James Chase - You Must Be Kidding

Ken 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.