James Chase - You Can Say That Again

I took a quick look at Mazzo who was yawning.

‘Thank you, Miss Malcolm,’ I said, then standing up, coming around the desk, with my back towards Mazzo, I thrust the strip of paper into her hand. As I did so, I looked steadily into her dark brown eyes.

Her fingers closed over the paper and the strip disappeared.

No reaction. No startled expression. I couldn’t have wished for a better performance.

‘When you are ready, Mr. Ferguson, please ring,’ and she left.

I was so relieved, I could have shouted aloud. I had bet on her, and I had won!

Mazzo came to the desk, pulled up a chair, took out a sheet of paper, and said, ‘Okay, Mr. Ferguson, let’s get at it.’ He opened one of the files, took out a letter, covered it with the paper, then said, ‘You sign here.’

I had to force myself to concentrate. What would Sonia think when she read my note? Suppose Durant was out there and saw her reading it? Suppose she went to him and showed him the note?

‘Hey!’ Mazzo barked. ‘You sign here!’

I realized I had been staring into space, my pen idle.

Again I forced myself to continue signing. This went on for the next hour. Then I could stand it no longer. I dropped the pen and shoved back my chair.

‘Cramp,’ I said and stood up, flexing my fingers. ‘Let’s have a drink, Mazzo.’

He grinned, got up and went to the cocktail cabinet.

‘What’ll you have, Mr. Ferguson?’

‘Join me in a beer, Mazzo.’

‘Fine.’

He opened the refrigerator and found two cans. As he snapped the lids, he said, ‘Dead easy tomorrow. Mr. D. goes to Washington. We’ll have two days easy. Some tennis, huh?’

I took the glass of beer from him.

‘Sure.’

We saluted each other and drank.

‘Seen anything of the Boss?’ I asked casually. ‘Mrs. Ferguson tells me he’s real bad.’

‘They all like to think he’s bad, but he ain’t . . .’ He stopped short and stared at me. Into his eyes came the look of a tiger on the hunt. ‘Don’t ask questions,’ he said, finished his beer and walked back to the desk. ‘Let’s go.’

He had made a slip.

Was he going to say: He ain’t that bad?

I carried my glass to the window and looked down at the ocean and the beach and the happy people disporting themselves. How I longed to join them!

‘We’d better get to work,’ Mazzo rasped. ‘Mr. D. wants this finished pronto.’

I returned to the desk, sat down and continued to sign.

By midday, I had finished the last document. I pushed back my chair as I watched Mazzo flick down the intercom switch.

I swear my heart was thudding. Would Sonia give me the information I so badly needed? My mind raced.

If she gave the ‘yes’ signal, it would mean my life could be spared. I couldn’t believe these people would stash six thousand dollars in an account to my credit and then murder me. That would be throwing money away.

But if she gave a negative sign, then I would know, eventually, when I was no longer of any use to them, the thumb would be turned down.

I tried to keep calm. Sweat was running down inside this hated mask. I sat at the desk watching Mazzo pile up the files. This was the worst moment I had ever experienced.

The door opened and Sonia came in. She walked to the desk and picked up the files while Mazzo wandered away across the room.

She looked at me and I looked at her.

‘Will that be all, Mr. Ferguson?’ she asked, holding the files against her.

Then slowly, still looking at me, she shook her head, giving me the negative sign.

If it wasn’t for the mask, she would have seen my stark fear.

‘That’s it, baby,’ Mazzo said and came between us.

She turned and left.

‘That’s a nice piece,’ Mazzo said. ‘I wouldn’t mind giving her a ride.’

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t.

On the way back to the Ferguson residence, Mazzo, who was sitting beside me in the Rolls, said suddenly, ‘Something biting you, Mr. Ferguson?’

That was, of course, the understatement of the year.

I was in a major panic. I had this thought hammering in my mind: How much longer would. I stay alive? Was this Ape of a man, sitting by my side, going to be my executioner? I remembered his jeering voice when he had said I was piling up money in the bank. I was sure he knew Durant was gypping me.

I made an effort and got control of my panic.

‘Put yourself in my place, Mazzo,’ I said. ‘I’m getting bored with this business.’

He gave a little snigger.

‘Think of all the loot you’re collecting, Mr. Ferguson. I’d go along with anything if I got paid the way you’re getting paid.’

‘How long is this to go on?’ I asked.

‘Not long now. Mr. D. is finalizing the deal. He leaves for Washington tomorrow. Then there’ll be more papers for you to sign, and that’s it.’

‘A couple of weeks?’ I was desperately probing.

‘Maybe: could be less. It depends how Mr. D. gets on with the big shots in Washington.’

‘My Agent is fixing a TV job for me at the end of the month,’ I lied. ‘Think I’ll make it?’

Mazzo stared at me, his eyes savage and hungry.

‘Why should you sweat? You’ll have lots of loot. Who wants a pissy TV job when you are rolling in the stuff?’

Then I knew for sure, they planned to murder me.

I had my panic under control.

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ I said.

The Rolls drew up outside the entrance to the residence.

The Jap chauffeur got out and opened the rear door, taking off his cap and bowing.

Mazzo and I climbed the steps.

‘How about some tennis this afternoon?’ Mazzo asked.

I now realized if I was going to survive, Mazzo must have no idea that I knew what was going to happen to me. I must give the appearance of a man doing a job and at ease.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘What’s for lunch?’

‘I’ll go talk to the Chef. You know your way up.’

‘I wouldn’t mind a couple of lean lamb chops and a salad. Nothing heavy if I’m playing tennis.’ I walked up the broad stairs, paused at the head, but Mazzo had disappeared. I hesitated for a brief moment. I was tempted to bolt down the stairs and out into the garden, and down to the gates. Then I heard a faint sound and looking around, saw one of the bodyguards sitting in a dark corner, watching me. As I looked at him, he tipped his hat. Ignoring him, I walked down the corridor to the study, entered, closed the door and went over to the cocktail cabinet. I poured myself a stiff martini, then carrying the drink to the desk, I sat down. I looked at the three telephones on the desk. I lifted the receiver of one of them: the instrument was dead. I tried the other two: also dead.

I lit a cigarette and considered my future. At first glance, it looked horrifyingly bleak. I felt sure that as soon as this deal had been completed, I would go the way Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine had gone. I sipped the drink while I thought. Panic had now receded. I began to think clearly. It occurred to me that if they had me in a trap, I also, had them in a trap.

Without my signature, the big, vital deal would fall flat on its face!

Let’s look at this, Jerry, I said to myself. Let’s take a close look at this situation.

They had gone so far down the road, they now couldn’t do without me!

Suppose they were stupid enough to get rid of me as they had got rid of Larry Edwards? So what? They would have to begin again. To find some actor to impersonate Ferguson, to get him to learn to forge Ferguson’s signature, to get him to imitate Ferguson’s voice would be a real problem. Durant had already tried one impersonator who had failed him. He had found me. This time, his luck had held. He not only had found a man who could pass for Ferguson, but had the talent to forge his signature and imitate his voice. It could take months, even with all the money in the world, to replace me.