James Chase: You Can Say That Again

I sat there, staring at the signature. Into my mind, came the frightening thought that I was being groomed to impersonate this man!

Me! A bit-part unsuccessful actor to impersonate one of the most powerful and richest men in the world!

I realized now the answer to this mystery that had been baffling me. The little old woman with her Rolls Royce: Durant reeking of money: Mazzo, possibly a killer: this room with its electronic door and luxury furnishing: the frightened Charles who had, like me, been kidnapped.

A man of John Merrill Ferguson’s power had only to give orders and what had happened to me and to Charles just happened.

I thought of Larry Edwards.

Jerks like him often have accidents. You’re smart, palsy. You won’t have an accident .

It now came to me with a frightening impact that, because Larry had refused to cooperate, he had been murdered! Knowing now who I was dealing with, suspecting some vast financial deal was being planned and that secrecy was essential, these people wouldn’t let Larry free after kidnapping him, sure he would talk.

So there had been a murderous accident.

This wasn’t going to happen to me! I would cooperate.

Man! Would I cooperate!

With a sweating, unsteady hand, I drew the tracing paper and the signature towards me and began to try, desperately, not only to earn my one thousand dollars a day, but also to keep alive.

* * *

Two hours later, I threw down the pen and stared at my last effort. The floor was littered with screwed up tracing paper. My last effort to forge John Merrill Ferguson’s signature was worse than my first.

My hand ached, my fingers were stiff, and panic made my heart pound.

I pushed back my chair and stood up. I began to pace the room. Suppose I couldn’t forge the signature? Would Durant look for someone else? Would this result in a prick of a needle and an accident skillfully arranged?

I had to succeed!

I flexed my fingers, then walked into the bathroom and ran water into the toilet basin until it ran hot. I immersed my aching hand in the water. When the water cooled, I emptied the basin and refilled it with hot water. After a while my hand became relaxed. I returned to the table and began work again.

I was still at it, an hour later, when the door slid back and Durant, followed by Mazzo, came in.

Durant looked at the mess of screwed up paper on the floor, then he came over to the table and picked up my last effort and studied it.

I watched him, my heart thudding.

Finally, he said, ‘Not bad. I see, Stevens, you intend to cooperate. For a first attempt, this is encouraging.’

I sat back in my chair, feeling a surge of relief run through me.

‘That will do for today. Tomorrow, you will try again.’ He regarded me with his hard, ruthless eyes. ‘You have three days in which to perfect the signature.’ He turned to Mazzo. ‘Clear up this mess, then attend to Stevens’ needs,’ and he left.

Mazzo found a wastepaper basket and began picking up the balls of paper. I helped him. When the room was tidy again, Mazzo smiled at me.

‘Palsy, you’re going to survive. Anyone who can please that sonofabitch is smart.’

I didn’t say anything, but I registered the fact that Mazzo had no time for Durant.

‘Well, palsy, how about a little workout in the gym?’ Mazzo asked. ‘A big guy like you doesn’t want to sit on his butt all day. Let’s go and loosen up.’

I was glad to get out of my prison and walk along the corridor to an elevator. He and I sank between floors, and when the elevator stopped, the door swung open. Mazzo led the way into a large, fully equipped gymnasium.

‘I’ve seen you on TV, palsy. You’re a good fighter,’ Mazzo said, giving me his rat smile. ‘Let’s put on the gloves, huh?’

I did consider myself a good scrapper. When playing the roles of baddies in Westerns, I had prided myself not to have a double. But, looking at this man mountain, I felt a qualm.

‘I have to be careful of my hands, Mazzo,’ I said. ‘I have this writing job.’

Again the rat smile.

‘Sure . . . sure. Nothing to it, palsy. We wear gloves. Just a little sparring. Nothing to it.’

He went to a locker and produced two pairs of sparring gloves. Seeing there was no way out, I took off my jacket and shirt while he did the same. The sight of his huge muscles alarmed me. I put on the gloves and waited until he also put on the gloves, then we faced each other.

I pranced around him, noting he was slow on his feet: a man of his size had to be slow. He pushed out his left and I shifted my head and poked him hard on his nose.

He shuffled away, and I saw surprise in his little eyes.

He sent over a left hook. It was telegraphed, and I took it on my right glove, but the force of the hook sent me back. I knew if one of his punches landed, I would be flattened. He hit like a pile driver.

We pranced politely around. I poked his head back when he came too close and he snorted. This went on for some minutes, then I saw an evil smile flicker on his lipless mouth. I felt instinctively, he was about to launch a blockbuster. I didn’t give him time to get set.

I weaved towards him, jabbing with my left in his face, throwing him off balance, then I let fly with my best right hand hook with all my weight behind it. My fist smashed on his jaw and he went down as if the bones in his legs had turned to putty. His shoulders crashed down on a wrestling mat: his eyes rolled back: he was out to the world.

I tore off the gloves and knelt beside him, lifted his shaven head, patting his cheeks.

I was scared witless that when he recovered, he would tear me apart.

It took more than ten seconds for him to come to the surface. When I saw the light of life come into his eyes, I pushed him into a sitting position, then I stood away as one might stand away from a drugged tiger, getting to its feet.

He peered at me, then he smiled: not a rat smile this time, but a wide, friendly grin.

‘That was a beaut, palsy,’ he said, and shook his head. ‘Man, can you sock!’ He offered me his hand and I dragged him to his feet. He rubbed his jaw, then burst out laughing. ‘And I was dim enough to take you for a phoney.’

I drew in a long, slow breath of relief.

‘I’m sorry, Mazzo. You had me scared. If you had caught me with one of your blockbusters, I couldn’t have worked for Mr. Durant. I had to uncork my best.’

He peeled off his gloves and again rubbed his jaw, staring at me, then he nodded his shaven head.

‘You’re right, palsy. Listen, don’t say anything about this to that sonofabitch. He would have my balls. Okay?’

‘Sure, and would you skip the palsy routine. Call me Jerry.’

He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

‘Yeah. Well, come on, Jerry, let’s have a workout.’

Although I was practically sure he was a killer and I feared him, I had a feeling that now he just might be on my side. We worked together throwing a medicine ball around and with the bars until we were both sweating.

I felt I had made a major step forward.

After we had showered and redressed, he led me back to my room.

By now, I was hungry.

‘You ask, you get,’ Mazzo said when I said it was time to eat. ‘Anything goes here.’

So I asked for chicken Maryland.

He patted me on my shoulder.

‘You like that, Jerry? Me too.’ He rubbed his jaw and widened his smile. ‘You’re going to survive.’ He tapped his vast chest. ‘I’m telling you,’ and he went away.

* * *

The next day was a replica of the previous day.

When Mazzo wheeled in the breakfast trolley, I found another credit note in my favor for one thousand dollars. This was encouraging.

Breakfast over, I sat at the table and worked on John Merrill Ferguson’s signature. I was in a more relaxed mood, and I began to feel more confident.