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.’
Ken drew in a long, slow breath.
‘Mr. Sternwood must favour you, Miss Sternwood.’
She laughed.
‘Oh yes, I’ve handled him since I began to walk. He’s all wind and piss.’ She got to her feet. ‘Call me Karen.’
He was aware she was studying him, and her searching made him feel uncomfortable.
‘You’re not expecting to get business in Secomb dressed like that, are you?’ she said.
Ken gaped at her, then looked down at himself. He was wearing a lightweight charcoal coloured suit, a conservative tie, a white shirt and highly polished shoes. When he had dressed that morning, he had surveyed himself in the long mirror in his bathroom and had decided he looked every inch the up-and-coming assurance executive.
‘Like this?’ he said blankly.
‘You knock on a nigger’s door, looking the way you do now, and he won’t even open the door. Dress as I do. Look, suppose you go home and change into something casual? This is only a suggestion. You’re the boss, but you won’t get business in this godawful dump looking like my Pop. Okay?’
Ken stared at her, thought, then realized she was talking sense. The lush-plush world of Paradise City was now behind him. He had to adapt himself to these new conditions.
‘You’ve got something. I’ll be back in an hour,’ and he left and drove home.
On the way, his mind was occupied with this girl. What a girl! The way she had talked to her father! Her looks and her body! Then he said, half aloud, ‘Watch it, Brandon! You are married to the nicest and best woman in the world! You’ve been married for four years, and you have never looked at another woman. Okay, Sternwood’s daughter is sensational, so now’s the time to really watch it!’
Betty had already gone to work when he returned to their bungalow. He went to the bedroom, dug out a pair of faded jeans, a sweatshirt and loafers from his closet and changed. It was his outfit when gardening. He regarded himself in the long mirror. More the Secomb image, he told himself, but his sleek haircut was a giveaway. He ruffled his hair. That was the best he could do.
Getting into his car, he thought: ‘This girl’s smart! I should have thought of my image. Well, okay, I’ve — she’s — fixed it. Now to work.’
He didn’t return to the office, but parked his car on Trueman Street. On either side of this depressing street were broken down cabins, housing the black workers. He went from door to door, talking to black women about their children’s future, and he got a surprise. Most of the women, after regarding him suspiciously, invited him in and listened. He realized as he talked that Sternwood had an idea: a great idea. The women showed immediate interest. Their kids meant more to them than anything else in the world.
‘You come back tonight, mister. I’ll talk to my husband.’
Three women, obviously ruling the roost, signed up, and each gave him ten dollars to clinch the deal.
By lunch time, he had three sales and ten possible sales.
Feeling elated, he drove to the office, and as he entered a cool blast of air greeted him.
Karen was typing on an I.B.M. Executive and she paused to grin at him.
‘I’ve got two sales,’ she said. ‘They just walked in. How did you make out?’
‘Three and ten possibles. So you’ve got your typewriter and we’ve got air conditioning. You are a miracle worker!’
‘Pop’s the miracle worker if you know, as I do, how to handle him.’