1979 - You Must Be Kidding

Table of Contents

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one

K
en Brandon unlocked his front door and stepped into the lobby.

‘Hi, honey! I’m home!’ he bawled. ‘Where are you?’

‘In the kitchen . . . where else?’ his wife called. ‘You’re early.’

He made his way to the well-equipped kitchen where his wife was preparing dinner. He paused in the doorway and regarded her.

The Brandons had been married for four years, and those years hadn’t blunted Ken’s feelings for her. Slim, blonde and more attractive than pretty, Betty Brandon was not only efficient in the home, but also efficient as Dr. Heintz’s receptionist, and she had to be efficient since Dr. Heintz was Paradise City’s top gynecologist. She earned fifty dollars a week more than Ken did: something that secretly rankled with him, but her earnings made it possible for them to live in a modest style which they both enjoyed, with two cars, a nice bungalow in a good residential district and they were able to save for the future.

Ken was the head salesman with the Paradise Assurance Corporation. He earned a reasonable wage amid trying to compete with his wife’s earnings, he often worked out-of-office hours whereas Betty kept strict hours. She left home at 09.45 and returned at 18.00, her workday finished.

This arrangement suited her as she could look after the bungalow and prepare dinner for Ken, not always knowing at what time he would return. Betty prided herself on her cooking. With the aid of various cookbooks, every evening, she provided a good and tasty meal.

‘Don’t come near me, Ken!’ she said sharply, seeing the light in his eyes and knowing from experience what he had in mind. ‘I’m cooking something important. You’ve arrived at the wrong time.’

Ken grinned.

‘Is there ever a wrong time? Honey, forget it! Two things: first, we are going to make certain our bedroom is still there, and second, I am going to buy you the best meal you have ever eaten. Let’s go!’

Betty pushed him away.

‘Now, Ken, stop it! The bedroom is still there and will wait. We are not going out! I am cooking clam chowder, and let me tell you there is no restaurant anywhere that does a better clam chowder than I do! What’s happened?’

‘Clam chowder?’ Ken moved to the saucepan and lifted the lid.

‘Ken! Keep your hands off that!’

He hurriedly replaced the lid.

‘Smells marvellous!’

‘It is marvellous. What’s happened?’

‘Well, at least, let’s have a drink.’ He went to the refrigerator and took from it a bottle of gin and a bottle of martini. ‘I have news!’

‘Give me five minutes,’ Betty said.

He carried the bottles into the lounge, made two drinks, lit a cigarette and dropped into one of the comfortable lounging chairs. He waited impatiently.

Betty wasn’t to be hurried. Ten minutes later, she came into the lounge. By then, Ken had already replenished his glass.

‘So what’s all the excitement about?’ she asked, dropping into a chair by his side and accepting the drink he offered. ‘What’s the news?’

‘You may well ask.’ Ken grinned at her. He was now feeling slightly drunk. It was seldom he drank martini gins.

‘I’ve been promoted. Sternwood called me to his office this afternoon.’ He grimaced. ‘Frankly, honey, I nearly flipped.

I thought I was going to get the gate. You know Stern. No one gets called to his office unless he is going to get the hot foot. Okay, so I went. Imagine! He has opened a branch office in Secomb, and he wants me to take charge. He says there is a big, untapped source of business there, and he expects me to get it. What could I say? No one argues with Sternwood. So I am now in charge of the new Secomb office.’

‘Secomb?’ Betty stared. ‘But that’s the black district.’

‘Not all black. It’s the workers’ district. There are lots of whites living there.’

‘What kind of insurance?’

Ken nodded approvingly. His wife was nobody’s fool.

‘A good question. Sternwood’s idea is to go after the parents and sell them a safeguard policy for their kids. For a small premium, we can offer parents all kinds of coverage for their kids. In Secomb, there are around fifteen thousand possible prospects, and Sternwood is sure we will strike gold.’

Betty thought.

‘After dealing with all your rich clients, Ken, you won’t like it, will you?’

‘I’ve no choice. Anyway, it’s a challenge.’

‘So you are in charge. How much more is he paying you?’

Ken grimaced.

‘I’m still on my basic, but I get fifteen percent on all business I bring in. Sternwood never gives money away. If he is right about the prospects—and I think he is—it could mean something substantial in commissions.’

‘How substantial?’

‘I haven’t had time to think about that. It depends on how hard I work.’

Betty sighed.

‘When do you begin?’

‘The office is ready. I begin tomorrow.’ Ken finished his drink. ‘There’s one thing I don’t dig, but I’m landed with it.’

Betty regarded him.

‘I would have thought there are lots of things you don’t dig about this. What’s the bad news?’

‘Sternwood has a daughter. She is to work with me. According to him, she’s a smart cookie, knows as much about insurance as I do . . . according to him. She is to handle the office while I do the legwork. It’s not so hot to have Sternwood’s daughter working with me. It’ll mean I’ll have to be on my toes all the time, not that I won’t be on my toes all the time, but you know. . .’

‘What’s she like, Ken?’

‘No idea. I’ll tell you when I meet her tomorrow.’

‘Let’s eat.’

While they were eating, Betty said, ‘I wonder if she’s attractive.’

Regarding her, Ken saw her worried frown.

‘If she takes after her father, she must be something out of a freak show. What’s bothering you, honey?’

Betty smiled.

‘Just wondering.’

‘I’ll tell you what’s bothering me,’ Ken said. ‘I’ll have a spy in the office . . . a hot line right to daddy’s desk. I could be in trouble if she dislikes me or if I don’t make a success of this job. I don’t have to tell you that Sternwood is a sonofabitch. If his daughter puts in the poison, I’ll be out of a job, and Sternwood could fix me for good. That’s what’s bothering me, honey.’

‘Darling . . . you know you will make a success of it.’

Betty put her hand on his. ‘Like it?’

‘The best clam chowder I’ve ever eaten.’

When they had finished the meal, Betty said, ‘What was that about checking to see if the bedroom is still there?’

Ken hurriedly shoved back his chair.

‘How about the dishes?’ he asked, getting to his feet.

‘To hell with the dishes! Who cares?’

* * *

For a long period of time, Paradise City held the reputation as the billionaire’s playground: the most expensive, plush city in the world. Situated some twenty miles from Miami Beach, the city catered only for the very rich who demanded constant service. The army of those who supplied this service lived in Secomb, a mile drive out of the city.

Secomb was not unlike West Miami: a rash of walk-up apartments, battered bungalows, cheap eating places, tough bars where the conch fishermen drank and fought, and a major black population.

The new office of the Paradise Assurance Corporation was situated on Seaview Road which was in the heart of Secomb’s busy shopping centre.

Having found parking with difficulty, Ken Brandon got out of his car and stood on the sidewalk to survey his new office. To Ken, it looked like a hockshop, but he had already accepted the depressing fact that he was no longer dealing with the rich and the plush. His possible clients would be struggling to make a living. They wouldn’t think of entering an office that had the same luxury facade as the city’s head office.

Aware that he was being watched by various black owners of nearby stores, he unlocked the door and entered.

He was confronted by a long counter. Behind the counter was a big room fitted with filing cabinets, a desk, a typewriter, a telephone: all looking second hand, which they were.

This room, he guessed, was where Sternwood’s daughter would work. Lifting the flap of the counter, he walked across the room to a door with a frosted glass panel on which was printed in black letters:
Ken Brandon. Manager.

He paused to study the glass panel. It gave him no pleasure. On the door panel of his office at headquarters, his name had been printed in gold.

He turned the door handle and walked into a small room equipped with a battered looking desk, a swivelled chair, a drab carpet, two upright chairs, facing the desk, a small window with a view of the noisy main street. On the desk was a telephone, a portable typewriter, an ashtray and a scratch pad.

He paused to survey his new kingdom and felt depressed.

He had been used to air conditioning in his headquarters’ office. This small room was stuffy and hot. Crossing to the window, he threw it open and immediately the noise of voices and traffic poured in.

He had told Betty this promotion was a challenge. He grinned wryly. Some challenge! Sternwood had certainly handed him a change of scene!

He heard someone in the outer office, and he went to his office door. Standing in the entrance doorway was a tall girl, around twenty-four years of age.

Ken regarded her with startled interest.

His first reaction was that this girl could be his first client. She had to be by the clothes she was wearing: a T-shirt with a red heart where her heart would be and skin tight jeans, faded in the right places.

As he stared at her, he felt a stirring of his blood. This was some girl!

Her strawberry blonde hair, reaching to her shoulders, looked as if she washed it when she felt that way, but right now she hadn’t, but the unkempt hair added to her sensuality. Her eyes were large and sea green, and the bone structure of her face was impressive: high cheek bones, a short, small nose and a wide full lipped mouth.

Still staring, Ken let his eyes shift to her body. Her breasts were like halved pineapples, straining against the T-shirt. Her long legs, her leanness made her a superb, sensual young animal.

‘Hi!’ she said, and lifting the counter flap, she walked towards him. ‘You are Ken Brandon.’

Good grief! Ken thought, this must be Sternwood’s daughter!

‘Right,’ he said. ‘You are Miss Sternwood?’

She nodded and smiled, revealing teeth that would be a rave to a toothpaste ad executive.

‘What a dump!’

She looked around, then walked over to the desk to examine the typewriter.

‘Look at this goddamn antique!’

‘Your father . . .’ Ken began feebly, then paused.

‘My father!’ She snorted, sat down at the desk, picked up the telephone receiver and dialled. Ken watched her blankly, then when the connection was made, she said, ‘This is Miss Sternwood. Give me Mr. Sternwood.’ There was a pause, then she said, ‘Pop! I’ve just arrived. If you imagine I am going to work on this deadbeat, nail breaking typewriter, you must be out of your head! I want an I.B.M. electric, and pronto.’ She listened. Her face turned into stone. ‘Don’t feed me that shit, Pop! I’m telling you: I either get it or I walk out!’ She hung up.

Ken’s eyes were goggling. The idea of anyone daring to talk to Jefferson Sternwood like that, even his daughter, shocked him.

‘That takes care of that,’ she said. ‘What’s your office like?’

‘Fine . . . fine.’

She got up, moved by him and surveyed his office.

‘You can’t work in a dump like this. It’s like a goddamn oven!’

‘It’s okay. It’s . . .’

She went back to her desk and dialled.

‘Give me Mr. Sternwood,’ she said. Again there was a pause, then she said, ‘Pop! I am not working in this hellhole without air conditioning. I want two portable conditioners here pronto. You . . . what?’ Her voice rose a note. ‘Pop! You are talking through the back of your neck! If I don’t get them, I’m quitting!’ She hung up and winked at Ken. ‘We’ll get them.’