1980 - You Can Say That Again (8 page)

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?’

‘Fine with me,’ I said, getting up and crossing to the desk.

‘You know how to work this? Just press this playback button.’

‘I know.’

He nodded and went away.

I sat at the desk, pressed the button and listened to the voice of the man I was impersonating. It was a distinct voice with the snap of authority in it. He was obviously dictating to his broker. I didn’t bother to listen to the words, I concentrated on the intonation, his pauses, and the quality of his voice. I felt confident I could do a good imitation. I played the tape through four times. Then as there was still unrecorded tape on the spool, I switched to record and, using Ferguson’s voice, I dictated bond selling orders and share buying orders as he had done until the tape ran out. I ran the whole tape back and started the playback. I left the desk and wandered to the window and listened. I only knew when I began recording by the bonds and share names I had invented. As I pressed the stop button, Mazzo wheeled in the lunch trolley.

‘That smells very good, Mazzo,’ I said in Ferguson’s voice. ‘I hope it’s as good as it smells.’

He was setting the table and he let fall the cutlery as he whirled around and gaped at me.

‘Jesus! You gave me a start!’ he exclaimed. ‘I could have sworn . . .’

‘Hurry it up, Mazzo,’ I said, still with Ferguson’s voice. ‘I’m hungry.’

He stood gaping.

‘You sound just like the Boss,’ he said.

‘That’s the idea.’ I sat at the table. By my plate was another one thousand dollar credit note. As I put it in my wallet, I said in my own voice, ‘Come on, Mazzo, don’t stand there like a stricken bull. I’m hungry.’

* * *

I spent the afternoon, wearing the mask, playing tennis with Mazzo.

There were four tennis courts at the back of the house, screened by high hedges. Mazzo was in the pro class and I was lucky to take two games off him in three sets. While I was retrieving a ball, I happened to glance up and saw Loretta, standing on a balcony, watching me. I gave her a wave, but she didn’t wave back. When next I looked, she had gone.

The game over, Mazzo and I walked back to the house.

‘If we run into the butler,’ Mazzo said, ‘keep going. His name is Jonas. He’s near sighted, and old enough to be dead.’

As we entered the vast hall, I saw a tall, dignified negro with snow white hair, crossing to the main living room.

‘Good afternoon, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said, pausing. ‘May I say it is good to see you again?’

I waved in his direction and headed for the stairs.

In Ferguson’s voice, I said, ‘Good to be back, Jonas.’

When we reached the head of the stairs, Mazzo said, ‘Very nice. You’re doing fine.’

He left me in my suite and I took off the mask and had another shower. Then putting on a short toweling coat, I stretched out on the enormous bed. I idled the time away with my thoughts.

At 19.00, as I was dozing, I heard a buzzing sound.

It came from the living room. I slid off the bed and saw a red light flashing on the intercom on the desk. I thumbed down the switch, and said in Ferguson’s voice, ‘What is it?’ Then having an idea it was Loretta, I went on. ‘Is that you, Etta? I was waiting to hear

from you.’

I heard a quick intake of breath.

‘Marvelous!’ she said. ‘Tonight, we will have dinner with Mr. Durant at nine o’clock in the dining room. Wear the mask. Mazzo tells me Jonas was completely fooled. This is the big test . . . John,’ and she cut off.

This called for a very dry Martini. I went to the cocktail cabinet, but there was no ice. I hesitated for a moment, then going to the intercom, read off the print under the various buttons. I saw ‘Butler’ and pressed the switch. After a moment’s delay, Jonas answered.

‘I have no ice, Jonas,’ I said in Ferguson’s voice.

‘It is in the lower compartment of the cabinet, sir,’ he told me. ‘I will come immediately.’

I cursed myself for being so stupid.

‘No, don’t do that. I’m busy. It’s all right,’ and I switched off.

That’s what comes of being too confident, I told myself, opening the door of the compartment below the rows of bottles. Here, I found a well-stocked refrigerator.

What would he think? I wondered uneasily.

As I was mixing the drink, there came a tap on the door. Hurriedly moving to the window, my hands clammy, I called to come in.

‘Sir, may I make you a drink?’ Jonas asked.

Still keeping my back turned for I wasn’t wearing the mask, I shook my head.

‘It’s all right. Thanks. Just leave me. I’m busy.’

‘Yes, Mr. Ferguson,’ and I heard the door close.

I drank three quarters of the Martini, set down the glass and wiped my face with my handkerchief, then I finished the drink and made another.

I was back on even keel, plus three Martinis, when Mazzo appeared a few minutes past 20.00.

‘Big deal, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said, grinning. He went to one of the closets and took from it a tuxedo outfit. ‘It’s a dress affair.’ He produced a frilled white shirt and a black bow tie. ‘You get your face on.’

I went into the bathroom and put on the mask. I was now getting expert in this exercise. When I had completed the disguise, it gave me a lot of confidence to look once again at the face of John Merrill Ferguson.

Returning to the bedroom, I changed into the tuxedo. As I was fixing the bow tie, Mazzo said, ‘Jonas will be serving at the table. There will be a couple of women to help him. You don’t have to worry about any of them. The women are cows. Jonas is half-blind. There are two things to remember: the Boss doesn’t eat much. Don’t go making a hog of yourself. The other thing is the Boss doesn’t talk much: so lay off with the chatter. Get it?’