James Chase - You Can Say That Again

‘Anything you say, Joe.’

He turned on me.

‘I told you to call me Mr. Durant when we are alone!’ he snarled.

Feeling confident, behind the screen of the mask, I smiled at him.

‘Don’t talk that way to me, Joe. I am the Boss . . . remember?’

Looking as if he were about to have a stroke, he said in a strangled voice, ‘Listen to me, you goddam, two-bit actor . . .’

I cut him short.

‘Shut your big mouth!’ I rasped in Ferguson’s voice. ‘You listen to me! The press are waiting. All I have to do is to take off this mask and you’ll be in the shit! So stop leaning on me or I’ll damn well lean on you!’

He stared at me the way Frankenstein must have stared at the monster he had created. He opened and shut his mouth, but no words came. We did an eyeball to eyeball confrontation, then he heaved himself around and stared out of the car’s window.

Man! Was I pleased with myself!

Remember, Jerry, you could be John.

Well, at least, I was having a try.

* * *

It was quite a morning. I played the role of a billionaire, and loved it.

First, there were four press photographers at the entrance to the Ferguson Electronic & Oil Corporation, but five tough bodyguards brushed them aside as I walked into the big lobby. Durant, looking like a demon, I and Mazzo entered a plush elevator. We were whisked to the twenty-fourth floor.

John Merrill Ferguson’s office was something out of a movie set: vast, luxurious, picture windows, overlooking the harbor and beach, vast desk and so on.

The elevator took us straight into this room. Durant moved to the desk.

‘Sit there. There are many papers for you to sign.’ He now had control of his temper. ‘You had better have a trial run with the signature. These papers are important.’

I gave Mazzo my hat, then walked to the executive chair and sat down. The desk was big enough to play billiards on.

Durant regarded me the way a film director looks at an actor as he fixes a camera angle.

‘Lower the sun blind,’ he said to Mazzo.

When the room became dim, he nodded and went away.

There was a long pause while I scribbled Ferguson’s signature on a scratch pad. Then satisfied, I threw the torn sheets into the trash basket by my side and helped myself to a cigarette from a gold box.

‘The Boss don’t smoke,’ Mazzo said.

‘The new secretary doesn’t know. Relax with your mouth, Mazzo,’ I said.

There came a tap on the door and a girl came in, carrying a pile of folders.

‘Good morning, Mr. Ferguson,’ she said, coming to the desk. ‘These are for your signature, please.’

I leaned back in the chair and regarded her.

She was quite a woman: tall, well built, auburn hair, piled to the top of her head, attractive features, without being beautiful, big green eyes. She was wearing a pale blue dress with white collar and cuffs.

‘You’ll be Miss Malcolm?’ I said.

‘Yes, Mr. Ferguson.’ She looked directly at me.

‘I hope you’ll be happy here, Miss Malcolm.’

‘Thank you.’

She put the files on the desk.

Durant came in.

‘All right, Miss Malcolm,’ he said curtly. ‘Get that agreement typed right away.’

‘Yes, sir.’

I watched her cross the room. I liked her graceful walk, her slim hips and her straight back. When she had gone, Durant said, ‘Show me the signature.’

I wrote Ferguson’s signature and pushed it across the desk to him. He studied it, then nodded.

‘Sign all these letters and papers,’ he said, indicating the file. Then to Mazzo, he went on, ‘Sit by his side. He is not to read anything he signs. Understand?’

‘Sure, Mr. Durant,’ Mazzo said, and pulled up a chair. He sat down beside me.

‘Be careful how you sign,’ Durant went on to me. ‘Take your time and don’t get careless.’

‘Okay, Joe,’ I said, and reached for the first file.

‘I’ll do that,’ Mazzo said. He produced a sheet of paper from a drawer, then opening a file he took from it a letter. He laid the paper over the contents of the letter. ‘You sign there, Mr. Ferguson.’

Durant watched for a moment, then left.

The signing went on for the next two hours with long pauses to smoke a cigarette and to let my hand remain flexible. I suppose I must have signed over a hundred letters and some fifty legal documents.

When the signing was over, Mazzo pressed a switch on the intercom and said, ‘Collect the files, will you?’

Miss Malcolm came in and picked up the files.

‘Would you like coffee, Mr. Ferguson?’ she asked, pausing to give me a tiny smile.

‘That would be nice,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

When she had gone, Mazzo said in a disapproving voice, ‘The Boss don’t drink coffee.’

‘Oh, button up!’ I said. ‘She’s like me, new here.’

Mazzo shrugged and sat away from the desk, rubbing his shaven head and looking bored.

I examined all the gadgets on the desk and the panel of press buttons. I had no idea what they were all about, but they intrigued me.

Miss Malcolm came in with coffee.

‘Milk or black, Mr. Ferguson?’

‘Black, please and no sugar.’

I watched her pour. The more I saw of this woman, the more I liked her. I tried to guess her age: maybe thirty, maybe thirty-five. I looked for a wedding ring: no wedding ring.

She put the cup before me.

‘Is there anything else, Mr. Ferguson?’

I smiled at her. I would have liked to have invited her to sit down and tell me about herself, but with Mazzo fidgeting, this wasn’t the time.

‘Thank you, no.’

She left.

When I had finished the coffee, Durant appeared.

‘I want you to make a telephone call,’ he said. ‘Here is what you say and nothing else. Do you understand? You will, of course, use Mr. Ferguson’s voice.’

‘Sure, Joe.’

He picked up the telephone receiver and said, ‘Connect me with Mr. Walter Bern.’ He waited, then nodded to me, passing the receiver to me and he picked up another receiver.

Reading from the script he had given me, I said, ‘This is Ferguson. How are you, Wally?’

‘Jesus, John! I’ve been trying to get you for the past days.’ A fat, deep breathless voice, ‘John! My group is getting worked up about our loan. They keep on at me. They say I shouldn’t have advanced so much. Jeez! Thirty million dollars! Look, John, I’m sorry, but they aren’t happy.’

Reading from the script, I said, ‘Talk to Joe. He deals with loans, and Wally, you have nothing to worry about. If your group want to lose fifteen percent on thirty million, I’ll go elsewhere,’ and following the script, I hung up.

Durant nodded.

‘That was good,’ he said. ‘Now, you can return to the residence.’

So with Mazzo at my side and five bodyguards shoving the camera men aside, I got into the Rolls and was driven back to Ferguson’s home.

It had been an interesting morning. I had met Sonia Malcolm. As the Jap chauffeur drove along the boulevard, I thought of this woman. For the first time in my life, I felt an odd kinship. This was a woman I needed to know: not like the many other women I had met.

There was something about her that drew me to her.

Then I had learned that Ferguson’s Corporation had borrowed thirty million dollars and the lenders were uneasy. Sitting at the big desk, looking around the luxurious office, I had smelt power. I had shown Durant I wasn’t to be pushed around.

Yes, an interesting morning.

I thought of the man, shut up with a nurse, rapidly turning into a vegetable.

Jerry, you could be John .

Yes, I said to myself as the Rolls drew up outside the entrance to the residence, play this right and you could be John Merrill Ferguson.