1980 - You Can Say That Again (21 page)

I kept looking in my driving mirror, scared that I was being followed. There were cars behind me, but they kept turning off: people going home.

Once away from the city and heading for Fort Lauderdale, I began to relax.

Then an idea dropped into my mind: Give them a red herring. Leave the car at the airport for them to think I had taken off by air, but stay around Miami until the heat cooled. There were dozens of motels on the highway. I would leave the car at the airport, then take a taxi and settle, out of sight, in one of these motels.

Surely a motel, close to Paradise City, would be the last place they would think of looking for me. This is what I did. Having parked the Merc., I took a taxi, being careful not to take one off the rank. The cabby had delivered a passenger from Palm Beach and was returning. He was glad to pick up a fare. I told him I wanted a good motel for the night. He took me to the Welcome Motel.

The sleepy girl at the reception desk, scarcely looked at me as I signed in. I used the name of Warren Higgins. She gave me a key, told me where to find the cabin and went back to dozing.

I shut and locked the cabin door and turned on the light. The place was comfortable. I set down my suitcases and drew in a long breath.

I now felt safe!

Man! Was I tired! My one thought was to sleep.

I undressed, then too tired to take a shower, I fell into bed.

I slept.

* * *

The sound of car engines starting up woke me. Sunlight was streaming into the little bedroom. I heard voices. For a moment, I felt a clutch of fear. Had they found me already?

I threw off the sheet and scrambled out of bed. I went into the living room and peered out from behind the curtains.

The sight I saw was reassuring: people loading their cars with baggage: talking, laughing: people on vacation. I looked at my watch. The time was 09.15. I took a shower, dressed, then walked out into the sunshine. By then most of the people with their cars had gone. There were only three cars parked.

I found my way to the restaurant. The waitress gave me a cheeky smile.

‘Mr. Lazybones, huh?’ she said. ‘What’ll you have?’

I ordered eggs on grilled ham and pancakes and asked for a newspaper. She brought me The Paradise Herald. I searched through the paper, but there was no mention of the death of John Merrill Ferguson. It was too soon, but I badly wanted news.

Breakfast over, I went to the reception desk. The lean, dark man who was the manager, gave me a wide smile.

‘I’m Fred Baine,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Sleep well, Mr. Higgins? Comfortable?’

‘Everything’s fine,’ I said. ‘I’ll be staying a while. I’m writing a book.’ I gave a modest smirk. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘A book?’ He looked impressed. ‘No problem, Mr. Higgins, you stay as long as you like, and you won’t be disturbed.’

‘You wouldn’t have a typewriter I could rent?’

‘Sure. No renting. I have a spare. You’re welcome.’

‘That’s real kind of you. I appreciate it.’

‘Now, look, Mr. Higgins, if you don’t want to be disturbed, I can have your meals sent over to you. No problem. Just give the girl fifteen minutes a day to fix your bed and room, and you won’t be disturbed.’

‘I would like that . . . thank you.’

‘No problem, Mr. Higgins. Boy! Would I like to be able to write a book.’ He sighed. ‘All those paperback rights!’

‘Yes,’ I said and returned to the cabin.

I was determined to finish The Ferguson Story. I would have nothing to do, probably, for the next three weeks. By then, the heat should have cooled. I would then consider what my next move should be.

A black girl came over later with a portable typewriter.

She gave me a toothy grin.

‘My brother wants to write a book, but he doesn’t know how to start it, Mr. Higgins,’ she said as she busied herself with an electric cleaner. ‘He has a fine plot, but he doesn’t know how to finish it either.’

‘Tell him to start in the middle,’ I said. ‘It’ll work out,’ and I shut myself in the bathroom. When she had gone, I got out my manuscript and spent the entire morning reading it.

The room was air conditioned, but I longed to get out into the sun. I resisted the temptation. I had to keep out of sight.

The manuscript, to me, read well.

After a lunch of hamburgers and coffee, I settled down at the typewriter.

I hammered away at the typewriter until 18.00, then I paused to make myself a Martini from the well-stocked refrigerator.

I had now reached the moment when Larry Edwards had come into my cabin, disguised as John Merrill Ferguson. I was pleased with the way the story went along: there were no hitches, but I wanted a rest before the big moment when I found Ferguson was impersonated by Larry.

I looked longingly out of the window at the swimming pool. There were a number of men and women and kids enjoying themselves, but I decided to keep out of sight.

Around 19.30, the black girl brought me a steak dinner. I gave her a couple of bucks and she looked in on awe at the table, littered with typewritten pages.

After dinner, I pulled the curtains and continued to write. Finally, around 23.00, I had brought the story up-do-date.

In the story, as in fact, I was in a motel, worried about what my next move should be. I would have to wait and see what happened.

Gathering up the pages, I put them with the rest of the manuscript, then took a shower and went to bed.

I didn’t sleep all that well. I kept thinking of my future. Should I return to Los Angeles? That would be the first place they would look for me . . . always providing they were going to look for me.

I had some eight thousand dollars in the bank.

Maybe it would be an idea to buy a car and drive down to Mexico. I could hide out there, taking a tour until it seemed safe to return. Then what would I do? By that time my eight thousand dollars would have slimmed down.

I thought of beginning that dreary life I had known: sitting by the telephone, waiting and waiting.

Maybe the book would jell.

With that thought to comfort me, I finally slept.

The following morning, the black girl brought my breakfast and a copy of The Paradise Herald.

The front page was given up to the death of John Merrill Ferguson.

Dr. Weissman had told the reporters that Ferguson had been working too hard. He had brought off a brilliant deal with the Chinese. He had been shattered by his wife’s death. He had suffered a fatal heart attack.

There was a picture of Dr. Weissman looking sad.

There was a picture of Joseph Durant also looking sad.

The paper stated that Durant would now run the great Ferguson Oil & Electronic Corporation. There was a picture of Mrs. Harriet and her poodle. She looked sad and the poodle also looked sad. The paper said Mrs. Harriet Ferguson was now the major shareholder, and by common consent, she was to become the President of the Corporation.

A secret deal had been made by Ferguson with the Chinese government. The corporation was to build electronic computers and satellites which would put China on an equal footing with the Russians. The deal was worth some two billion dollars.

I read as I ate.

Two billion dollars! Both Larry and I could blow this deal sky-high! The thought made me lose my appetite.

I shoved away the plate, got up and sat in a lounging chair.

If either Larry or I leaked that we had forged Ferguson’s signature to the many documents we had had through our hands, the result would be like an atomic bomb explosion. I remembered Larry’s last words to me before he took off:
Whatever you do, don’t tell anyone what’s been going on. You and I could upset an empire, but I’m not that crazy in the head to

do it!

You can say that again, Larry, I thought. That’s the last thing I’d do, then I thought of the manuscript.

Maybe some smart newsman, reading the book if it ever got published, might put two and two together. What if he did? He couldn’t prove a thing. The manuscript was an insurance for my old age. I would wait until the dust settled, but I was certainly not going to scrap it.

Then, looking again at the newspaper, a small news item caught my eye. It was tucked away at the foot of the page:
TV STAR DIES – Larry Edwards, known for his Western TV roles
. . .

The newspaper slid out of my fingers. I began to shake.

Larry!

I got unsteadily to my feet and went to the liquor cabinet. I poured a shot of scotch. The glass rattled against my teeth. I lit a cigarette and moved around the cabin, my heart thumping.

Larry . . . dead!

I forced myself to pick up the newspaper and read the skimpy details.

Larry Edwards, the paper stated, driving a Ford rental, had been hit by a hit-and-run truck on the Miami-Naples highway. The Ford had been smashed to pieces and hurled into the forest. The police were on the lookout for a damaged truck. Larry Edwards had been on vacation in Florida.

So they had caught up with him!

Sweat trickled down my face.

He had been smart enough to have dumped the Jaguar, as I had dumped the Merc. He had rented a Ford, and had made a dash for the East Coast: not smart, nor quick enough!

Was I safe here?

I remembered Larry saying: Listen, Jerry, I’ve seen the way these people work. They have connections everywhere.

Man! Was I in a panic!

I sat down and tried to calm myself. How could they possibly find me in this way-out motel? But they had found Larry! By now, they could have found the Merc.

Would they think I had gone some place by air? Would they check and find no one answering to my description had taken off? Would they then reach the conclusion that I was hiding somewhere close? Now I knew what a fox must feel when he hears the baying of the hounds.

There must be more than three hundred motels and many hotels around Miami. Would they check each one?

I began to calm down. I would not bolt from cover. I would stay put.

Then I thought of the manuscript. This could save my life! I would write to Mrs. Harriet and tell her I had written the whole story from the moment I had met her at the Plaza hotel. I would warn her that if anything happened to me, the manuscript would go to the police. I would give her my word that as long as I was left alone, I would say nothing.

This seemed to me a good idea. I went to the typewriter and wrote the letter.

How was I to get it to her? It would be fatal to mail it from here. The Miami postmark would tell them I was in the district.

I must find someone to mail the letter for me out of the district. I addressed the envelope: Mrs. Harriet, Largo Residence, Paradise City. Whoever it was who mailed the letter mustn’t know I was writing to a Ferguson. I put the letter in the envelope and sealed it.

How about the manuscript? I decided to mail it to Lu Prentz, telling him to keep it for me.

Leaving the cabin, I went to the reception desk. Fred Baine beamed at me.

‘Hi, Mr. Higgins, how’s it coming?’

‘Okay. Can you give me some paper and string, please? I want to mail a parcel.’

‘No problem.’ He went to the back of the office and produced brown paper and string. ‘This okay?’

‘Sure, and thanks. Another thing, Mr. Baine, I have a letter I want mailed out of the district. I don’t want anyone to know where I am.’ I produced the letter. ‘Mrs. Harriet is my mother-in-law. If she knew I was in Miami . . .’ I gave him a knowing wink.

He looked a little startled, then nodded.

‘Sure, Mr. Higgins. I guess you authors have to get away sometimes. I have a couple leaving for New York this morning. They’ll mail this for you: a nice couple. Okay?’

‘That would be fine.’ I slid a ten dollar bill towards him. ‘Okay to give them this?’

‘Sure. They would be glad to have it, Mr. Higgins. I’ll fix it for you. No problem.’

I returned to my cabin.

The black girl had been in, made the bed and cleaned.

I was feeling much more relaxed.

I sat down at the typewriter and worked for the next three hours, bringing The Ferguson Story to date.

I now feel confident, I wrote, that I will survive. I intend to pack this manuscript and send it to Lu Prentz for safekeeping. I will have nothing to do except to sit in this cabin until I feel sure that Mrs. Harriet has got my letter. She is smart. I have given her my word not to say anything. I have warned her if anything should happen to me, the story will go to the police. So why should she flick her fingers at me?

In a couple of weeks, I will hire a car and drive to Mexico. In a few months’ time, I will be back in Hollywood, sitting in some shabby room, waiting for telephone bell to ring.

Bad as that is, it is better than being dead

Epilogue

L
u Prentz was in a depressed mood. In the outer office, waiting to see him were four god-awful bums who had long passed the time when any film company would or could use them. He was thinking of his list of nearly four hundred such deadbeats, and he was feeling discouraged. Maybe it was time to retire. He had been in the racket now for twenty-five years. He had plenty stashed away. Why sit in this shabby office, day after day, fobbing off bums who thought they were still valuable merchandise and who were as worthless as a whore’s promise?

He looked through the grimy window at the smog that hung over Hollywood and moaned to himself. Yes, he would retire. He would sell up, and take his wife to the Virgin Islands and spend the rest of his days in the sun. To hell with those bums out there, waiting.

His office door opened and Sol Hackenstein breezed in.

Sol was the casting director for a small, but prosperous TV Syndicate which, more by luck than brains, had lately hit the jackpot.

Big, fat, wearing a light blue, well-tailored suit, Sol made an impressive figure.

‘Hi, Lu!’ he shouted. Sol liked to think of himself as a big personality so he always shouted. ‘When the hell are you going to buy yourself a new suit?’

Anticipating possible business, Lu jumped to his feet and offered his hand.