1980 - You Can Say That Again (4 page)

‘I was just wondering. He was rather like you in appearance: tall, dark,’ Harriet said, smiling. ‘He hadn’t your personality, of course. We did consider him for the job you have now accepted. In fact, we brought him here and discussed the idea with him, but he wouldn’t cooperate. He raised all kinds of difficulties. I am so very glad you aren’t going to be difficult, Jerry . . . so very glad.’

I stared at her, feeling a chill move over me.

‘You are talking about him in the past tense,’ I said.

‘Yes . . . sad.’ She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll ask Mazzo to bring you some books. Please tell him what you would like for lunch.’ She made for the door.

‘What’s happened to Larry?’ I asked, my hands clammy.

She paused at the door.

‘Oh, didn’t you know? He had an accident. Something wrong with the brakes of his car, I believe.’ Her dark blue hard eyes fixed me. ‘He’s dead.’

The door slid open and she was gone.

* * *

An hour later, the door slid back and Mazzo came in, carrying a number of paperbacks. These he set on the table.

‘You want something to read?’

This was the first time I had heard his voice and the sound startled me. It was husky and soft whereas I expected a growl of a bear.

‘Thanks,’ I said.

He stalked over to the chair Harriet had been sitting in and sat down. He grinned at me, showing small white teeth a rat might envy.

‘We’re going to live together, palsy, so we may as well get acquainted, huh?’

‘Why not?’

He nodded his shaven head.

‘There’s nothing to it, palsy, so long as you do exactly what I tell you to do. It’s dead easy money, but don’t ask with the questions. I tell you to blow snot, you blow it. Get it? I tell you to look left, you look left. Get it? I tell you to look right, you look right. Get it? I tell you to run fast, you run fast. Get it?’

‘You have made your point,’ I said.

He wrinkled his forehead.

‘You mean you get it?’

‘I get it.’

‘Okay. The other jerk didn’t get it.’ He lost his smile and looked like a tiger regarding a prospective meal. ‘Too bad for him.’

My mouth turned dry.

‘I heard he had a car accident.’

‘Sure . . . jerks like him often have car accidents.’ He smiled at me. ‘You’re smart, palsy. You won’t have a car accident.’

I didn’t say anything. The hint was there because Larry Edwards hadn’t cooperated, he had been murdered. I couldn’t accept this, but the hint was there.

‘Now, this afternoon, palsy, we start business. Just go along with it, huh?’

I nodded.

‘A creep will come and work you over. Just sit still and let him have his way. Get it?’

Again I nodded.

He smiled.

‘You know, palsy, you and me are going to get along fine together. I saw that movie of yours: The Sheriff of X Ranch. I thought it stank.’

‘So did I,’ I said hoarsely.

He widened his smile.

‘See what I mean? We’re going to get along fine.’

‘Mrs. Harriet liked it.’

‘Sure . . . women! They like anything that moves.’

He got to his feet. ‘Whatcha want to eat for lunch, palsy? You name it, you have it.’

My stomach was churning. The thought of food made me cringe.

‘I had a fine breakfast. Nothing, thanks.’

He released a soft laugh. It sounded like someone stepping on a pair of bellows.

‘Take it easy, palsy. You have nothing to worry about. I’ll have something light fixed for you, huh?’

He moved his great body to the door, turned, smiled his rat smile and went away.

Could Larry have been murdered?

I sat there, sweating.

Something went wrong with his brakes
.

No, I couldn’t believe it. I pushed the frightening thought out of my mind.

So I just sat still. I didn’t even get up to look at the paperbacks. I had this frightening thought that now I had committed myself and had accepted the first payment, I would have to do whatever these people told me to do.

He had an accident. Something wrong with his
brakes. He’s dead
.

I thought of Mazzo’s rat smile.

Man! I thought. What the hell have you walked into?

Can it be possible, that unless you go along with these awful people, if you don’t do just what they want you to do, you could finish up dead?

I sat there, working myself up into a monumental panic.

At 13.00, Mazzo wheeled in a trolley.

‘Take something, palsy,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a long afternoon.’ He regarded me. ‘You feeling okay?’

‘Yes, but I don’t want anything.’

‘You eat something. Get it?’ There was a sudden snarl in his soft voice. ‘You’ve work to do,’ and he stalked out.

So I ate some of the lobster soup because I was scared not to. It was so good, I finally finished it, then sat away from the trolley, fighting the inclination to throw up.

Then action began.

Mazzo came in, inspected the empty tureen, smiled at me and wheeled out the trolley. Then Harriet, minus the poodle, came in, followed by a short, fat man in a short sleeved white overall, carrying what looked like an expensive vanity box.

This man was something to see. His hair, thick and long, was dyed the color of apricots. His eyelids were tinted pale blue and his lips were shell pink. He paused as the door slid shut and gave me a half sly, half roguish smile.

‘Jerry, dear,’ Harriet said. ‘This is Charles. He knows just what to do. Do, please, be cooperative. I want to make sure you will pass as my son.’ She turned to the fat little man. ‘Charles, this is Jerry Stevens.’

‘My dear boy!’ Charles gushed, bounding forward. ‘I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to meet you. I have seen so many of your wonderful movies! What talent! The Sheriff of X Ranch! I was overwhelmed!’ He seized my hand and shook it. ‘It is my great, great pleasure to meet you!’

‘Thank you,’ I said, not believing a word of this gush.

‘Charles!’ A curt note in Harriet’s voice made him stiffen. ‘You are wasting my time!’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He gave her a cringing smile. ‘We mustn’t waste time.’

I saw tiny sweat beads on his forehead.

‘Then get on with it!’ She moved to the door. ‘Ring when you have finished.’

Both Charles and I watched her leave, then when the door slid back, I said, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Sit down, please, Mr. Stevens.’

He went to the box, opened it to display a complete make-up kit. From it he took a pair of calipers, a scratch pad and pencil.

‘I have to measure your face, Mr. Stevens. Forgive me for inconveniencing you,’ he said.

I held my head still while he took measurements, noting the results on the scratch pad.

As he was taking the measurements between my eyes, I became aware that he was whispering. Between his gush and his whispering, his conversation went like this: ‘Marvelous eyes, so full of personality. I’ve been kidnapped! Who are these people? Mr. Stevens! Your features are so regular! This dreadful woman terrifies me! I have been a prisoner for more than two months. Now allow me to measure your ears. Just turn your head to the right. Who is she? Please tell me. That’s perfect. Now the left ear.’

I realized this aged queer was in the same predicament as I was. He had been kidnapped to turn me into Harriet’s son.

‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘I’m supposed to impersonate her son. I ‘ve been kidnapped too.’

Then looking beyond him as he was measuring my left ear, I saw Mazzo had come in silently. The sight of him, staring at me, scared the hell out of me.

Charles, seeing my change of expression, looked over his shoulder. I felt his fat frame tremble.

‘Ah, Mazzo!’ he exclaimed in a thin, shrill voice, ‘I have finished. All will be perfect!’

Mazzo moved into the room. On his arm, he carried clothing. He gave Charles his hungry tiger look, then he showed his rat teeth at me in a smile.

‘Put these on, palsy,’ he said.

He tossed a suit onto a chair.

‘Of course,’ Charles said. ‘The clothes.’

Aware that I was now sweating, I stood up, stripped off my clothes and put on the suit Mazzo had tossed on the chair.

This was some suit: a dark grey mohair that must have cost a bomb. It fitted me like a glove. Charles, his eyes frightened, fluttered around me, patting the suit, then he drew back.

‘The clothes will be no problem.’

Mazzo smiled at me.

‘You’re lucky. They didn’t fit the other jerk.’

I took off the suit and put on my own clothes while the two of them watched me.

My mind was darting around in sick panic, Jesus! What have I walked into? I thought. I looked at the wilting, sweating Charles who was smiling at Mazzo like a dog expecting a beating.

‘The hair,’ Charles said. ‘That needs attention. I must do that. Please sit down, Mr. Stevens.’ He went into the bathroom and returned with a towel which he draped around my shoulders.

From his box, he produced a comb and scissors. He began to snip while Mazzo prowled around the room. Between the snips, and while Mazzo was at the far end of the room, Charles breathed words, leaning forward, his lips nearly touching my ear.

‘They are paying me so much! I’m so frightened! What has happened to the other man? I put in hours of work on him.’

Then Mazzo came back and stood over us, and he remained standing over us so this frightening one-way conversation had to cease.

Finally, Charles stood back and surveyed me: his tinted lidded eyes pools of fright.

‘Yes! Perfect!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now, the limp. Mr. Stevens, please give me your right shoe.’

I took off my right shoe and gave it to him. He went to the table and sat down. From the box, he took a small screwdriver and levered off part of the heel of my shoe. Again from his box, he produced a leather wedge which he screwed to the heel.

All this took a little time. I just sat, watching him, while Mazzo stood watching me and Charles.

‘Let us see,’ Charles said. ‘Please put on the shoe and walk to the window and back.’

I put on the shoe, stood up and walked to the window. The thick wedge he had screwed to the heel of my shoe threw me slightly off balance. I found I was walking like a man with an injured leg. I limped back and stood, waiting.

‘Perfect,’ Charles said.

At this moment, the door slid back and Mrs. Harriet came in, carrying the poodle.

‘Well, Charles?’

‘The hair. Please tell me.’

Her dark blue eyes surveyed me for a long moment, then she nodded.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘You are a great artist, Charles.’

He began to simper, then the simper turned into a grimace. I could read his fears. He was a kidnapped captive as I was.

‘And the walk?’ Harriet said.

‘That has been arranged.’ Charles gave me a pleading look. ‘May I ask you, Mr. Stevens, to walk to the window and back?’

So I limped to the shuttered window and back.

‘Please do it again, Jerry,’ Harriet said.

So I did it again.

‘Yes, it will do,’ she said. ‘Now, we are getting somewhere. Take Charles to his room, Mazzo. Charles! We must not waste time. Get working on the mask.’

‘Of course.’ He walked before Mazzo and out of the room.

Harriet sat down.

‘Now, Jerry, you have to earn the money we are paying you. So far, so good. Now you have a more difficult task. You must to able to forge my son’s signature.’

At this moment, Durant came in, carrying a briefcase.

He went to the table and sat down, zipped open the briefcase and produced a pack of tracing paper, a Parker pen, and a stack of paper which he laid on the desk.

Harriet got to her feet.

‘I will leave you with Mr. Durant. He will explain what you are required to do,’ and she left.

Durant regarded me.

‘Come here and sit down, Stevens,’ he said.

I came there and sat down opposite him at the table. I noted I was no longer ‘Mr.’.

‘This is a matter of practice, Stevens,’ he said. ‘Here is the signature you must copy and perfect. You will use tracing paper until you feel confident you can reproduce the signature without aid.’ He pushed a sheet of paper towards me on which was scrawled a signature. He then placed a sheet of tracing paper over the signature.

‘Copy it and keep copying it.’ he said. ‘You must be able to write this signature perfectly at a moment’s notice. This will, of course, take you several days. Work at it, Stevens.’ He stared at me. ‘No one gets paid one thousand dollars a day without working for it.’

He got to his feet, crossed over to the electronic door and the door snapped shut behind him.

I looked at the scrawling signature: John Merrill Ferguson.

For a long moment, I stared at the signature, scarcely believing my eyes.

John Merrill Ferguson.

If the signature had been that of Howard Hughes, I couldn’t have been more taken aback. Howard Hughes was dead, but John Merrill Ferguson, according to the newspapers, was very much alive. While waiting for telephone calls, I used to read a lot of newspapers my neighbor left for me. They contained continual references to John Merrill Ferguson who, according to the press, had taken over Howard Hughes’ mantle. The press called him the mysterious billionaire wheeler dealer who pulled strings that made politicians dance, who could, with a flick of a finger, make the stock market of the world either rise or wilt, who seemed to have a financial finger in every big deal.

I sat there, staring at the signature. Into my mind, came the frightening thought that I was being groomed to impersonate this man!

Me! A bit-part unsuccessful actor to impersonate one of the most powerful and richest men in the world!

I realized now the answer to this mystery that had been baffling me. The little old woman with her Rolls Royce: Durant reeking of money: Mazzo, possibly a killer: this room with its electronic door and luxury furnishing: the frightened Charles who had, like me, been kidnapped.

A man of John Merrill Ferguson’s power had only to give orders and what had happened to me and to Charles just happened.

I thought of Larry Edwards.