James Chase - You Can Say That Again

The name was repeated over and over again. The sound waves of the voices hammered around me.

Man! Did I feel great!

At the top of the staircase, I paused, turned and looked down at the sea of faces, the TV cameras, the bodyguard, the struggling photographers. Feeling like the President of the United States of America, I lifted my hand in a regal salute, then Durant, moving up, practically shoved me inside the aircraft and the show was over.

* * *

I had often read about the private aircrafts owned by wheeler dealers, but this aircraft, as I moved past two smiling girls, wearing dark green uniforms with brown pillbox hats, made me gape.

The passenger accommodation had been replaced by small leather covered lounging chairs, an executive desk with a high black leather chair, a big cocktail bar, a board room table with ten chairs and a wall-to-wall heavy pile dark red carpet.

To the side, was a leather chair with a leg extension which looked comfortable enough to sleep in.

‘Sit there,’ Durant said, pointing to the chair.

I lowered my body into the comfort of the chair, took off my hat and dropped it on the floor.

Mazzo came forward, picked it up and took it away.

Durant went forward and out of my sight. I heard the aircraft’s door slam shut.

Through the drawn curtains of the windows, I could see the glare of the TV lights and I itched to draw aside one of the curtains to take a look at the press below, but this wasn’t the time.

A few minutes later, the aircraft’s jets came alive and minutes later, the aircraft began its take-off.

Durant returned and sat at the desk. He opened his briefcase, took out a mass of papers and began to read.

I relaxed in the chair, closed my eyes and thought about the reception I had had. What it was to be worth billions of dollars! I thought of my dreary years of grind, trying to make it as a movie star. Now, suddenly, I was being treated as one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, and I loved it!

I was content to lie there with my thoughts for the next twenty minutes, then it occurred to me that as I was John Merrill Ferguson, I should receive some attention.

Durant was still immersed in his reading. I glanced around and saw Mazzo dozing in a chair behind me.

‘Mazzo!’ I said sharply.

Both he and Durant looked up.

Mazzo hesitated, then got to his feet and came to me.

‘A double Scotch on the rocks, and I want something to eat,’ I said.

Mazzo blinked, then looked at Durant who glared at me, hesitated, then nodded.

‘Okay, Mr. Ferguson,’ Mazzo said and went away.

After staring at me for a long moment, Durant returned to his reading.

One of the air hostesses brought the drink. I gave her a nod of thanks. By the time I had finished the drink, a meal, brought on a trolley was served: an excellent hors d’oeuvre, followed by a fillet of steak in a wine sauce and a selection of cheeses.

The two air hostesses served me. I guessed Durant had been smart enough to have got two girls who had never seen Ferguson. Their reactions were of two girls serving one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. One of them, a cute blonde, kept giving me a sexy smile. I was sure I could have put my hand up her short skirt and she wouldn’t have squealed.

Cigars and brandy followed.

Man! I thought this is the way to live!

‘Would you like something to read, Mr. Ferguson?’ the sexy one asked.

I remembered I had been out of circulation now for three days.

‘Get me a newspaper, please,’ I said.

She hip-swished away and returned with the California Times.

I settled down to read.

There was nothing new in the paper: the usual dreary depressions, the President’s hopeful promises, Russia growling. I turned to the Hollywood hews. The paper gave up two pages to the film world: who was suing who, who was the new love-in, who might get the Oscar: stuff that interested me.

On the second page was a photograph of Charles who had designed the mask I was wearing.

I stared at the photograph, then read the caption: Charles Duvine: Hollywood’s Master Make-Up Artist: A Suicide .

My heart skipped a beat as I read on.

Charles Duvine , wrote the reporter, had been away for two months. It was believed he had been on vacation in Martinique. He had returned to his luxury penthouse in Santa Barbara two nights ago. The Security guard said Mr. Duvine seemed to be in a depressed, nervy mood. The following morning, the Security guard, on his usual patrol, had found the body of Mr. Duvine, lying on the paved surround of the high-rise. It appeared that in a moment of deep depression, Mr. Duvine had thrown himself from the terrace of his penthouse. The police were satisfied that it was suicide.

I closed my eyes as I let the newspaper drop from my trembling fingers.

Larry Edwards who could have talked: dead from defective car brakes. Now, Charles Duvine who had turned me into John Merrill Ferguson and who also could have talked: a suicide.

Cold, clammy fear grabbed at me.

Then the truth of my predicament hit me like a sledgehammer. When I had served my purpose, I too would cease to live!

Once this mysterious business deal had been completed, Ferguson and Durant wouldn’t let me live in case I talked. They would have me murdered as they had had Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine murdered!

I was so frightened, I nearly threw up. I felt cold sweat running down my back. I felt cold sweat running down inside the mask I was wearing.

‘A little more brandy, Mr. Ferguson?’ It was the sexy hostess standing over me.

Because of the mask she couldn’t see how frightened I was.

Brandy? I needed it!

‘Yes, thank you.’

She put a big snifter half full of brandy on the table in front of me.

‘If you would like to have a nap, sir,’ she said, ‘Your room’s all ready. We have five hours before landing.’

‘I’ll do that,’ I said, and got to my feet.

The mask was now becoming unbearable. I had to take it off.

She picked up the snifter and walked past Durant’s desk towards a door.

‘Taking a nap, Joe,’ I said huskily as Durant looked up.

I saw Mazzo start to his feet, but Durant shook his head. Mazzo sat down again.

I followed the girl into a cabin with a bed and a fitted closet. There was a bathroom leading off the little room.

She put the snifter on the night table and smiled at me.

‘Is there anything else, Mr. Ferguson? I’m not busy for the next couple of hours,’ and she arched her eyebrows invitingly.

If I hadn’t been so scared and longing to take off the mask, I would have been tempted.

‘Nothing now, thank you.’

‘Call me Phoebe, Mr. Ferguson. I’m entirely at your service,’ and after hesitating, she smiled again and left the cabin, shutting the door.

I slid the bolt home, then went into the bathroom and carefully removed the mask. Laying it down, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Did I look a wreck! This was Jerry Stevens, a washed-up, bit-part actor scared witless, white faced, sweat beads, a mouth that twitched. Very far from the last time I had seen myself in a mirror: the confident, powerful John Merrill Ferguson who I had asked myself what he had got that I hadn’t got.

I washed my face and hands, then returned to the cabin. I drank nearly all the brandy, then sat on the bed, trying to steady my shaking hands. I finished the brandy and set down the glass before I dropped it. After a few minutes, the brandy began to bite and my heart beat began to return to normal. I lit a cigarette.

I thought about Charles Duvine. Maybe two thugs or even Mazzo had been waiting on the penthouse terrace: a prick of a needle and away into space.