James Chase: You Can Say That Again

‘Jerry, dear,’ Harriet said. ‘This is Charles. He knows just what to do. Do, please, be cooperative. I want to make sure you will pass as my son.’ She turned to the fat little man. ‘Charles, this is Jerry Stevens.’

‘My dear boy!’ Charles gushed, bounding forward. ‘I can’t tell you how thrilled I am to meet you. I have seen so many of your wonderful movies! What talent! The Sheriff of X Ranch! I was overwhelmed!’ He seized my hand and shook it. ‘It is my great, great pleasure to meet you!’

‘Thank you,’ I said, not believing a word of this gush.

‘Charles!’ A curt note in Harriet’s voice made him stiffen. ‘You are wasting my time!’

‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He gave her a cringing smile. ‘We mustn’t waste time.’

I saw tiny sweat beads on his forehead.

‘Then get on with it!’ She moved to the door. ‘Ring when you have finished.’

Both Charles and I watched her leave, then when the door slid back, I said, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Sit down, please, Mr. Stevens.’

He went to the box, opened it to display a complete make-up kit. From it he took a pair of calipers, a scratch pad and pencil.

‘I have to measure your face, Mr. Stevens. Forgive me for inconveniencing you,’ he said.

I held my head still while he took measurements, noting the results on the scratch pad.

As he was taking the measurements between my eyes, I became aware that he was whispering. Between his gush and his whispering, his conversation went like this: ‘Marvelous eyes, so full of personality. I’ve been kidnapped! Who are these people? Mr. Stevens! Your features are so regular! This dreadful woman terrifies me! I have been a prisoner for more than two months. Now allow me to measure your ears. Just turn your head to the right. Who is she? Please tell me. That’s perfect. Now the left ear.’

I realized this aged queer was in the same predicament as I was. He had been kidnapped to turn me into Harriet’s son.

‘I don’t know,’ I whispered. ‘I’m supposed to impersonate her son. I ‘ve been kidnapped too.’

Then looking beyond him as he was measuring my left ear, I saw Mazzo had come in silently. The sight of him, staring at me, scared the hell out of me.

Charles, seeing my change of expression, looked over his shoulder. I felt his fat frame tremble.

‘Ah, Mazzo!’ he exclaimed in a thin, shrill voice, ‘I have finished. All will be perfect!’

Mazzo moved into the room. On his arm, he carried clothing. He gave Charles his hungry tiger look, then he showed his rat teeth at me in a smile.

‘Put these on, palsy,’ he said.

He tossed a suit onto a chair.

‘Of course,’ Charles said. ‘The clothes.’

Aware that I was now sweating, I stood up, stripped off my clothes and put on the suit Mazzo had tossed on the chair.

This was some suit: a dark grey mohair that must have cost a bomb. It fitted me like a glove. Charles, his eyes frightened, fluttered around me, patting the suit, then he drew back.

‘The clothes will be no problem.’

Mazzo smiled at me.

‘You’re lucky. They didn’t fit the other jerk.’

I took off the suit and put on my own clothes while the two of them watched me.

My mind was darting around in sick panic, Jesus! What have I walked into? I thought. I looked at the wilting, sweating Charles who was smiling at Mazzo like a dog expecting a beating.

‘The hair,’ Charles said. ‘That needs attention. I must do that. Please sit down, Mr. Stevens.’ He went into the bathroom and returned with a towel which he draped around my shoulders.

From his box, he produced a comb and scissors. He began to snip while Mazzo prowled around the room. Between the snips, and while Mazzo was at the far end of the room, Charles breathed words, leaning forward, his lips nearly touching my ear.

‘They are paying me so much! I’m so frightened! What has happened to the other man? I put in hours of work on him.’

Then Mazzo came back and stood over us, and he remained standing over us so this frightening one-way conversation had to cease.

Finally, Charles stood back and surveyed me: his tinted lidded eyes pools of fright.

‘Yes! Perfect!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now, the limp. Mr. Stevens, please give me your right shoe.’

I took off my right shoe and gave it to him. He went to the table and sat down. From the box, he took a small screwdriver and levered off part of the heel of my shoe. Again from his box, he produced a leather wedge which he screwed to the heel.

All this took a little time. I just sat, watching him, while Mazzo stood watching me and Charles.

‘Let us see,’ Charles said. ‘Please put on the shoe and walk to the window and back.’

I put on the shoe, stood up and walked to the window. The thick wedge he had screwed to the heel of my shoe threw me slightly off balance. I found I was walking like a man with an injured leg. I limped back and stood, waiting.

‘Perfect,’ Charles said.

At this moment, the door slid back and Mrs. Harriet came in, carrying the poodle.

‘Well, Charles?’

‘The hair. Please tell me.’

Her dark blue eyes surveyed me for a long moment, then she nodded.

‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘You are a great artist, Charles.’

He began to simper, then the simper turned into a grimace. I could read his fears. He was a kidnapped captive as I was.

‘And the walk?’ Harriet said.

‘That has been arranged.’ Charles gave me a pleading look. ‘May I ask you, Mr. Stevens, to walk to the window and back?’

So I limped to the shuttered window and back.

‘Please do it again, Jerry,’ Harriet said.

So I did it again.

‘Yes, it will do,’ she said. ‘Now, we are getting somewhere. Take Charles to his room, Mazzo. Charles! We must not waste time. Get working on the mask.’

‘Of course.’ He walked before Mazzo and out of the room.

Harriet sat down.

‘Now, Jerry, you have to earn the money we are paying you. So far, so good. Now you have a more difficult task. You must to able to forge my son’s signature.’

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.