Blonde Joke Chapter Nine by Jeffrey M. Mahr   When is it legal to shoot a blonde in the head? When you have a patch and a tire pump to reinflate it.

The restaurant was empty of customers. There was just her, dark, wavy red hair and porcelain face wrapped in an off the shoulder gown designed to arouse without revealing. Their table was barely illuminated by the flickering light of the candle. The only table in the huge room, it was strategically placed in the center of the room. The huge ornate chandelier provided more light, but even it barely lit the edges of the room enough to make out the wood paneling on the walls or the waiters standing at the edge of the light awaiting the beauty’s beck and call. Beyond them, even further into the dimness, so that only occasional glimmers off the shinier instruments could be seen, was a small orchestra playing, of all things, Debussy. There was a faint sound and Jacqueline Brodsky turned her pensive gaze expectantly into the gloom ignoring the clatter as someone in the kitchen dropped something and then cursed.

He appeared, confidently striding out of the darkness towards her table, and her face bloomed into a smile of adoration. As he sat across from her, he snapped his fingers and a wine steward suddenly appeared to uncork and then pour a small sample of a remarkable vintage. Rolling the wine slowly around in the crystalline glass, he watched it slowly recede down the clear inside of the goblet. A crinkle began to form at the edge of his mouth. He inhaled deeply and the crinkle was almost a smile. A loud slurp and a few seconds contemplation and it became a full-fledged smile. He gave a slight nod and the steward poured for them both and disappeared.

A silent toast and he stood. Moving beside her, he placed one hand gently on her bare shoulder and held out his other hand in offering. She took it, rising gracefully and melting into him as the music segued into a slow waltz. Her head came to just below his chin as they glided across the hardwood floor and her hair tickled his nose. Grinning, Franklin Brodsky took his hand from around her slim sequined waist to gently brush her hair to one side and she groaned and rolled out of his grasp.

Frowning, he reached for her but she playfully swatted his hand away. “Getting frisky again lover boy? I wouldn’t have though an old geezer like you would have it in you.” The words oozed of slum, anger and cynicism coupled with the sound of smacking gum.

Opening his eyes he saw a garishly made up blonde partially draped in the pale yellow silk sheets of the king-sized bed in the maroon room. Slapping away the hand that was reaching under the sheet working its way down below his navel he grunted and reached for the call button beside the bed. Within seconds, two maids entered. One glided over to his side of the bed and placed a tray with a small glass of orange juice, an english muffin, and the Business Journal beside the Master while the other held out an open robe to the woman. The first maid joined the second and, without a word, they gently but firmly pulled the woman from the bed, into the robe and out of the room. She was gone within seconds while Franklin Brodsky ignored them as he frowned at his paper and sipped at the juice.

“What the hell is going on here? Why the bum’s rush? He paid for a full day not a couple of hours,” the blonde stood, hands on hips, shouting shrilly as she demanded an answer.

“Yes, Madam.” The man in the butler’s uniform handed her an envelope. “Enclosed is a small additional gratuity for your inconvenience. Please finish garbing yourself.”

Turning to the maids, he continued, “Ladies, the Madam’s ride will be by the kitchen door in fifteen minutes. Please have her ready.” With that, he stalked haughtily out of the room.

“What’s his problem, and why the hell is he calling me Madam?” She turned on the maids and glared, but got no response. The dark haired maid held out a miniskirt while the brunette held an open blouse. The woman ignored them while she counted the money in the envelope. With a nod to herself, she replaced it in the envelope and stuffed it into her panties before grabbing the proffered garments and quickly dressing.

On cue, as the last piece of clothing was being adjusted, albeit not very neatly, a huge black man with bulging muscles walked in. He stood just inside the door, silently leering at the women until the brunette spoke up. “Cut the crap Talker and take her home now or Renfrew will be angry.”

“Like I care what the penguin says. He’s responsible for the household, not the security.” Still, he turned to the hooker and grunted, “Let’s go lady. I gotta be back here in less than an hour for the Boss.” He angrily gestured for the now dressed woman to follow and stalked off without another word and without checking whether she was following.

“You’d better go now Madam.” The maids shooed her out the door after the retreating figure. Once she had left, they turned towards each other and rolled their eyes before turning back to clean up the room after another of the Master’s nights of debauchery. It seemed the rich lived by a different code than everyone else and Franklin Brodsky was very rich–and very different.

There’s a joke about Calvin Coolidge, thirtieth president of the United States of America. He was the archetypal New Englander, dour and taciturn. At a White House dinner, a society matron was sitting next to him and jabbering away. While Coolidge listened attentively, he never spoke. Finally, about half way through the dinner the frustrated woman turned to Coolidge yet again and said, “I’m going to make you speak to me. I made a bet that I could get you to say at least three words to me tonight and I intend to win.”

Coolidge considered the woman and her request with care before he answered, with just two words, “You lose.”

Talker had always liked that story. He had read it as a young boy and always liked the idea of the stoic hero like his other favorite president, Teddy Roosevelt and his “walk softly but carry a big stick” policy. That’s why he so disliked his current nickname. Maybe if his partner would speak once in a while it wouldn’t have been an issue, but Clyde wouldn’t, so Talker was left that role, and thus the nickname.

Regardless, he knew not to disturb the man he was currently chauffeuring to his office. This was the time of day when Franklin Brodsky communed with his gods, Baron’s, Business Week and, the holy of holies, The Wall Street Journal. Actually, Talker enjoyed the ride because it was so quiet. Thus, he was surprised to hear Brodsky cursing loudly enough to be heard through the privacy glass. He was even more surprised when the epithets continued the next five minutes, until just before they arrived at the offices of Brodsky Holdings Inc.

“Mrs. Smalling. Come in here.” The boss snarled.

Sandra Smalling was an excellent executive secretary. At fifty-two, she was also proof that age does not always mar beauty. A ravishing raven-haired beauty, her attire was always immaculate but conservative. But her beauty was more than just physical, she was the core of Brodsky Holdings Inc. (BHI), the glue that held it together, especially since the death of Mrs. Brodsky five years ago. The loss of his wife Jacqueline, after a prolonged and painful illness, had taken something out of Franklin Brodsky. Where he had been a caring, outgoing, jovial man with an incredible knack for making money when she had first started working for him nineteen years ago, he was now bitter, sullen and distant with remarkably little active interest in his still growing empire.

Most inside observers thought that BHI would have collapsed were it not for the efforts of employees like Sandra who, to stay with the company, had turned down more competitors’ job offers than she cared to remember. It wasn’t the money, every offer had been for significantly more than she currently earned, and it wasn’t respect for Brodsky, at least not for the conniving, vicious and bitter man that he now was, but for another reason, one Sandra would never admit out loud.
Sandra was not looking forward to the upcoming conversation. It wasn’t the law suit. BHI had more lawyers than most small cities, and even if Dr. Isseksen won her suits for harassment, wrongful termination and kidnap, most of the first two would be covered by the company’s insurance and the kidnap would be blamed on Brodsky’s missing son or those stooges he’d had working for him, Harry Baldwin and Dick Walton. It wasn’t even today’s announcement of competition from an unexpected and potentially costly source for the plum of BHI’s holdings, GTI. While the competition might be costly, it was quite premature to be concerned considering how many things could yet go wrong between today’s ambitious start-up announcement and the delivery of a product.

Actually, Sandra was expecting Mr. Brodsky to call her in to give her instructions designed to undermine the budding competitor’s efforts. That seemed to be his sole involvement in BHI of late, finding ways to destroy competitors. With a sigh, she made a quick check of her makeup, grabbed her steno pad, and headed into the sanctum sanctorum.

“Mrs. Smalling, please instruct our head of security to distribute this photograph to any private investigators he feels competent to find the woman in the picture and maintain absolute confidentiality. I do not want word of this search to become public in any way, shape or form.”

“Yes sir.” She took the proffered image. “Is there anything else I can tell him, anything that will make it easier to find this person?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else sir?”

“No.”

“Sir?”

“What?”

“Have you decided what to do about the lawsuit by Dr. Isseksen et. al.? Or the threat to GTI by the new company she’s starting?”

“No Mrs. Smalling.” He turned away from her to rock gently as he stared at the pictures on the credenza behind his desk.

Sandra was surprised, but like the consummate professional she was, she turned and walked out of the office without further comment. Every time she came into his office, she hoped against hope that maybe Franklin Brodsky was finally preparing to rejoin the human race, but knew, deep down, that each instruction would somehow end up being just another one of his vicious little plans.

“Neil, please come up here. Mr. Brodsky has a ‘special job’ for you.” Sandra put the photograph down on the edge of her desk with a sigh. Frustrated and still waiting for the other shoe to drop, she sought something functional to do, anything to keep away the tears. She hated Franklin this way, when he withdrew from life like he had for the past several years. It was like he had put the last bits of his humanity in a jar somewhere and sealed it away. It was amazing that she was able to perform as well as she did when he shut her out. Wondering if she might find something that would help resolve the Isseksen problem she pulled out the good doctor’s folder. Opening it she began skimming through it without really reading it until she glanced at the employee identification photograph and gasped.

“I don’t know what to tell you Neil,” Sandra told Neil Stevens, Chief of Security for BHI as she showed him photographs of two identical women. “Mr. Brodsky called me in and told me to have you distribute this picture,” she pointed to one, “to any private investigators you trusted to maintain complete confidentiality and ask them to find her.” A manicured finger jabbed down at the offending second image. “The problem is that this is Dr. Katrina Isseksen and we know exactly where she is. Her current residence is listed on the various court papers she filed when she sued us. I don’t know what tell you.”

“So, let’s ask.”

“Even before I knew who it was, I asked for more information and was refused. I’m not optimistic that asking again would be advisable.”

“So let’s go in and tell him we’ve found his mystery woman. If we have, he’ll be happy and if not, he’ll have to tell us something more or drop this whole thing.” Sandra looked dubious. “We can always deflect any anger by pointing out that this Dr. Isseksen is a dead ringer for the woman in the photo.” Neither wanted to consider the third possibility, that Franklin Brodsky had finally “lost it.”

With significant trepidation, Sandra announced the Security Chief and followed him into Franklin Brodsky’s office. The senior Brodsky was still immersed in his contemplation of the family pictures on his credenza, his wife Jacqueline and their son Thomas, both gone now. He did not turn when they entered, instead acknowledging their presence with a barely audible grunt.

“Sir? The woman you’ve asked us to find. I think we may already know her whereabouts.”

“Explain.”

“We think you may be asking us to locate Dr. Katrina Isseksen, sir.”

Brodsky continued rocking wordlessly. Sandra was beginning to think he had fallen asleep when he suddenly swung about in his chair to stare at them. “Neil, is it?” Neil nodded. “The person you’re looking for is an identical twin of the good doctor’s.”

Sandra was confused. “Our records only show her as having a younger sister, not a twin.”
“You are correct Mrs. Smalling.” Turning back to the Security Chief Brodsky continued. “Now please distribute the photograph as I requested.” With that the chair silently circled back to face the credenza and he was gone again, staring at the photos.