James Chase - You Can Say That Again

‘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.