1980 - You Can Say That Again Read online

  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.

  Jerks like him often have accidents. You’re smart, palsy. You won’t have an accident.

  It now came to me with a frightening impact that, because Larry had refused to cooperate, he had been murdered! Knowing now who I was dealing with, suspecting some vast financial deal was being planned and that secrecy was essential, these people wouldn’t let Larry free after kidnapping him, sure he would talk.

  So there had been a murderous accident.

  This wasn’t going to happen to me! I would cooperate.

  Man! Would I cooperate!

  With a sweating, unsteady hand, I drew the tracing paper and the signature towards me and began to try, desperately, not only to earn my one thousand dollars a day, but also to keep alive.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I threw down the pen and stared at my last effort. The floor was littered with screwed up tracing paper. My last effort to forge John Merrill Ferguson’s signature was worse than my first.

  My hand ached, my fingers were stiff, and panic made my heart pound.

  I pushed back my chair and stood up. I began to pace the room. Suppose I couldn’t forge the signature? Would Durant look for someone else? Would this result in a prick of a needle and an accident skillfully arranged?

  I had to succeed!

  I flexed my fingers, then walked into the bathroom and ran water into the toilet basin until it ran hot. I immersed my aching hand in the water. When the water cooled, I emptied the basin and refilled it with hot water. After a while my hand became relaxed. I returned to the table and began work again.

  I was still at it, an hour later, when the door slid back and Durant, followed by Mazzo, came in.

  Durant looked at the mess of screwed up paper on the floor, then he came over to the table and picked up my last effort and studied it.

  I watched him, my heart thudding.

  Finally, he said, ‘Not bad. I see, Stevens, you intend to cooperate. For a first attempt, this is encouraging.’

  I sat back in my chair, feeling a surge of relief run through me.

  ‘That will do for today. Tomorrow, you will try again.’ He regarded me with his hard, ruthless eyes. ‘You have three days in which to perfect the signature.’ He turned to Mazzo. ‘Clear up this mess, then attend to Stevens’ needs,’ and he left.

  Mazzo found a wastepaper basket and began picking up the balls of paper. I helped him. When the room was tidy again, Mazzo smiled at me.

  ‘Palsy, you’re going to survive. Anyone who can please that sonofabitch is smart.’

  I didn’t say anything, but I registered the fact that Mazzo had no time for Durant.

  ‘Well, palsy, how about a little workout in the gym?’ Mazzo asked. ‘A big guy like you doesn’t want to sit on his butt all day. Let’s go and loosen up.’

  I was glad to get out of my prison and walk along the corridor to an elevator. He and I sank between floors, and when the elevator stopped, the door swung open. Mazzo led the way into a large, fully equipped gymnasium.

  ‘I’ve seen you on TV, palsy. You’re a good fighter,’ Mazzo said, giving me his rat smile. ‘Let’s put on the gloves, huh?’

  I did consider myself a good scrapper. When playing the roles of baddies in Westerns, I had prided myself not to have a double. But, looking at this man mountain, I felt a qualm.

  ‘I have to be careful of my hands, Mazzo,’ I said. ‘I have this writing job.’

  Again the rat smile.

  ‘Sure . . . sure. Nothing to it, palsy. We wear gloves. Just a little sparring. Nothing to it.’

  He went to a locker and produced two pairs of sparring gloves. Seeing there was no way out, I took off my jacket and shirt while he did the same. The sight of his huge muscles alarmed me. I put on the gloves and waited until he also put on the gloves, then we faced each other.

  I pranced around him, noting he was slow on his feet: a man of his size had to be slow. He pushed out his left and I shifted my head and poked him hard on his nose.

  He shuffled away, and I saw surprise in his little eyes.

  He sent over a left hook. It was telegraphed, and I took it on my right glove, but the force of the hook sent me back. I knew if one of his punches landed, I would be flattened. He hit like a pile driver.

  We pranced politely around. I poked his head back when he came too close and he snorted. This went on for some minutes, then I saw an evil smile flicker on his lipless mouth. I felt instinctively, he was about to launch a blockbuster. I didn’t give him time to get set.

  I weaved towards him, jabbing with my left in his face, throwing him off balance, then I let fly with my best right hand hook with all my weight behind it. My fist smashed on his jaw and he went down as if the bones in his legs had turned to putty. His shoulders crashed down on a wrestling mat: his eyes rolled back: he was out to the world.

  I tore off the gloves and knelt beside him, lifted his shaven head, patting his cheeks.

  I was scared witless that when he recovered, he would tear me apart.

  It took more than ten seconds for him to come to the surface. When I saw the light of life come into his eyes, I pushed him into a sitting position, then I stood away as one might stand away from a drugged tiger, getting to its feet.

  He peered at me, then he smiled:
not a rat smile this time, but a wide, friendly grin.

  ‘That was a beaut, palsy,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘Man, can you sock!’ He offered me his hand and I dragged him to his feet. He rubbed his jaw, then burst out laughing. ‘And I was dim enough to take you for a phoney.’

  I drew in a long, slow breath of relief.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mazzo. You had me scared. If you had caught me with one of your blockbusters, I couldn’t have worked for Mr. Durant. I had to uncork my best.’

  He peeled off his gloves and again rubbed his jaw, staring at me, then he nodded his shaven head.

  ‘You’re right, palsy. Listen, don’t say anything about this to that sonofabitch. He would have my balls. Okay?’

  ‘Sure, and would you skip the palsy routine. Call me Jerry.’

  He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

  ‘Yeah. Well, come on, Jerry, let’s have a workout.’

  Although I was practically sure he was a killer and I feared him, I had a feeling that now he just might be on my side. We worked together throwing a medicine ball around and with the bars until we were both sweating.

  I felt I had made a major step forward.

  After we had showered and redressed, he led me back to my room.

  By now, I was hungry.

  ‘You ask, you get,’ Mazzo said when I said it was time to eat. ‘Anything goes here.’

  So I asked for chicken Maryland.

  He patted me on my shoulder.

  ‘You like that, Jerry? Me too.’ He rubbed his jaw and widened his smile. ‘You’re going to survive.’ He tapped his vast chest. ‘I’m telling you,’ and he went away.

  * * *

  The next day was a replica of the previous day.

  When Mazzo wheeled in the breakfast trolley, I found another credit note in my favor for one thousand dollars. This was encouraging.

  Breakfast over, I sat at the table and worked on John Merrill Ferguson’s signature. I was in a more relaxed mood, and I began to feel more confident.

  After an hour, I discarded the tracing paper and kept on writing the signature on ordinary paper. I was still doing this, an hour later, when the door slid back and Durant came in. He stood over me, studying my many attempts.

  ‘Take a fresh piece of paper and write the signature,’ he said.

  I did as I was told. He took the paper and examined the signature.

  ‘Yes. You are doing well, Stevens. Keep at it. I want you to be as familiar with this signature as you are with your own.’ He moved away. ‘I have been making arrangements for you. I have paid your rent, and your clothes and personal effects have been packed and are here. I have seen your agent, Prentz, and have paid him the commission he asked for. I have told him you are now in Europe, working for me. You have no further ties nor debts.’ He paused to stare at me. ‘You are entirely at my disposal.’

  I felt scared. There was something in his staring eyes that sent a red light flashing in my mind.

  ‘Continue with the signature,’ he went on. ‘Tomorrow, if I am satisfied, you will be moved from here, and you will begin the impersonation.’

  ‘Where do I go?’ I asked huskily.

  ‘You will be told later. So far, Stevens, you are proving satisfactory. Remember, you don’t ask questions,’ he said curtly and left me.

  It took me some minutes before I could bring myself to begin again the dreary chore of writing the signature.

  I was committed. At least, so far, I was giving satisfaction and making money.

  Lunchtime arrived. Mazzo wheeled in the trolley.

  The meal was a big prawn salad, decorated with slices of lobster meat.

  ‘Okay?’ he said, smiling at me. ‘Build yourself up, Jerry. You have work to do this afternoon.’

  Two hours later, when I was still working on the signature, the door opened. Mazzo, followed by Charles, came in.

  Charles was carrying his make-up box. Mazzo had a suit over his arm and a pair of shoes in his hand.

  ‘Mr. Stevens!’ Charles exclaimed rather breathlessly. ‘We must get to work.’ His eyes were darting with fright and there were sweat beads on his forehead. He put the make-up box on the table. From it he took what looked like an overlarge rubber surgical glove.

  ‘Get into these clothes, Jerry,’ Mazzo said.

  It was the same suit I had put on before. I put it on.

  ‘Now the shoes.’

  These I put on.

  ‘Please sit down, Mr. Stevens,’ Charles said.

  Carefully, he unfolded the piece of rubber and it became a face mask. This he fitted over my face.

  ‘This is the thinnest latex, Mr. Stevens,’ he said. ‘It won’t be uncomfortable. It is on this base I work.’ He was molding the rubber mask to my skin. There were blank eyepieces and I could see without trouble. ‘Now the eyebrows and the moustache.’ He worked away, then finally stood back. ‘It is simple, Mr. Stevens. You will have a good supply of eyebrows and moustaches. I have three masks, in case you have an accident. You will be able to arrange this yourself without trouble.’

  He took a photograph from his make-up box, studied it, then studied me. ‘Excellent. Please go to the mirror. See for yourself.’

  I got to my feet, and because of the raised wedge in the heel of the shoe, I limped to the wall mirror and surveyed myself. For a long moment, I stared, feeling a cold chill run over me. This wasn’t me! The man in the mirror was a total stranger. The latex mask showed a handsome, heavily tanned face with a thin nose, a firm mouth and an aggressive jaw. The thin eyebrows and the pencil line moustache gave this image distinction. I just stood staring, and it was only when I moved that I convinced myself that the reflection in the mirror was me, and not someone else.

  I became aware that Harriet and Durant had come into the room.

  I turned.

  ‘Walk,’ Durant said.

  I limped across the room, turned and limped back to the table.

  ‘Wonderful!’ Harriet exclaimed. ‘No one could tell them apart! Your talents, Charles, are worthy of your great reputation.’

  Charles simpered.

  ‘Thank you. Great care must be used to fit the mask. Mr. Stevens is used to making up. There will be no problems.’ He smiled uneasily. ‘Now, my work is done. I would like to go home. I have many, many commitments.’

  ‘Of course,’ Harriet said. She waved to Mazzo. ‘Arrange for Mr. Charles to go to his home.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’ Charles’s face lit up with relief. ‘You can depend on my discretion. I am so glad everything is so satisfactory.’ He moved to the door, paused to give me a shy smile. ‘It has been a pleasure, Mr. Stevens. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said, thinking he was lucky to get out of this mess, but, then, how was I to know this was his last goodbye?

  chapter three

  I spent the whole of the following morning practicing John Merrill Ferguson’s signature. By now, I was getting fluent, and it no longer worried me that the task was beyond my powers.

  Again, with the breakfast trolley, there was a credit note for one thousand dollars.

  As I worked, after breakfast, I remembered Durant had said that today, I would be moved from here and begin the impersonation. The sooner it began, the sooner I would be free.

  After lunch, Durant appeared with a legal looking document which he put on the table.

  ‘Use a pencil and sign here,’ he said curtly.

  Picking up a pencil, I signed Ferguson’s name with a flourish.

  Durant examined what I had written, then nodded.

  ‘Do it again in ink,’ he said.

  Using the Parker pen, I signed over the pencil signature.

  Again he studied what I had written, then he regarded me with his hard, dark eyes. ‘You have passed the test, Stevens.’ He crossed to a chair and sat down. ‘The impersonation will begin this evening. You will be taken to Mr. Ferguson’s residence in Paradise City, Florida. There, you will meet Mr. Ferguson’s wife. She kno
ws about this impersonation. You have nothing to worry about. You will have your own quarters, and you will have no contact with the staff. Mr. Ferguson hasn’t had contact with his staff for some time, so this will not be considered unusual. Mazzo will attend to your needs. At certain times, wearing the disguise, you will show yourself in the grounds of the estate. Mazzo will be with you. Three times a week, you will be driven to the corporation’s office. Again Mazzo and others will be with you. None of the staff will approach you. All you will have to do is to sign letters and documents. I will be directing the operation. I have arranged for Mr. Ferguson’s personal secretary to go on vacation. I have replaced her with a woman who has never seen Mr. Ferguson. No problem there.’ He paused to stare at me. ‘You will do exactly what I say. You will sign any paper I give you without question.’ Again, he paused to stare at me. ‘Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘As you see, Stevens, you are being well paid for very little effort.’

  If it was going to be that simple, I agreed with him, but was it?

  He got to his feet.

  ‘We leave at seven this evening. You will wear the disguise. Mazzo will assist you. Whenever Mr. Ferguson takes a trip, there are always spies and the press. Do exactly what Mazzo tells you, and there will be no problem.’

  Taking the document I had signed, he left.

  Paradise City! I had often read about this fabulous playground for billionaires, and I had often dreamed of taking a vacation there. So that’s where the Ferguson residence was. To add to the excitement, I was to meet Ferguson’s wife.

  Man! I thought, you are moving up in the social scale. When this impersonation was over, I promised myself I would find some cute dolly-bird and have a real vacation in Paradise City, spending some of the thirty thousand dollars that would be waiting for me in the Chase National Bank.

  With these thoughts to entertain me, the rest of the afternoon passed quickly.

  At 18.00, Mazzo came in, carrying a suitcase.

  ‘Here we go, Jerry,’ he said, putting the suitcase on the table. ‘Change into these clothes.’