Blonde Joke Chapter Thirteen by Jeffrey M. Mahr   What does a blonde think an innuendo is? An Italian suppository.

“Ms. Smalling?”

Holding down the button on her intercom, Ms. Smalling responded, “Yes, Mr. Brodsky?”

“When my son…er, daughter arrives, show her in immediately.”

“Yes, sir.” Sandra was too good an administrative assistant to ask questions, but she couldn’t wait to meet the woman that Mr. Brodsky was describing as his daughter. She had checked thoroughly after the incident with the photograph. Brodsky Holdings had very good investigators at its disposal. If they could find no record of a daughter, Sandra was fairly certain that one did not exist. Hopefully, Franklin was not planning to extend his amorous adventures to the office. This was her domain. If anyone was going to be close to Franklin Brodsky, at least at the office, it was going to be her, not some blonde bimbo.

When the woman finally appeared it was Dr. Isseksen and Sandra was totally confused. Was she coming to offer Franklin a deal? It didn’t seem likely; the buzz was that she was winning on the legal front. Maybe she had come to gloat? That didn’t seem likely either as all evidence was that she was scrupulously honest.

Sandra had thought she couldn’t possibly be any more confused, but then Franklin Brodsky came out of his office with a huge smile, hugged the woman, and nearly dragged her into his office as he offered the happiest light banter that Sandra had heard from him in ages. The final straw was when Mr. Brodsky stopped just before closing the door, turned to his secretary and said, “Take the rest of the day off, Sandra.”

It was as if her boss was Scrooge and had just been visited by the three ghosts of Christmas.

“I tell you it doesn’t make sense, Neil.”

Instead of taking the last hour of the day off, Mrs. Smalling had gone directly to the Office of the company’s Chief of Security. It was a small office in a back corner of the basement, but with a surprising number of books. Neil Stevens was a surprisingly well-read man.

“Nothing’s made much sense since Tom Brodsky disappeared,” Neil noted. “Do you think he’s finally gone off the deep end?”

“No,” Sandra responded thoughtfully. “If anything, he’s actually a bit more involved in day-to-day operations since then. Except for GTI, he’s as sharp as ever. My best guess is that he’s got some scheme going, but I can’t even begin to guess what it is.”

“Great,” the Security Chief grumbled. “If you don’t know and I don’t know, it’s got to be illegal. If he’s not careful, the old goat is going to destroy this company yet.

“Have I mentioned that Dr. Isseksen, or whoever she really is, is living at White Wood?”

“What?”

“Uh-Huh,” Stevens continued. “She’s been there since a few days after we started distributing that photograph of Dr. Isseksen. Some sleazy private detective named Tennent brought her in.”

“Yes,” Sandra gave a small involuntary shudder as she recalled the man. “I remember meeting him. What an unpleasant man.”

“More so than you think,” Stevens agreed. “He’s not really a detective. He’s a bouncer at some ‘gentleman’s club’ downtown called the Cravat. Now, to add even more confusion to the mix, Dr. Isseksen’s sister works there.”

“Doing what? Stripping?” Sandra just couldn’t resist being a bit catty.

“As a matter of fact, yes, she is.”

Sandra just rolled her eyes and bit her tongue, hoping that if she remained silent he would continue.

“And her sister is working there too,” Neil said with a smile as he paused, waiting to see if he’d gotten another rise out of the “Ice Queen” as some called Brodsky’s secretary. When she remained silent, he continued, not wanting to anger her. Part of his desire to keep on her good side, was her position. As the boss’ secretary, she came closer to running Brodsky Enterprises than anyone–including Franklin Brodsky. Even more important to Neil was his unrequited love for the woman, not that he would admit that to anyone–including himself.

“Actually, Dr. Isseksen is working there too. Plus, the men who run the companies who are helping her are all members.”

“So Mr. Brodsky is pulling some kind of shenanigan after all,” Sandra wasn’t certain if she was relieved that her boss wasn’t going to let the company they’d both worked and sweated for go under or upset at yet another dirty trick. “What does he expect her to do, drop her lawsuit? She’s winning.”
“Well, it’s a bit more complicated than that,” the Security chief noted with a sigh. “You see, it seems that Dr. Isseksen is a twin after all, which is quite a surprise to her mother.

“There were times when both Dr. Isseksen and her twin were on stage at the same time.”

“So Mr. Brodsky is going to pay the twin to put Dr. Isseksen’s identity in question somehow?” It was looking to Sandra like it was once again going to be time for some kind of dirty trick. She was concentrating on how she could be a good secretary and still avoid doing anything illegal, so she almost missed Neil’s next comment.

“The second twin, the one her parents don’t know about, is named ‘Tommi.’”

“Huh? Tommi? You mean like Tommi…er, “Thomas Brodsky? That kind of Tommi?”

The Security Chief just nodded.

“But…but that means…”

“That means that we may know what happened to Brodsky’s missing son. But if that’s the case, it brings to the fore even more questions. Why don’t we get out of here,” Stevens gestured to his office, but implied the Brodsky building too, “and talk about this someplace private?”

“Hey, Dick?”

“Go to sleep, Harry.”

“I can’t. There’s too much street noise.”

“Then go watch television in the main cabin and let me sleep.”

“Dick?”

“You’re not going to let me sleep are you, Harry?”

“I’m going. I’m going to the main cabin. I’ll watch television until I go blind. Just answer me one question first.” The recreational vehicle creaked as Dick jumped down from his upper bunk and walked to the partition door.

Harry waited hopefully to see if Dick was going to leave him in peace. When his friend stood by the door without opening it, Harry groaned and rolled over and groaned. “So what’s the question already?”

“It’s a pretty simple one, at least on the face of it, but I’ve been going over and over it in my mind and I just can’t come up with a clear answer. I was kind of wondering if you could help…”

“The question,” Harry growled. “Either ask the damn question already or get out of here and let me sleep.”

“Sorry Harry. The question is, ‘Are we doing the right thing?’ You know, siding with Dr. Isseksen and all?”

“Harry thought for a moment and said, “Yes, of course. Now go watch television or something if you can’t sleep.”

Harry rolled over and pulled the covers over his head while he listened to hear what Dick was going to do. He could hear Dick shuffling about as if debating whether to say something, but finally turn and leave the bedroom. Wit a sigh of relief, Harry got comfortable and tried to get back to sleep. Unfortunately, Dick’s question kept running though his head. A few minutes later, Harry got out of bed and joined Dick in the main cabin.

Where the hell are we going to find someone who meets the old Bastard’s requirements this time?” Talker groused as Clyde drove, silent as always. “I mean hell, he wants a tall blonde with a great body and face that has a brain and doesn’t dress like a whore. But the reality is that it’s got to be a whore. Who else would put up with that ‘S and M’ shit he’s into?”

Clyde pulled up at their usual corner and shut off the limo as Talker continued to complain. As a cluster of prostitutes encircled the vehicle, he pointed to one.

“It’s got to be a blonde,” Talker objected as he opened the power window and turned away from Clyde to speak to the small crowd. “Hello ladies. Today we’re looking for a tall blonde interested in some extreme partying. Any takers?”

“If it’s a blonde you want, that can be arranged,” a short black woman in her mid-thirties called out while several others added their agreement.

“Sorry. No blacks,” Talker responded.

“What’s your problem? You prejudiced or something?

“Not me honey,” Talker responded with a lascivious leer that made his personal opinion completely clear. “But the old bastard I work for is a real piece of work. We need to find him a smart, stacked blonde, tall, about 20 to 25 years of age who likes things a bit rough.”

“You ain’t cops, are you, honey?” another girl called out while the black lady and several of her darker skinned friends faded away. You could tell from the way she swung her hips that she was in search of real men, not those wimps looking for something for someone else. “Cause if ya are and ya don’t admit it, it’s entrapment.”

“Definitely not cops. And you?”

“Just us chickens here sugar,” was the laughing reply.

“Good. We’ll remember that for when we're on our own dime. For now, anyone here know anyone who meets those specs?”

It was a matter of minutes and they were directed to another corner, three blocks away, and what appeared to be exactly what they were seeking. It was only a minute or two later that they were returning to White Wood with their catch.

“Wants his f-in’ daughter,” Clyde muttered as they passed through the gate and into the grounds of the estate.

At first, Talker was shocked. Clyde had spoken. Talker had always known he could, but it was so rare that whenever it did happen, it was like a miraculous event. Then, Talker thought about what his partner had said and realized he was right. It used to be the two guards would be sent out to find someone who looked like the old bastard’s dearly departed. Talker had always thought it was to punish her for leaving him, even after what had to be twenty years or more. This time, Daddy Dearest wanted to screw around with his own daughter. Talker glanced back at the window dividing them from the whore in back. Then glanced at Clyde and shuddered.

Clyde frowned and nodded in agreement.

It was going to be another long night. Franklin couldn’t sleep, so, as was his wont, he wandered about White Wood. For a while, he sat behind the huge leather-bound chair in his office and tried to work, but he kept finding himself distracted by thoughts, first of his wife and then of his son–now his daughter. The thoughts were not pleasant, which probably explained his inability to sleep.

He swiveled in his seat so that he could gaze up into Jacqueline’s portrait behind his desk. He missed her so much it hurt. She had died of undiagnosed breast cancer–undiagnosed because he had humored her fear of physicians and allowed her to put off examination after examination until it was almost too late. Then, the hospital killed her. Franklin’s response had been to throw himself even deeper into work, responding to his wife’s dying wish that he do all he could to prevent anyone else from so dying. It had kept him going and Brodsky Holdings Inc. had grown into the multibillion dollar company it now was, but Franklin had never moved beyond the feeling that her death was his fault.

Thomas had been raised by a succession of nannies and Renfrew, rarely seeing his father for birthdays, let alone the other significant events in his life. Yet, it was not a matter of disinterest. Franklin Brodsky cared very much for his only son. He just didn’t know how to show it.

Worse, was this new form for his son, this blonde reminder of the woman who was currently a rather large thorn in his side. Brodsky was having problems deciding how to respond. On the one hand, he was proud of his son’s accomplishments. On the other hand, he was disappointed that he had been caught so easily by Isseksen. His form reminded him of his beloved Jacqueline and thus hurt.

Eventually, he gave in to the inevitable, put the unread folder on his desk away and resumed his wandering, not really paying attention to where he went.