until we arrive. I will brief you on the arrival.’
The seed of thought was continuing to germinate.
‘There’s one small point, and it could be important,’ I said. ‘This is only a suggestion, Mr. Durant. Wouldn’t it be safer for you to quit calling me Stevens? I don’t know what you call Mr. Ferguson, but wouldn’t it be wiser to call me what you call him? A slip of the tongue could bitch the whole operation, and I don’t want to be blamed.’
I didn’t look at him, but looked steadily at the back of the Jap chauffeur’s head.
There was a long pause, then Durant said, ‘Yes, you have a point, Mr. Ferguson. You are showing intelligence.’
‘If it comes unstuck, Mr. Durant, I wouldn’t want it to be my fault.’
‘Yes.’ He breathed heavily. ‘Then you had better call me Joe.’ The rasp in his voice told me how he hated this.
‘Okay, Joe.’
Nothing more was said until we reached the airport.
Then Durant said, ‘Do nothing. Say nothing. Leave this to Mazzo.’
I couldn’t resist my triumph.
‘I hear you, Joe,’ I said.
The Rolls was obviously expected.
Guards opened the double gate and saluted as we drove through. Feeling like royalty, I slightly raised my hand in a return salute.
‘Do nothing!’ Durant snarled.
The car drove around the perimeter of the airfield.
Ahead, I could see blinding lights and a big crowd of figures. Beyond them was an aircraft, floodlit.
Man! Was I getting a bang out of this!
The Rolls drove through a raised barrier that immediately descended. Some fifteen men stood at the foot of the stairway to the plane. They looked what they were: tough, efficient bodyguards.
Mazzo slid out of the car. Durant gave me a nudge, so I got out, and he followed me.
‘Get moving!’ Durant rasped. .
In the dazzle of the floodlights, I walked towards the stairway.
There was an immediate clamor of sound.
‘Mr. Ferguson! Look this way!’
‘Mr. Ferguson! Just a few words!’
‘Mr. Ferguson! A moment, please!’
Voices shouted: the baying of the press. Flashlights went off. I could hear the whirr of TV cameras. This was the most exciting moment of my life! This was the stuff I had so often dreamed about when I hoped I would finally become a great movie star with the press clamoring and photographers fighting to get near me.
I started up the stairway with Durant following closely behind me. My heart was thumping.
‘Mr. Ferguson!’
The name was repeated over and over again. The sound waves of the voices hammered around me.
Man! Did I feel great!
At the top of the staircase, I paused, turned and looked down at the sea of faces, the TV cameras, the bodyguard, the struggling photographers. Feeling like the President of the United States of America, I lifted my hand in a regal salute, then Durant, moving up, practically shoved me inside the aircraft and the show was over.
* * *
I had often read about the private aircrafts owned by wheeler dealers, but this aircraft, as I moved past two smiling girls, wearing dark green uniforms with brown pillbox hats, made me gape.
The passenger accommodation had been replaced by small leather covered lounging chairs, an executive desk with a high black leather chair, a big cocktail bar, a board room table with ten chairs and a wall-to-wall heavy pile dark red carpet.
To the side, was a leather chair with a leg extension which looked comfortable enough to sleep in.
‘Sit there,’ Durant said, pointing to the chair.
I lowered my body into the comfort of the chair, took off my hat and dropped it on the floor.
Mazzo came forward, picked it up and took it away.
Durant went forward and out of my sight. I heard the aircraft’s door slam shut.
Through the drawn curtains of the windows, I could see the glare of the TV lights and I itched to draw aside one of the curtains to take a look at the press below, but this wasn’t the time.
A few minutes later, the aircraft’s jets came alive and minutes later, the aircraft
The seed of thought was continuing to germinate.
‘There’s one small point, and it could be important,’ I said. ‘This is only a suggestion, Mr. Durant. Wouldn’t it be safer for you to quit calling me Stevens? I don’t know what you call Mr. Ferguson, but wouldn’t it be wiser to call me what you call him? A slip of the tongue could bitch the whole operation, and I don’t want to be blamed.’
I didn’t look at him, but looked steadily at the back of the Jap chauffeur’s head.
There was a long pause, then Durant said, ‘Yes, you have a point, Mr. Ferguson. You are showing intelligence.’
‘If it comes unstuck, Mr. Durant, I wouldn’t want it to be my fault.’
‘Yes.’ He breathed heavily. ‘Then you had better call me Joe.’ The rasp in his voice told me how he hated this.
‘Okay, Joe.’
Nothing more was said until we reached the airport.
Then Durant said, ‘Do nothing. Say nothing. Leave this to Mazzo.’
I couldn’t resist my triumph.
‘I hear you, Joe,’ I said.
The Rolls was obviously expected.
Guards opened the double gate and saluted as we drove through. Feeling like royalty, I slightly raised my hand in a return salute.
‘Do nothing!’ Durant snarled.
The car drove around the perimeter of the airfield.
Ahead, I could see blinding lights and a big crowd of figures. Beyond them was an aircraft, floodlit.
Man! Was I getting a bang out of this!
The Rolls drove through a raised barrier that immediately descended. Some fifteen men stood at the foot of the stairway to the plane. They looked what they were: tough, efficient bodyguards.
Mazzo slid out of the car. Durant gave me a nudge, so I got out, and he followed me.
‘Get moving!’ Durant rasped. .
In the dazzle of the floodlights, I walked towards the stairway.
There was an immediate clamor of sound.
‘Mr. Ferguson! Look this way!’
‘Mr. Ferguson! Just a few words!’
‘Mr. Ferguson! A moment, please!’
Voices shouted: the baying of the press. Flashlights went off. I could hear the whirr of TV cameras. This was the most exciting moment of my life! This was the stuff I had so often dreamed about when I hoped I would finally become a great movie star with the press clamoring and photographers fighting to get near me.
I started up the stairway with Durant following closely behind me. My heart was thumping.
‘Mr. Ferguson!’
The name was repeated over and over again. The sound waves of the voices hammered around me.
Man! Did I feel great!
At the top of the staircase, I paused, turned and looked down at the sea of faces, the TV cameras, the bodyguard, the struggling photographers. Feeling like the President of the United States of America, I lifted my hand in a regal salute, then Durant, moving up, practically shoved me inside the aircraft and the show was over.
* * *
I had often read about the private aircrafts owned by wheeler dealers, but this aircraft, as I moved past two smiling girls, wearing dark green uniforms with brown pillbox hats, made me gape.
The passenger accommodation had been replaced by small leather covered lounging chairs, an executive desk with a high black leather chair, a big cocktail bar, a board room table with ten chairs and a wall-to-wall heavy pile dark red carpet.
To the side, was a leather chair with a leg extension which looked comfortable enough to sleep in.
‘Sit there,’ Durant said, pointing to the chair.
I lowered my body into the comfort of the chair, took off my hat and dropped it on the floor.
Mazzo came forward, picked it up and took it away.
Durant went forward and out of my sight. I heard the aircraft’s door slam shut.
Through the drawn curtains of the windows, I could see the glare of the TV lights and I itched to draw aside one of the curtains to take a look at the press below, but this wasn’t the time.
A few minutes later, the aircraft’s jets came alive and minutes later, the aircraft
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