actress had been given the bum’s rush out of Lu’s shabby office.
Liz was typing like crazy when I walked into the tiny room that served as an outer-office. I gave her my wide, friendly smile.
Liz was a thin, tiny blonde with big blue eyes and the kind of appeal spaniels have: a little doleful, but longing to be loved.
‘Hi, Liz,’ I said, closing the door. ‘Is the alligator back from crunching bones?’
She nodded and pointed to Lu’s door.
‘Go right on in, Mr. Stevens, and good luck.’
Lu Prentz sat behind his desk, his pudgy hands resting on the grubby blotter, his eyes closed. From the heavy flush on his face, he had been reducing the level in a Scotch bottle at someone else’s expense.
Lu was short, squat and over-fat. Balding and clean-shaven, when he remembered to shave, he gave the appearance of a no-good uncle returning to the homestead in search of a dollar. He always wore the same shiny blue suit. He went in for hand-painted floral ties and bottle green shirts. It was only when he opened his eyes and looked at me, I recalled he was not only sharp, not only shrewd, but as hard as tungsten steel.
‘Sit down, Jerry,’ he said, waving to the client’s chair. ‘I think something’s come up that could be useful to you.’
I sat down carefully knowing from experience, this chair was as comfortable as the Iron Maiden, designed to get rid of Lu’s clients in the shortest possible time.
‘You’re looking well, Lu,’ I said. ‘Long time, no see.’
‘Never mind the B movie dialogue,’ he said, releasing a gentle burp. ‘Just listen.’ He screwed up his little eyes as he contemplated me. ‘You owe me five hundred and three bucks.’
‘Don’t let’s go over past history, Lu. What’s come up?’
‘I’m just reminding you because if you land this job, the first thing you do is to repay me.’
‘What job? TV?’
‘I don’t know what the job is, but my instincts tell me there could be money in it.’ He tapped his beaky nose. ‘Always providing you get the job.’
‘You’ve eaten too much for lunch. You’re rambling.’
‘Stop wasting my time! Just listen!’
So I listened.
This morning, at ten o’clock he told me, a man, calling himself Joseph Durant, had come to the office. This man made a big impact on Lu. He was around forty—five years of age, well fed, swarthy and smooth. He was immaculately dressed in a suit that only big money could buy. He wore black lizard skin shoes and a Cardin tie. These points registered with Lu. The look of this man gave off a strong aroma of wealth. Mr. Durant said he was interested in hiring an out-of-work actor. He understood, by asking around, that Mr. Prentz specialized in out-of-work actors.
Lu, giving his oily smile, said he also had many other clients who were earning big money in movies and TV
Mr. Durant had waved this obvious lie aside. Did Mr. Prentz have photographs of these actors who were out-of-work and were looking for an assignment?
Lu said he had some four hundred photographs of excellent actors who were, unfortunately, resting at this moment.
‘I’ll look at these photographs,’ Durant said.
‘Well, four hundred . . . maybe you can give me some idea of the kind of man you had in mind? I could then put the data through my computer (Liz Martin) and come up with a selection.’
Durant nodded.
‘I need a man between thirty-five and forty—five years of age. He must be at least six feet tall. His height is important. He should be slim: not more than a hundred and sixty pounds. He should be able to drive a car, ride a horse and swim well. He must have a placid temperament. I don’t want one of these showoff actors who think they are tin gods.’
Lu had only five out-of-work actors on his books who vaguely matched this description, and all of them considered themselves major gods. He made a big thing about producing the photographs. These Durant examined.
Lu gave me his oily smile.
‘He picked you, Jerry. He wants to see you before deciding to engage you.’
‘What is this?’ I asked. ‘Who is he? Is he a talent scout?’
‘I doubt it.’ Lu shrugged. ‘He was secretive. I do know he reeks of money, and that’s what we are both interested in . . . right?’
‘You can say that again,’ I said with feeling.
‘Okay. Now tonight, at exactly ten—thirty, you will walk into the lobby of the Plaza hot
el. You will then go to the newsstand and buy a copy of Newsweek. You will then go to the main bar and order a dry martini. You will sit at the bar and look through Newsweek. You will have a few words with the barman, finish your drink and return to the lobby. You don’t rush any of this. You will be watched. Your manner, your movements and the way you conduct yourself are of interest to Mr. Durant. You will sit in the lobby. If you have satisfied Mr. Durant, he will approach you. If you have flopped, he won’t, and after waiting half an hour, you go home and forget it ever happened. That’s it. It’s up to you.’
‘You have no idea what he wants?’
‘No idea.’
‘No talk of money?’
‘No talk of money. This is an audition. It’s up to you.’
I thought about this. It seemed odd to me, but it could turn out to be a job.
‘He looks like money?’
‘He stinks of money.’
‘Well, okay. What have I to lose? I’ll be there.’
Lu switched on his oily smile.
‘Good. Now remember, a placid temperament. This guy means what he says.’
‘A placid temperament? That means a yes-man.’
‘Nice thinking, Jerry. That’s what it means.’
‘Suppose he hires me? How about the money? Do you handle that end of it?’
Lu’s little eyes turned cold.
‘If he talks money, refer him to me. I’m your agent, aren’t I?’
‘You must be. I don’t seem to have any other agent.’ I gave him my boyish smile, minus sincerity. ‘Well, okay, I’ll be there.’ I paused, then went on. ‘There’s one little thing, Lu, we should settle before I leave you to your hive of industry. I go to the Plaza. I buy Newsweek. I buy a dry martini . . . right?’
He regarded me suspiciously.
‘That’s what you do.’
I widened the boyish smile.
‘With what?’
Lu stared at me.
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘Let’s face the sordid facts. I’m bust flat. I even had to walk to your crummy office. I’ve even sold my car.’
Lu reared back in his chair.
‘Impossible! I lent you . . .’
‘That was six months ago. Right now, I am worth one dollar and twenty cents.’
He closed his eyes and released a soft moan. I could see he was struggling with himself. Finally, he opened his eyes and produced a twenty-dollar note from a loaded wallet and placed the bill, as if it was Ming china, on his desk.
As I reached for the bill, he said, ‘You had better get this job, Jerry. This is the last handout you get from me. If you don’t get this job, never let me see your face in this office again. Is that understood?’
I stowed the bill into my empty wallet.
‘I always knew you had a heart of gold, Lu,’ I said. ‘I will tell my grandchildren of your generosity. The little bastards will cry their eyes out.’
He snorted.
‘You now owe me five hundred and twenty three dollars, plus twenty-five percent interest. Now, go away!’
I went into the outer office where two aged, shabby looking men leaned against the wall, waiting to see Lu. The sight of them depressed me, but I managed to give Liz a bright smile. I walked down to the street. As I set off to my dreary apartment, I hoped, as I have never hoped before, that tonight would produce the vital break I needed.
* * *
As I walked into the lobby of the Plaza hotel, the wall clock showed 22.30.
In my better days, I had often frequented this hotel, using the bar and the restaurant when dating some willing dolly bird. Then, the doorman would lift his cap, but this time, he merely glanced at me as he hurried down the steps to open the door of a Caddy from which spilled a fat man and a fatter woman.
The hotel lobby was fairly crowded with the usual mob who milled around, greeting each other: most of the men in tuxedos and the women in their war paint. No one paid any attention to me as I walked across the lobby to the newsstand. The old dear who had been behind the counter since the hotel had opened, smiled at me.
‘Why, hello, Mr. Stevens! I’ve missed you. Have you been away?’
Well, at least someone remembered me.
‘France,’ I lied. ‘How are you?’
‘Middling. None of us get any younger. And you, Mr. Stevens?’
‘Fine. Give me Newsweek, will you, baby?’
She simpered. It is easy to please those without money or fame. She gave me the magazine and I paid.
Then conscious I might be watched, I gave her my charming smile, said she looked younger than when I had last seen her, and leaving her dazed with joy, I walked slowly through the mob to the bar. I resisted the temptation to look around to see if I could spot Mr. Durant. I only hoped he was there, watching my performance.
The bar was crowded. I have to weave my way through and past the fat, scented women and the fat, potbellied men to the bar.
Jo-Jo, the negro barman, was serving cocktails. He had put on a lot of weight since I last had seen him. He gave me a quick glance, then a double take, then he beamed at me.
‘Hi, Mr. Stevens. Be with you in a second.’
I rested my elbows on the bar: another who remembered.
When Jo-Jo eventually reached me, I asked for a dry martini.
‘Long time no see, Mr. Stevens,’ he said, reaching for a shaker. ‘You’re quite a stranger.’
‘Yeah. You know how it is.’ I didn’t give him the guff about being in France. Jo-Jo was too worldly wise.
‘Sure. We come and we go and we return to this city.’
Was there a look of sympathy in his eyes?
‘Anyway, nice to see you again.’
He poured out the drink and went to serve a party clamoring for refills.
I suddenly felt pretty good. It was months now since anyone had said it was nice to see me. Most of my so-called friends crossed the street when they saw me coming.
I wondered if my performance with Jo-Jo had been long enough. Holding my drink, I looked around, but the mob was so dense, I couldn’t pick out anyone who looked anything like Mr. Durant as Lu had described him. I sipped the drink and looked at the magazine.
When Jo-Jo had finished serving. I signaled to him.
‘A pack of Chesterfields, please.’
‘Yes, Mr. Stevens.’ He produced the pack. ‘Is the drink okay?’
‘Fine: no one quite like you to mix a dry martini.’
He beamed.
‘Well, I guess I’ve mixed a few in my time.’
‘I’m in a hurry. I’ll pay now,’ and I put a ten spot on the counter.
He gave change and I slipped him a quarter.
‘Hope to see you again, Mr. Stevens,’ and he went off to serve more drinks.
I finished the martini, lit a cigarette, then wandered into the lobby. It was less crowded. The mob was milling towards the restaurant and the exits.
My heart was now beating over fast. Would Mr. Durant appear? I put on my nonchalant expression and moved to one of the lounging chairs. I sat down, opened the magazine and stared sightlessly at the printed pages. Suppose I had flopped? There seemed no obvious rush to hire me.
Play it cool, I told myself, and stubbed out my cigarette in the ash bowl on the table by my side. I crossed one leg over the other and turned the pages.
Twenty long minutes dragged by, and nothing happened.
By now the lobby was nearly empty. I looked around. An elderly couple sat away from me. A thin man and a thinner woman were talking to the reception clerk. Four bellboys sat on a bench, waiting for new arrivals. A little old woman sat alone, looking forlorn and lonely with a toy poodle to keep her company. Two men, smoking cigars, studied papers. There was no sign of anyone remotely looking like Mr. Durant.
I waited. There was nothing else I could do, and while I sat there a black cloud of depression began to gather around me. Fifteen minutes later, the cloud was dense.
I had flopped!<
br />
I put down the magazine and lit a cigarette. So what was I going to do? I thought of the long walk back to my apartment. I couldn’t afford a taxi. Out of Lu’s handout, I had eleven dollars and a few cents left in my financial world, but, at least, for the moment, I had a roof over my head, but for how long?
Had Lu been serious about me not showing my face in his office? I thought about this, and decided he was bluffing. He wouldn’t release his hooks in me until I had repaid what I owed him.
So, back to my apartment to face another interminable wait by the telephone. At least, Lu’s handout would keep me from starving.
It was comfortable in the hotel lobby. No one bothered me. I was reluctant to leave for the long, dismal walk home. So I settled back and forced myself to take an interest in the remaining people in the lobby. The thin man and the thinner woman had left. The elderly couple had been claimed by another elderly couple and were being steered towards the restaurant. The two businessmen continued to smoke their cigars and discuss whatever they were discussing.
My eyes shifted to the little old woman with her poodle.
Hotel lobbies are cluttered up with little old women: some of them thin, some fat, but always on their own and lonely. This little old woman was a typical specimen. I guessed she had lost her husband, had money, was on a conducted tour of California, and would return to some lonely mansion where a butler and a number of aging maids robbed her blind. She had spent money on herself: her ash-blonde wig was immaculate: her glasses bejeweled: her emerald green dress probably from Balmain, and diamond rings flashed on her fingers.
I became aware she was staring at me and quickly shifted my eyes. In spite of not looking at her, I still felt her staring at me.
Jeepers! I thought, have I started something with this old lonely? It seemed I had for she got out of her chair, picked up the poodle and came over to me.
‘It must be Mr. Jerry Stevens!’ she exclaimed, pausing at my side.
Man! I thought as I stood up. I only need this! I gave her my charming smile.
‘Mr. Stevens! I don’t want to intrude, but I feel I must tell you how much I loved your performance in The Sheriff of X Ranch.’
If ever there was a movie that stank - The Sheriff of X Ranch took the Oscar for all stinkers.
You Can Say That Again Page 1
