‘Sonia!’
She whirled around.
There were only a few people on the sidewalk. They pressed on, ignoring us.
She stared at me.
‘What do you want?’
This wasn’t the Sonia I had been dreaming about.
Her expression was hostile, her eyes frightened.
‘Sonia!’ I said as I came to a standstill by her side. ‘I . . .’
I got no further.
With firm determination, she said, ‘Leave me alone! I don’t want anything to do with you! Leave me alone!’
‘Now listen, you mustn’t worry about that jerk, Macklin. I am Mr. Ferguson’s personal assistant. I don’t have to conform to their stupid rules. If I ask you to dinner, there is no problem. I . . .’
‘No problem for you, Mr. Stevens!’ she snapped. ‘Now you listen to me! I have slaved for this job. I am working as Mr. Ferguson’s assistant secretary. Mr. Macklin has told me that if I fraternize with you or any of the other members of the staff, I will be dismissed! Now, go away! I am not giving up this job for any man! If you don’t leave me alone, I will complain to Mr. Macklin!’
She turned and walked on, leaving me staring after her.
‘Tough,’ a well-known voice said from behind me.
I swung around to find Mazzo, smiling his ape-like smile.
‘Women are hell,’ he went on, ‘but she’s talking sense. She’s holding down a big job, Jerry, so think of her, and not of yourself.’
I gaped at him. I never expected to hear this shaven headed ape come out with a sentiment of that kind.
‘Let’s go and have a drink,’ he said.
Then I remembered I was looking at the man who had murdered Loretta.
‘Screw you and screw your drink,’ I said, and brushing by him, I walked to where I had parked the Merc. I sat behind the wheel, wrestling with my disappointment. Finally, I came to terms with myself.
Sonia was lost to me. I guessed she was probably as lonely as I was and been happy to accept my dinner invitation. Then Macklin had shown her the red light.
The bitter truth was that I meant nothing to her except a night out.
So what was I going to do with the evening and the night? I knew no one in this opulent city. I thought of the lonely cabin. To go back there and sit on my own was unthinkable. The idea of going to some restaurant and eat on my own was also unthinkable. I thought longingly of the people in Hollywood I could calclass="underline" people I had had to drop, and who had dropped me because I had run out of money, but who would come flocking if they knew I was now earning one hundred thousand dollars a year.
This mood quickly passed. Those fair weather friends weren’t worth a goddamn.
So I sat there and brooded. Then out of the blue, an idea hit me. I had to find an occupation to keep my loneliness from swamping me. Why not write a detailed story of what I had experienced since Liz Martin, Lu Prentz’s secretary, had telephoned me, telling me Lu had a job for me.
The luxury cabin would no longer be lonely. I would sit at a typewriter and write the frightening story of my impersonation of John Merrill Ferguson, the murders of Larry Edwards, Charles Duvine and Loretta, of Mrs. Harriet and her poodle, Mazzo and Durant. I would write it as a novel with changed names and with changed backgrounds. The only character I would call by his real name would be Lu Prentz. I knew he would love to be featured in a novel.
It seemed to me the story was unique. I might have a big paperback sale! I might even sell the film rights, with me playing the lead!
Writing the book as a novel, using fictionalized names, the Ferguson Corporation couldn’t object. No one would believe such a story could happen, but I would wait until my seven-year contract was up. I wasn’t going to give up one hundred thousand dollars a year. This novel would be an insurance for my old age!
I would have to write it now while all the facts were fresh in my mind.
The cabin would be the perfect place in which to write. No one would interrupt me. I would write all the morning, swim, construct the plot in the afternoon, then write again in the evening.
I started the car engine and drove along Paradise Boulevard until I spotted a cut-price store. The salesman talked me into buying a second-hand IBM electric typewriter. I bought a carton of typing ribbons and a box of typing paper.
I put my purchases in the car, then headed back to the cabin. As I drove, I realized I no longer felt lonely.
I was itching to make a start.
As I entered the cabin, I found a large, smiling black woman, dusting the living room. She told me she was Mrs. Swanson. I remembered Sonia telling me there was a cleaning woman on the beach estate.
‘If there’s anything you want cooked for dinner tonight, just tell me, Mr. Stevens,’ she said.
‘Why yes, thank you. If it’s not too much trouble,’ I said. I didn’t want to go out on my own. ‘Anything will do.’
‘I have a beautiful steak.’
‘That would be fine.’
‘Okay, Mr. Stevens, around eight o’clock, I’ll be in and whip you up a dinner.
As soon as she had gone, I got the typewriter from the Merc., plugged in and practiced with the machine.
Among the many jobs I had done while waiting for a film deal, was addressing envelopes, sending begging letters for a School for the Blind. After an hour, I got back my old speed.
With a big scotch, I went onto the veranda and began to plan the story of my impersonation of John Merrill Ferguson. On a scratch pad, I invented names.
Under each name, I invented a description, completely unlike the people I planned to write about. I invented place names.
By the time I had finished this chore, Mrs. Swanson returned and cooked me a splendid steak with all the trimmings. She said she would be in tomorrow evening with one of her specials: curried chicken. I gave her five dollars. Her wide, beaming smile showed her surprise and pleasure.
When she had gone, and after I had finished the meal, I put the dishes in the kitchen, cleared the table and began the book.
I typed non-stop until 02.00, then collected the pages, locked up and went to bed.
Just before I fell asleep, I thought of Sonia. Rather to my surprise, I found she had sunk into a background that was like one of my old movies: to be remembered, but not quite real. I felt I no longer needed her. She had her career before her: I meant nothing to her. As I settled to sleep I decided she now meant nothing to me: a moment’s infatuation.
For six days and most of the nights, I hammered out the Ferguson story. Mrs. Swanson came to clean twice a week. She prepared me a good dinner every evening. I swam in the afternoon. There was no word from the Ferguson Electronic & Oil Corporation, and there was no more feeling of loneliness. I had something to do: something that absorbed my interest, and when so occupied, loneliness, and even women, don’t exist.
Then on the sixth night, with the french windows wide open and a big moon lighting the sea, and while I was hammering away at the typewriter, I heard the sound of an approaching car.
Into my mind came a vision of Joe Durant coming to check on me. If he walked in and saw the typewriter and all the typewritten pages, he would want to know what I was doing. This he must not know!
Moving fast, I swept the pages into a drawer, then grabbed up the typewriter and rushed it into my bedroom. I shoved it under the bed. Then I moved to the bedroom door.
I heard footfalls on the veranda. I braced myself and walked into the living room.
Standing in the doorway of the french windows was John Merrill Ferguson.
He was the last person I expected to see.
‘Hello, Jerry,’ he said, and moved further into the room. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you.’
I drew in a long, slow breath.
‘Not at all, sir. I wasn’t doing anything. Can I offer you a drink?’