The Spiked Heel

10

The buyer from Texas was feeling damned good. The buyer from Texas had been wined and dined all week long, and now it was Julien Kahn’s turn to pick up the tab, and he’d seen nothing but wonderful shoes since he’d come to this wonderful town (not to be compared with San Antone), nothing but wonderful legs, he had to hand it to these big fashion houses, they knew how to entertain a man. And it was Julien Kahn’s turn, and he’d just witnessed their showing, and damn if they didn’t have a wonderful fall line, and moderately priced too, new blood was what any setup really needed. The models had been just as pretty as any he’d seen all week long, with that faintly aloof air about them, and with wonderful legs (but not like Texas gals’ legs!), and the shoes had looked damned good on their feet, and, oh, the liquor these Kahn people served was mighty stimulating stuff, mighty stimulating.

He wandered around the suite of rooms with a martini glass in his hand. Everybody was in a nice friendly warm glow of friendly warm happiness, everybody all dressed up and chatting with models now that the showing was over, and everybody ready to fill that old glass of his whenever it got empty, and all these nice shining clean young faces, nice bunch of fellers these Kahn people employed, and nice round little backsides on the models, wouldn’t Louise take a fit if she could see him now, here in New York, surrounded by all this?

Oh, this was going to be a humdinger of a party, better even than the one yesterday had been, had to admit these Kahns had a mighty nice line, lots of business this fall, yessir, with all these snazzy new numbers the industry was turning out, oh, this was going to be a humdinger of a party!

“If you want my advice, Mr. Silverstein,” Murphy said, “I’d put in my order right now. It’s really only common sense when you figure it out. That base sold well for you last fall, and we’ve given it a lot more class in this fall’s line. So it stands to reason you can’t miss with it.”

“It was a good seller,” Silverstein said.

“Don’t take too many, if that’s what’s bothering you. Take thirty pair, split them up fifteen in the blue suede and fifteen in the black. If they go, you can always reorder. But I’d be prepared, Mr. Silverstein, that’s my honest opinion.”

“…medium heel,” Morrison said. “If you find the high heel isn’t clicking, you’ve always got the medium heel to fall back on. And you’ve got to admit, Mr. Canning, that our line this season is something to knock your eye out, isn’t it?”

“One of the prettiest I’ve seen,” Canning said.

“About the sling pump, we can give it to you with or without the rhinestones, that’s the beauty of that particular number. And picture that in your window, Mr. Canning. Together with the alligator lizard number, the one we call Naked Flesh, now, that was a beautiful shoe, wasn’t it? But order now so that we can plan ahead, do you understand? The factory’s going to be cutting soon, and…”

“…if you want it with a platform, we’ll stick a platform on it. My advice is that you’d ruin the line of the shoe that way.”

“I get a lot of calls for platforms.”

“Then order from the platforms we showed you. Why spoil the silhouette of another shoe by sticking a platform on it? I’m talking to you like my brother, Sam, believe me. I’d give you the platform, but that isn’t going to help the shoe, believe me.”

“We’ve really got something this year,” Canotti was saying to Stiegman. “I’ve been on the road for a good many years now, Dave, but this line is going to sell itself, do you know what I mean? I can sense it when a line’s got that… that zing it needs to push itself over, and this line has got it, I’m telling you.”

“Yes, I know,” Stiegman said. He watched the redheaded model as she walked around the room, popping olives from martini glasses into her mouth, making a game of seeing how many olives she could chisel from the drinkers. She was something, that redhead. She was something, all right.

“And what’s more, the buyers like it. The buyers are nuts about what we showed them. Why, that Naked Flesh number alone is enough to put over the line. Give me a suitcase full of that pump, and I’ll sell whatever else you dump into the bag with it.”

The model had stopped to talk with Manelli. She said something, and then Manelli giggled, and then the redhead reached into his glass and pulled out the olive, like Little Jack Horner, and then she popped it between her lips, and Manelli chuckled again and said something to the brunette who was with him. Who was the brunette anyway? Someone from the factory? Why’d Manelli drag her along?

“And will the broads go for this line?” Canotti asked. “Will the broads go for it? Dave, they’ll wiggle in positive ecstasy over this line. They will leap for joy.”

Stiegman smiled. Where’d that redhead go to? Ah…

“…can build a window around a shoe like that. Mr. Griffin, I don’t know how much you know about the retail end. But window dressing is a very important part of our business. I wouldn’t trade one good window dresser for half a dozen equally good salesmen; now, what do you think of that?”

“I see what you mean,” Griff said. He looked over to where the redheaded model had just left Manelli and Cara. He had not expected to see Cara at the showings, but he supposed Manelli added a little more self-importance to his comptroller title by lugging along his secretary. He was not disappointed to find her there. He was, in fact, somewhat happy about it. He had not mustered the courage to ask her out a second time, and this chance meeting at a social gathering was just what he needed to help him over the hurdle. And she looked rather nice, he admitted, much better than she had that night he’d taken her out. She was wearing a low-cut green thing, and he realized abruptly that she owned a very good figure, and he was somewhat startled by the realization. She was also wearing a Julien Kahn sling number, with a rhinestone buckle. Well, hell, there wasn’t a woman in sight who wasn’t wearing a pair of Kahn shoes.

“…dress the window just right, the good numbers in a prominent spot. Sometimes, we can use a fantastic number, something we know won’t sell too hot, but something that will attract customers to the window. Like that seal-strip job you folks put out last year, that was a good eye-catcher, even if it didn’t sell so hot, do you know what I mean?”

“Yes,” Griff said. “Say…” He feigned surprise. “Oh, excuse me, I just saw someone I haven’t seen in ages. I wonder if you’d mind…”

“Not at all, Mr. Griffin, not at all. You fellows turn out a good Scotch and soda, you know? Say, there’s a name for a shoe, huh? Think I’ll get a refill. Go ahead, don’t let…”

The model was a tall blonde with a monumental pair of breasts. Aaron had come into the room to get the extra package of cigarettes in his coat pocket, expecting the room to be empty, surprised when he found the model there. She turned when he came in, and then she said, “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said. He looked at her quizzically. “Is it all right to come in?”

“Sure,” she said. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, and her breasts damn near spilled out the front of it.

“I just want a package of cigarettes,” he said.

“And I just want to fix my bra,” she answered.

“Huh?”

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you a big bust is an asset,” the blonde said thickly. “It ain’t, my friend, it damn well ain’t.”

“Well,” Aaron smiled. “Tell you the truth, I never had the problem myself.”

“You’re lucky,” she said. He could see now that she was quite looped. She wobbled unsteadily, her hands behind her back as she struggled with the strap of her brassiere. He went to the bed and tried to locate his coat.

“Could you help me?” she asked.

He turned. “What?”

“Could you give me a hand here? I’d ask one of the girls, but I’m afraid I’ll pop out if I take another step.”

“Well, well sure,” Aaron said.

“I just want you to pull the strap up higher on my back, tha’s all,” the blonde said.

“Sure,” Aaron replied, walking over to her.

The blonde turned. The zipper at the back of her dress was opened in a wide V.

“Did you make these shoes?” she asked.

“He glanced down at the black suede cocktail pump. “Yes,” he said.

“They pinch my feet,” the blonde said. “Pull up the strap, will you?” She paused. “Mister, I feel like Atlas with a double burden.”

McQuade held out the martini glass, smiling. Marge took it and then shook her head. “This is my third,” she said.

“Martinis are good for you,” McQuade said. “They make your legs strong.”

“My legs are strong enough,” she said. There was a high flush on her face, a flush of mixed excitement and triumph. She had never known she could be so happy. The buyers had actually applauded when she’d flattened her skirt against her legs to show the shell pump. She knew they were applauding the shoe, but she couldn’t help feeling they were also applauding her legs just a little bit. Oh, it had been a marvelous feeling, truly marvelous. And now this party, it was all so wonderful, like really being a part of things, like really being a part of the company, and not just another cog stuck away someplace.

And she was not as frightened any more. A little bit, yes, but she was sure now that McQuade was nothing to be afraid of, well, almost sure, anyway, and besides there were a lot of people here, and how could anything happen with all these people around?

“Drink up,” McQuade said.

She sipped at the drink. It was very smooth, and she enjoyed the sting of it against her tongue, a smooth sting, like a kiss from a cobra. My God! Where did that come from, I must be getting a little high.

“So how did you like it?” McQuade asked. He was sitting on the arm of her chair now, his own arm resting across the back.

“The modeling?” Marge leaned her head back. “It was wonderful.”

“And are you happy?”

“I’m very happy.”

“Then drink up. Marge, you’ve got to learn how to celebrate. You’ve achieved something today, Marge. A small milestone, perhaps, but a very happy occasion. People don’t know how to appreciate happiness, Marge. That’s the sadness of our time. People don’t really know they’re happy unless they’re told they’re happy.”

“And are you the man in charge of telling people they’re happy?” she asked. Across the room, she could see one of the buyers looking at her crossed legs.

“I am the man in charge of happiness,” McQuade said. “Drink up. I will not see a happy occasion washed down the drain without celebration.”

He was right, she supposed. Wasn’t it a happy occasion? And hadn’t she begun to feel a little happier about it all since she’d begun drinking the martinis Mac brought to her? Mac, that was a much nicer name than McQuade. Mac.

“Mac,” she said, rolling the name on her tongue.

“Yes?”

“Nothing. Just testing.” She smiled and sipped at her drink. The sting was gone now. Only the smoothness remained.

“Hello, Cara,” Griff said.

Cara looked up. “Oh, Griff. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I didn’t expect to be here. Mr. Manelli’s idea. He’s treating his little secretary to a day away from the mill.”

“Well, that sounds like the first good idea Joe has had in a long time.”

“Thank you,” Cara said.

“You look very pretty.”

“Thank you again.”

“It seems funny talking to you without a trombone blasting at my back,” he said, smiling.

“Or without feeling like a sardine in—” She cut herself short, smiling awkwardly.

“It was pretty damned awful, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I’ve been meaning to… well, you know, I felt pretty bad about the way it all turned out. I was thinking maybe we could try it again. When the weather is in our favor.”

“I’d like to,” she said.

“Maybe next week?” Griff said. “How about Saturday night?”

“Ask me on Monday,” Cara answered.

“Why not now?”

“You’ve been drinking a little. I never take advantage of anyone when they’re under the affluence of incohol.”

“You’re not only pretty,” he said. “You’re honorable.”

“The most honorable Cara Knowles,” she said.

“All right, I’ll ask you on Monday. Now, then, what do we talk about now?”

“Did you like the showing?”

“Loved it.”

“Wasn’t that girl…?”

“Marge? My typist. She made quite a hit, didn’t she?” He remembered Marge and looked around the room for her, a little displeased when he saw she was sitting with McQuade. “Come on,” he said on impulse, “let’s go over and chat.”

Cara looked at him curiously. “All right,” she said.

“If you’re looking for olives,” Stiegman said, “I’ve got a full glass of them right here.”

The redheaded model looked at Stiegman disinterestedly. Her glance dropped from his face to the martini glass in his hand. True enough, the glass was full of small green olives.

“How kind of you,” she said frostily.

“I noticed you were chiseling olives. I said to myself, a pretty girl like that shouldn’t have to go begging. A pretty girl like that should have a bushelful of olives if she wants them. That’s what I said to myself.”

“And what did yourself answer?” the redhead said.

“What?”

“Are you connected with Kahn, too, or are you a buyer?”

“I’m with Kahn,” Stiegman replied, offering the olives once more.

“I was hoping you’d be a buyer,” the girl said.

Stiegman looked at her curiously. “You know, I don’t recall seeing you modeling any of our shoes this afternoon. You are one of…?”

“I’m a model,” the girl said flatly.

“But…”

“Listen, are we going to argue, or are we going to be friends?”

“I’d much rather be friends,” Stiegman said.

“That’s what I’m here for, honey,” the girl answered. “But I still wish you were a buyer.”

“So,” Hengman said, “after all is said end done, it’s still ah nize deal, ain’t it? Aver’body has a hell of a nize time, end ull d’eggrivation is forgotten, no? We hev the showing, end den we anjoy oursalves, end det’s the way it should be, am I right?”

“You’re right, Boris,” Ed Posnansky said.

“What’s the sanse killink oursalves? We got more dan one life to live, maybe? Only once are we here on this earth, Ad, remamber dat. So, anjoy oursalves, that’s my motto.”

“You’re ab’slutely right, Boris,” Posnansky said drunkenly. “Boris, they’re people who call you a stupid sunfabi’, but I alwys say’re wrong, Boris. You got tochis, Boris.” Posnansky tapped his temple. “Tochis, Boris, ’n’ ’ass what counts in this grdmn merground. Tochis.”

“Who culls me ‘stupit’?” Hengman asked.

“Do they look all right?” the blonde asked, pulling up the bodice of her dress.

“Honey,” Aaron said, “they couldn’t look better, believe me. They couldn’t look better if you were trying.”

“Bust fetishes,” the blonde said disgustedly. “Goddam bra companies are building a country of bust worshipers. Mister, I wish I lived on Bali or someplace. I’d run around with the goddam things swinging down near my knees, without this harness all the time. You know, I could get a job with any bra company in the country, modeling? But I don’t. I model shoes instead, and you know why? ’Cause I’ve got a 4-B foot, and how the hell does that tie in with a 38-C bust? Impossible. You’re a good listener, you know?”

“Thanks,” Aaron said.

“Besides, I don’t like to parade around in my underwear in front of buyers. I once worked in the garment district and even that was a pain, with these slobs grabbing your legs every time they looked at the hem of a skirt. Shoes are safe, believe me. And what I do on my own time is my own business, am I right?”

“You’re absolutely right,” Aaron said.

“You’re cute, too. You look like a lost puppy dog.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said.

“You want to go out there with all those slobs?” she asked.

“Well…”

“Half the girls out there I never saw before today. You can’t tell me they were all modeling shoes.”

“Maybe they weren’t all,” Aaron said secretly.

The blonde pulled a face. “Not a decent bust in the lot of them. Let’s stay here. Go steal a bottle and we’ll get quietly drunk.”

“Don’t you have to get home?”

“Sure, I do,” the blonde said. “What’s that got to do with enjoying a drink with a friend?” She tugged at the bodice of her dress, the globes of her breast shaking with the movement. “I was once offered a job with Rand-McNally, too,” she said.

“Well, look who’s here!” McQuade said, “Griff, how are you, boy?”

“Fine, thanks,” Griff said stiffly. “You know Cara Knowles, don’t you?”

“Joe’s fairest,” McQuade said, bowing from the waist. “Good having you here, Cara.”

“Thank you,” Cara said.

“Marge, Cara,” Griff said. “Cara, Marge.”

“We’ve seen each other around the building,” Cara said, smiling.

“Well, how does it feel?” Griff asked Marge.

“Nice,” she said, pulling up her shoulders and hugging her arms to her chest as if she were squeezing a teddy bear. “Nice, nice.” A little bit of her drink spilled over the edge of her glass. She put the glass to her lips quickly and lowered its contents.

“You looked very good up there, Marge,” Griff said.

“He’s underestimating you,” Cara said. “I thought you were the best model in the showing.”

“Well,” Marge said brightly. “Thank you. I love you, dear girl. I take you to my bosom.”

“How’re the martinis holding up?” Griff asked lightly.

“Number four,” McQuade said, smiling, “and it hasn’t so much as distorted her vision. She’s a strong girl, our little Marge.”

“Better go easy,” Griff said, his voice lowering.

“Oh, I’m so happy, Griff!” Marge said. “Now don’t be a stinkpot and spoil it all. Get a drink for Griff, Mac. Griff, you don’t know how deliriously happy I am.”

“You’ve reason to be happy,” Cara said.

McQuade put his arm around Cara and said, “You are a very rare creature, Miss Knowles. A woman who acknowledges another woman’s triumph, without malice, without enmity. A very rare creature.”

“I’m malicious as all getout,” Cara said, smiling. “It’s not fair for any woman to have legs like that.”

“Ah!” McQuade said, extending a forefinger. “Ah, now, don’t spoil it! And don’t diminish the loveliness of your own legs, Cara. Never belittle your own assets, that’s a chief rule of survival. And never underestimate the enemy.”

“You’ve got good legs,” Marge said thickly.

“Why don’t we go out for a little air, Marge?” Griff said.

“Air? What do I need air for?”

“Air is, bad stuff, Griff,” McQuade said. He seemed very excited, tensed almost to a fever pitch. “Air is for balloons, not people. What do you think, Marge?”

“I think I’m getting looped. But I don’t feel like crying. I undersht — understand people get crying jags when they drink. I feel very happy, very very happy.”

“Not all people cry,” McQuade said, “and you’ve got a damned good reason for being happy. I’ll get you another drink.” He took his arm from Cara’s shoulder. “Don’t go away,” he said.

“Are you all right, Marge?”

“We overestimated the enemy, Mr. Griffin,” Marge said stiffly. “We overestimated the enemy forces. There is no need for fear. Feel free from frear. Fear. I’m all right.”

A record player started somewhere on the other side of the room. The strains of “Stardust” flooded the suite, fled to the rooms with couches and tables and chairs and glass shoecases and red posters with white disks and black silhouetted shoes…

“Ah, music,” Marge said. “Come on, Griff, dance with me.”

He looked at Cara quickly, and Marge said, “Please, may I? I won’t show my legs. I promise.”

“Go right ahead,” Cara said. “I’ll chance it.”

Marge rose unsteadily, and then went into Griff’s arms. He put his arm around her and steered her onto the floor. The buyers and salesmen and models and other girls were already flowing to the floor. Off on one side of the room, Hengman and Posnansky struggled to complete rolling back the rug.

“She’s pretty,” Marge said.

“Is she?”

“Mmmm. My legs are better, Griff, but she’s pretty. Even Mac thought so.”

“He giving you any trouble?”

“Perfect gentle-man. No trouble at all.”

“You ought to stop drinking, Marge.”

“Why? I’m having fun. You know something? I’ve never been looped in all my life, you know that? Twenty-four years old, and never potted. Shame. Today’s my day of glory. Model. Marge Gannon, model. Prob’ly nothing ever come of it, but I’ve at least had today, Griff, do you understand? Today’s all I need. You’re a good dancer.”

“Thanks. Look, if you should need any help…”

“I won’t. He’s all right. Overestimated him, that’s all.”

From the corner of his eye, Griff saw McQuade take Cara into his arms and lead her onto the floor.

“Ull right,” Hengman said, “I ’preciate your kindness, Ad, end I like these tings you are saying abott me behint my beck. I always did say you were ah right guy, Ad, b’lieve me. But there’s one ting I want t’know, end dat is who culled me stupit? Hah? Who?”

“Who call you stupid, Borish?” Posnansky roared. “I’ll knock’m flat’n his ash. Jush show me to’m, Borish, ’n I shwearra God I’ll knock’m so cole he’sh think he… who, Borish? Who?”

“Dot, my frand, is what I would like t’know,” Hengman said, wagging his head.

“You know how many different words there are for breasts?” the blonde asked Aaron.

“How many?”

“Plenty, I’ll bet. What is that, Canadian Club?”

“Yes.”

“Hand me a glass, will you? That’s an indication of how far this damned bust fetish has gone in this country. Why, I bet I can think of a dozen words all by myself. Now, what’s so special about breasts when you ask yourself the question? Fatty tissue, that’s all.”

“Titty fassue,” Aaron corrected.

“See, there’s one expression already. And how about bubbles?”

“Or bubbies?”

“Or balloons?”

“Or coconuts?”

“Well,” Manelli said, “you got to understand French at the end of this one, which is the only reason I asked. Anyway, this soldier’s in one of those pissoirs, you know, they got in Paris, and taps his pockets and finds out he hasn’t got a match, so he turns to the Frenchman standing alongside him there, and he says, ‘Say, Bo,’ and the Frenchman doesn’t answer.”

“I heard this one,” the tall brunette said, slipping out of her shoes.

“Better put those on,” Canotti said. “Any of our buyers see that…”

“You hear this one, Mike?” Manelli asked.

“No,” Canotti said, watching the brunette struggle into the shoes.

“Okay. Okay. So the soldier keeps looking for a match, and he turns again and says, ‘Say, Bo,’ and again the Frenchman doesn’t answer, he just keeps right on staring…”

“Or mammaries?”

“Or headlights?”

“Or grapefruits?”

“Or bazooms?”

“Or balloons?”

“We said that one.”

“All right, how about knockers?”

Griff was gone, but she couldn’t seem to remember when he’d left, or whether she’d danced with him once or twice or three times, or whether it was really only once and had seemed like a long time on a merry-go-round of “Stardust,” he was a good dancer, a nice boy, Griff, a very nice boy, I’m plastered.

“Here’s another,” McQuade said.

She shook her head. “N’more,” she murmured.

“Come on. One more won’t hurt you, Marge. This is your hour of triumph. Unfurl the banners, Marge. Let yourself go.”

Relax and let yourself, relax, the band is banners, banners, red field and white disk and black silhouette, and banners, banners…

“No. N’more. Had ’nough.”

He put the glass to her lips. She felt the rim there, and then the glass was tilting, and she felt the liquid in her mouth, a strangely tasteless liquid, flowing, flowing, down her throat, into her stomach, lower, burning lower, bruise marks on her thigh, thigh, she was dizzy, very dizzy, air is for balloons, banners, overestimate the enemy, mac, Mac…

“Mac,” she said weakly.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I really shound have ’nymore.”

“This is only your third, Marge,” he said softly, so softly, nice soft soothing voice, handsome man, Mac, only three? is that all? only three, such a sissy, only three drinks, whoosh I’m loaded, low-ded, all right, all right…

“All right, Mack. Y’dn have to hole it. I’cn hannle it. Where… where ’sh… oh… thanks.”

She tilted the glass. She stretched out her legs and threw her head back. She was very tired, very sleepy, just lie down and sleep some place, but hide the bruises, ugly bruises on thigh, strong fingers like vise, hide the bruises, but, oh, so tired, so very tired, but hide them, spoil legs, do you like my legs?

“Do you like my legs, Mac?” Silly question, shouldn’s ask silly damn question deserves a silly damn…

“They’re lovely,” he said, his voice a hushed whisper.

“Oh, how hoarse,” she said. Horse? No, Man. Man Mac.

“Let’s get some air, Marge. You need some air, that’s what. Come with me, Marge, and we’ll get you some air.”

“Air is for bloons.”

“Come, Marge. Come with me. Come, Marge. That’s the girl. Upsa-daisy, there you are, that’s the girl, good girl, good girl, Marge your legs are lovely, Marge, wonderful lovely legs, lovely…”

“’vely. Air is for bloons. Air is for blooms, Mac.”

“Balloons.”

“We said that twice already.”

“All right, but you get the point, don’t you? Point, there now, you should answer, ‘I get both points.’ Remember that Jane Russell Movie? ‘JR in 3/D. It’ll knock both your eyes out!’ I pity that poor, poor girl, believe me. I know just what she goes through.”

“They are beautiful, though,” Aaron said. He reached out and touched one of the blonde’s breasts, tracing it lightly with his fingers. “Beautiful.”

“You think so?” the blonde asked. Her chest expanded proudly under his fingers. She smiled and leaned her head back against his shoulders, taking his other hand and moving it up to the front of her dress. “They are pretty nice to have, after all, I guess;” she purred happily.

“Who culled me stupit?” Hengman asked.

“Break-ish ash fr’m,” Posnansky said.

“Who culled me stupit?”

“C’est beau?” Manelli exploded in French. “C’est magnifique!”

Canotti burst out laughing.

“I heard that one,” the brunette said.

Manelli patted her thigh paternally.

“You’re not eating any olives,” Stiegman said.

The redhead smiled. “Mister, olive-eating ain’t my profession.”

“What is?”

“You guess. It ain’t eating olives, I can tell you that much.”

He saw McQuade helping Marge from the room, and he was annoyed. He was annoyed because he’d appointed himself protector, and annoyed because he and Cara were getting along fine, and he did not particularly feel like leaving her. For a moment, he debated just letting Marge do whatever the hell she felt like doing, but she looked so helpless there, so vulnerable, and somehow the thought of McQuade touching her was a repulsive one. For no good reason, he remembered the small scratch on the leg of Maria Theresa Diaz.

“Excuse me, will you?” he said to Cara.

“Yes, of…”

He left her and started across the room. McQuade had his arm around Marge’s waist, and he was leading her into the corridor that led to the bedrooms. Griff quickened his pace. When he caught up to them, he tapped McQuade on the shoulder.

“Hello,” he said.

Marge looked up, trying to focus Griff.

“Hello, Griff,” McQuade said. There was no smile on his face now. He was sweating, and the sweat beaded his forehead and his upper lip. His eyes were bright.

“Griff?” Marge asked. She nodded her head, as if affirming his presence.

“I was just taking her out for some air,” McQuade said. His eyes did not leave Griff’s face.

“Yes, I figured,” Griff answered, smiling. “I can take care of that, though. I promised Marge I’d take her home, and this seems as good a time as any, don’t you think?” He was amazed at the ease with which the lie sprang to his lips.

“In all honesty,” McQuade said, “no, I don’t think this is as good a time as any.”

Griff shrugged. “Well, I do.”

“Home?” Marge asked. “Tim’r go home, ’ready?”

“I think she’d like to stay,” McQuade said. He had not smiled once during the conversation, nor had the brightness left his eyes. He kept staring at Griff, as if trying to convince him by the sheer force of his eyes.

“Well,” Griff said, “I enjoy debates, but Marge is going home.”

McQuade released her suddenly. She wobbled for an instant, and then Griff caught her, steadying her with an arm around her waist.

“You’re rather like a twentieth-century chastity belt, aren’t you, Griff?” he said tightly.

“Look—” Griff started, and then he clamped his mouth shut. There was going to be trouble, he could sense it. He could feel a tight knot in the pit of his stomach.

“No, take her, take her,” McQuade said. “I make it a policy never to argue over a slut.”

Marge looked up suddenly, but McQuade’s remark had not penetrated her alcoholic haze. For an instant Griff wanted to smash his fist into McQuade’s face. He felt his hand tighten, but something stopped him from throwing the fist, and then suddenly McQuade was smiling, the hardness leaving his mouth, the crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. He extended his hand.

“No hard feelings, Griff?”

Griff stared at the proffered hand for a moment. He hesitated, telling himself he should refuse the hand. He sighed then, and extended his own hand. “No hard feelings,” he said, feeling strangely relieved.

“Of course not,” McQuade said. “To the victor belongs—”

And then his grip tightened.

Griff had not expected McQuade’s sudden grip. He had offered his hand for a listless handclasp, and now he felt McQuade’s fingers tightening around his own and for a moment he felt awkward, mistaking McQuade’s grip for a sign of affection. But the awkwardness fled before a scream that almost escaped his mouth when McQuade really bore down. He pulled his hand back in a reflexive movement, but he could not extricate it. He saw McQuade’s jaw muscles tighten, and then the fingers closed on his hand like a vise, squeezing his bones together, shooting raw pain up past his wrist, daggering pain that rushed to his shoulder and his brain. He tried to pull his hand away, but McQuade would not release it.

McQuade was smiling now, his jaws tight, his teeth clenched together. The sweat popped on his forehead, as if the effort he put into the hand crush were squeezing it out of his body.

Griff stood with his arm around Marge’s waist, the other arm extended, the hand caught in the steel trap of McQuade’s grip. He thought McQuade would terminate it abruptly, and so he tried to keep the pain off his face and the scream from his lips. But McQuade did not end it. McQuade showed no intention of ending it. McQuade’s fingers tightened and tightened until Griff’s hand became a throbbing aching bundle of nerves, ragged, jagged nerves that screamed silently.

His whole body seemed to suddenly flow into his right hand. His whole body, and his whole mind, his entire existence were suddenly in the palm and five fingers of his right hand. The hand seemed like a sentient thing with a mind of its own, and a soul of its own, and a hundred darting, electrifying aches and pains and needles and jabs and ripping, tearing cracks and fissures of its own. His lips parted, and he squinched up his eyes, and then his teeth came together, and he could hear the click when they came together, and he felt this swelling pain that came from his hand, that shouted with a voice of its own from his hand.

He felt weak all at once, dizzy and weak, and he felt his left arm slipping from Marge’s waist, and he saw Marge slump against the wall, but he was no longer concerned about Marge, he was concerned only about the swelling pain of his right hand, the pain that seemed to mushroom out and envelope his entire body. He could see McQuade’s face clearly, the lips drawn back, the teeth clenched tightly, the sweat clinging to his brow. He could see the face, and then the face blurred a little, and he knew he would lose consciousness if McQuade would not release him. He suddenly wanted to plead with McQuade, to beg McQuade to drop his hand, to let his fingers go, to stop the godawful pain, oh, the pain, oh, oh, and he fought to hold the scream back, and then he wondered why he was fighting the scream, and he realized he was not fighting his own weakness, he was fighting McQuade’s strength.

For McQuade’s power had suddenly become a very real thing, not the power invested in him by Titanic, but another power, a power that was part of the man himself, a power that was overwhelming and frightening, the power of a thousand boots on a cobbled street clattering their might to the night. There was something shameful and degrading about giving in to this power, something like the shame he had felt the time that Stuka had dived at him, long ago, so long ago, when he had felt the sudden release of his bowels and then the overwhelming stench of his fear. He could not give in to McQuade, and so he did not scream, and so he fought the livid pain, fought it with every nerve and muscle in his body.

He was on his knees now, on his knees before McQuade, and still McQuade would not release his hand. Griff’s left hand was flat on the floor and behind him he could hear Marge mumbling, “Say… what… say…” but the words were blurred, and he felt this dizziness swell up inside him, and he shook his head to clear it, his right hand extended, his right hand caught in the mesh of McQuade’s fingers.

He knew he would be unconscious in a very few seconds, and he wanted to shout something before he went out, wanted to shout something loud and clear so that everyone could hear him, but he didn’t know what to say, and he could not find the voice to say what he didn’t know how to say the voice shout say how the voice shout…

McQuade dropped his hand.

“You’d better take her home, Griff,” he said pleasantly, and then he turned his back and strode off down the corridor, heading for the sound of the music, ducking his head a little when he went through the open doorway, and then walking toward where Cara stood near the record player.