1980 - You Can Say That Again (7 page)

‘A little more brandy, Mr. Ferguson?’ It was the sexy hostess standing over me.

Because of the mask she couldn’t see how frightened I was.

Brandy? I needed it!

‘Yes, thank you.’

She put a big snifter half full of brandy on the table in front of me.

‘If you would like to have a nap, sir,’ she said, ‘Your room’s all ready. We have five hours before landing.’

‘I’ll do that,’ I said, and got to my feet.

The mask was now becoming unbearable. I had to take it off.

She picked up the snifter and walked past Durant’s desk towards a door.

‘Taking a nap, Joe,’ I said huskily as Durant looked up.

I saw Mazzo start to his feet, but Durant shook his head. Mazzo sat down again.

I followed the girl into a cabin with a bed and a fitted closet. There was a bathroom leading off the little room.

She put the snifter on the night table and smiled at me.

‘Is there anything else, Mr. Ferguson? I’m not busy for the next couple of hours,’ and she arched her eyebrows invitingly.

If I hadn’t been so scared and longing to take off the mask, I would have been tempted.

‘Nothing now, thank you.’

‘Call me Phoebe, Mr. Ferguson. I’m entirely at your service,’ and after hesitating, she smiled again and left the cabin, shutting the door.

I slid the bolt home, then went into the bathroom and carefully removed the mask. Laying it down, I stared at my reflection in the mirror.

Did I look a wreck! This was Jerry Stevens, a washed-up, bit-part actor scared witless, white faced, sweat beads, a mouth that twitched. Very far from the last time I had seen myself in a mirror: the confident, powerful John Merrill Ferguson who I had asked myself what he had got that I hadn’t got.

I washed my face and hands, then returned to the cabin. I drank nearly all the brandy, then sat on the bed, trying to steady my shaking hands. I finished the brandy and set down the glass before I dropped it. After a few minutes, the brandy began to bite and my heart beat began to return to normal. I lit a cigarette.

I thought about Charles Duvine. Maybe two thugs or even Mazzo had been waiting on the penthouse terrace: a prick of a needle and away into space.

I shuddered.

This could happen to you. This will happen to you when Durant has no further use of you. Well, at least, you know what to expect.

Durant said I was to impersonate Ferguson for a month, possibly longer. That must mean I was safe for at least thirty days, and during those thirty days, I had to find a way out of this nightmare.

I began to get over my scare.

Thirty days!

A lot could happen in thirty days. I was forewarned.

There must come a moment when I could escape. I would go to the police. They would give me protection. I had ample proof. I’d show them the mask. I would get them to check the Chase National Bank that all this money had been paid to me. I would get Lu Prentz to tell them that Durant had hired me.

I began to relax. Maybe the two big brandies now gave me confidence.

Then I heard a slight sound that set my heart thumping again. Looking at the door of the cabin, I saw the door handle turn, but the bolt stopped the door opening.

I began to sweat again.

‘You okay, Mr. Ferguson?’ Mazzo whispered through the door panel.

The brandy made me exclaim, ‘Piss off! I’m trying to sleep.’

‘Okay, Mr. Ferguson.’

I sat like a stone man, watching the door handle. It moved up and down for a moment or two, then came to rest.

Sitting there on the bed, staring at the door, I understood the feelings of a trapped rabbit.

* * *

I was awakened by a gentle tapping on the door.

‘Mr. Ferguson, please. We will be landing in one hour.’

‘Thank you,’ I said and looked at my watch. The time was 23.30.

I didn’t remember falling asleep. I did remember lying on the bed while I wrestled with my fears. The brandy must have had a lot of authority.

I stripped off, showered and shaved, regarding my pale face in the mirror. Then I spent time putting on the mask, the eyebrows and the moustache.

Stepping back, I surveyed myself in the mirror. John Merrill Ferguson stared back at me, and at the sight of him, I began to lose my fears.

No one was going to murder John Merrill Ferguson!

He could have people like Larry Edwards and Charles Duvine murdered, but he was too powerful for anyone to murder him.

This childish reasoning helped to restore my confidence.

As I dressed I assured myself that I could handle this situation as long as I remained behind the protection of John Merrill Ferguson’s mask.

I opened the door and walked into the main cabin.

Durant sat at the desk, still reading papers. Mazzo was drinking coffee.

‘Still at it, Joe,’ I said in a hearty voice, and I gave him a slap on his shoulder. ‘You work too hard.’

Not looking to see his reaction, I crossed to the lounging chair and sat down, aware Mazzo was gaping at me.

Phoebe came to my side.

‘Coffee, Mr. Ferguson?’ she asked.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

By the time I had finished a cup of coffee and smoked a cigarette, the aircraft was circling Miami airport.

Durant came over to me.

‘We fly directly to the residence by helicopter,’ he said. ‘There will be the press again, but they won’t be allowed to get near you. You will be escorted to the helicopter.’ He paused to give me a glowering stare. ‘I don’t want any theatrics from you . . . understand?’

‘Sure, Joe!’ I said. ‘Anything you say.’

By the slight flush that came to his hard face, I could see he hated me calling him Joe, but he knew he was stuck with it.

Phoebe, now wearing her pillbox hat, came in to ask us to fasten our safety belts as we were about to land. Five minutes later, we landed at an obscure corner of the Miami airfield.

There was a wait. Looking out of one of the windows, I saw the fifteen tough bodyguards had descended, and had made a menacing circle at the foot of the stairway.

In the distance, under a blaze of lights and held back by a barrier was a crowd of reporters and camera men.

Again, I experienced this tremendous excitement: these men were waiting to see me: to try to have a word with me: John Merrill Ferguson.

Again, I heard the exciting baying of the press. Their shouts were Wagnerian music in my ears.

The fifteen bodyguards closed in on me, forming a wedge. I was hurried to the waiting helicopter. I was tempted to pause and wave to the press, but I was hurried on. I was practically lifted into the helicopter with Durant, following me. The door slammed shut.

The pilot turned in his seat.

‘Hi, Mr. Ferguson,’ he said with a wide respectful smile.

Mazzo, sitting behind me, murmured, ‘Lacey.’

‘Hi, there, Lacey,’ I said in a hail-fellow-well-met voice. ‘Good to see you.’

Obviously, this was the wrong thing to have said for the pilot’s eyes bugged in surprise, but I couldn’t care. I was up in the clouds with the immortals again. The fans began to revolve and the chopper took off.

‘Keep your mouth shut,’ Durant snarled under his breath.

‘Sure, Joe,’ I said. ‘No problem.’

I was looking down at the crowd of press men, the photographers and the TV cameras outlined in the floodlights. I watched them drop out of sight.

It took some twenty minutes before I had my first sight of Paradise City: and what a city! In the brilliant light of the moon, I could see the beaches, still crowded at nearly midnight with people swimming, the palm trees, the wide boulevards packed with cars, the
luxe
high-rises: a picture of opulent wealth.

Flying over the big, luxury villas set in acres of gardens, the helicopter crossed a broad expanse of water, littered with motor cruisers and yachts to what looked like an island. I was to learn later this was Paradise Largo where the super-rich lived. Skirting the trees, I saw John Merrill Ferguson’s home: a baronial style house you only saw in 1959 movies: a huge, imposing structure, surrounded by lawns and flowerbeds, bursting with color.

The helicopter settled on the lawn.

I couldn’t resist saying to the pilot as I followed Mazzo, ‘Thanks for the trip, Lacey.’

‘My pleasure, Mr. Ferguson,’ he returned, his voice startled.

Waiting, was an electric golf cart. Durant, looking like the wrath of God, waved me to the front seat and climbed into the back. Mazzo slid under the driving wheel, and we set off towards the house.

Was I getting a bang out of this!

‘Listen to me, Stevens,’ Durant said, leaning forward and tapping me on my shoulder. ‘I told you to keep your goddamn mouth shut. Mr. Ferguson never speaks to his staff.’

‘Sorry, Joe. I’ll know next time. Anything you say.’

We pulled up outside the front entrance of the house.

All the terrace lights were on. Double doors stood open. We got out of the cart, and led by Mazzo, I climbed the twenty marble steps, paused to look along the big terrace, set with lounging chairs and tables, and boxed in with banks of multi-colored begonias.

We entered a big hall, walked down a long, broad corridor. On the walls hung modern works of art. We reached an elevator.

‘Take him to his quarters,’ Durant snapped to Mazzo. ‘Mrs. Ferguson will see him tomorrow morning,’ and he stalked away.

Mazzo grinned at me as he opened the elevator’s door.

‘You heard what Mr. Big said, Mr. Ferguson,’ and he waved me into the elevator.

As the elevator rose, I said, ‘I bet even his mother hated him.’

‘If she didn’t, her lid needed refixing.’ Mazzo said and gave his sighing laugh.

The elevator decanted us into a lobby. Facing us were two doors.

‘Here’s where you live, Mr. Ferguson,’ Mazzo said and opened one of the doors. Clicking on the lights, he moved into an enormous room so luxuriously furnished, I paused in the doorway to gape.

There was everything in this room a billionaire could desire: a vast desk with telephones and recorders, lounging chairs, two big settees, a TV set, a big, fully equipped bar, a big fireplace and wall-to-wall thick pale fawn carpeting. On the walls hung modern art paintings. I recognized at least four Picassos. There was a forty foot wide picture window and glass doors leading onto a big, flower decorated terrace.

‘Here’s where you sleep, Mr. Ferguson,’ Mazzo said, opening a door. He was grinning at the way I was gaping.

I followed him into another vast room: the same fawn wall-to-wall carpet: built-in closets, another TV set and an enormous bed that could have slept six in comfort. Again, the walls were decorated with modern paintings.

‘Nice, huh?’ Mazzo said.

I just gaped. This was the ultimate in luxury.

‘Well, okay. Let’s get some sleep,’ Mazzo said. ‘You’ll have a busy day tomorrow. The bathroom’s through there.’ He went to one of the closets and took out a pair of silk, grey pajamas and a pair of Gucci slippers. These he tossed on the bed. ‘See you in the morning,’ and he left me.

I stood for a moment, staring around, then I heard a faint click.

Mazzo had locked me in.

* * *

I woke from an erotic dream in which I was chasing Phoebe who was stark naked except for the pillbox hat. I was rapidly overtaking her when I felt a heavy hand on my arm.

I opened my eyes to find Mazzo bending over me.

‘Must you do that?’ I snarled, sitting up. ‘I very nearly had her.’

He released his sighing laugh.

‘Breakfast, Mr. Ferguson, then business.’ He went to a closet and produced a brocaded dressing gown.

‘Hurry it up!’

Groaning, I struggled out of bed and went into the bathroom. I took a shower, shaved, put on the dressing gown and came out to find Mazzo wheeling in a trolley.

I sat down as he poured coffee and served two sets of devilled kidneys.

The meal over, he said, ‘You have all the clothes you’ll ever need, Mr. Ferguson.’ He threw open the doors of the closets. ‘Help yourself.’

I went over and inspected the contents of the closets.

Once, I had been invited to the house of one of the biggest movie stars who was a showoff. He had sadistically shown me his wardrobe, and I had been sick with envy. What he had shown me was peanuts to John Merrill Ferguson’s wardrobe. There must have been some two hundred suits, racks of shirts, racks of shoes and so on.

‘Before you dress, Mr. Ferguson, get with the mask,’ Mazzo said. ‘You’re going to be on show.’

I went into the bathroom and put on the mask and completed the disguise, then I returned to the bedroom. It took me some twenty minutes to decide on a cream with a faint blue stripe suit that fitted me like a glove. While I was changing, I remembered Durant had said I was to meet Mr. John Merrill Ferguson’s wife.

‘What’s the wife like, Mazzo?’ I asked as I knotted a dark blue Cardin tie.

He released a long, low whistle.

‘You’ll find out, the way I found out,’ he said. ‘Just watch it. Take a tip from me, play it light.’ He rubbed his shaven head as he regarded me. ‘That line of yours with Mr. D. is okay. He can’t do much about it, so he has to take it, but watch it with Mrs. F. To her, you are Jerry Stevens. Two-bit actors are something she happened to have trodden in on the sidewalk. Even the Boss handles her with care and Mr. D. acts like he’s scared of her. Me, she looks at like I was a three month old stiff, crawling with maggots, so watch it.’

For a moment this information disconcerted me, but looking in the mirror, seeing John Merrill Ferguson looking right back at me, I relaxed.

‘Okay, Mazzo, I’ll treat her with care.’

A buzzer sounded in the living room. Mazzo went in, lifted a receiver, said, ‘Yes, Mr. Durant. He’s all fixed.’

I came into the living room.

‘Mrs. F. is on her way,’ Mazzo said. ‘Just watch it. You’re doing fine so far, don’t upset the crap cart.’

Feeling suddenly the way I once felt when I first walked onto a movie set, I went across to the big desk and sat down. For something to do, I picked up a leather bound appointment diary and flicked through the pages. Every half hour of each day was filled with unknown names. John Merrill Ferguson certainly was an occupied man. Then I flicked on, coming to the month of June: three months ago. The diary began to thin out. July there were only three names. August one name. September was blank.