The Spiked Heel

12

Titanic is for the workers, McQuade had said (hastily adding, Ah, but only if the workers are for Titanic). And to add conviction to his statement, to show that Titanic meant what it said, he had promised the workers a raise, and he had promised them there would be no further firings in the factory.

He had given them the raise, and the workers were delighted with it. But there were still people who cocked an anxious ear toward the foreman’s cage whenever the telephone rang, people who were certain more heads would roll, people who were just waiting for Titanic to back down on its word.

McQuade undoubtedly knew of these people. He also knew that Raymond Griffin was not a mere file clerk whose disappearance would go unnoticed. The factory knew Raymond Griffin and, worse, the factory liked him. If Raymond Griffin were fired, the factory would damn well learn about it, and what would happen was anyone’s guess. And despite anything McQuade had said about moving the plant to Georgia or closing it down completely, there was a goodly chunk of cold cash invested in Julien Kahn, Inc., and — as John Grant had so ably pointed out — nobody, not even Titanic, buys factories to close them down. The Kahn factory was a closed shop and whereas Griff, as a part of Management, was not a union member, McQuade had heard of protest strikes, and the firing of Griffin might very well provoke something of that sort, especially after Titanic’s promises. Titanic was for the workers, but only if the workers were for Titanic, and McQuade — no matter how you sliced it — worked for Titanic. A protest strike would not look very good down South. A protest strike might, in fact, look pretty damn crumby. But there still remained this rusty, protesting cog named Raymond Griffin in an otherwise well-oiled machine.

McQuade was a good mechanic, and a handy man with an oil can.

Griff, absorbed in the hundreds of orders that began pouring in after Guild Week, absorbed in watching Marge and toasting his heart at the newly found fire of their love, was totally unaware of the commotion that might ensue if he were abruptly fired. He fully expected to be fired on Monday morning. When he was not, he was surprised. He was not surprised to find that McQuade had moved his desk down the hall to Manelli’s office.

Tuesday passed, and then Wednesday, and then Thursday, and Griff’s surprise gave way to a sort of puzzled mystification. Was it possible that McQuade would not wield the ax? Through force of habit, he automatically told himself that maybe McQuade wasn’t such a bad guy after all, maybe he’d figured him all wrong, maybe—

He called an abrupt halt to that line of reasoning. McQuade was a bastard, and more so because he automatically engendered this sympathetic doubt, even when you knew he was a bastard.

On Friday, April 23, Manelli called Griff and asked him to come down to the office a moment, would he? Griff replaced the phone on its cradle and then walked over to Marge.

“Manelli,” he said.

“Did he say anything?”

“Only that he wants to see me.”

A troubled look crossed Marge’s face. She chased the look and tried a weak smile. “Maybe it’s a bonus.”

“Maybe,” Griff said. He squeezed her hand, and then left the office. When he reached Manelli’s office, he remembered Cara Knowles, and he remembered the vaguely tentative date they’d talked about. He was suddenly embarrassed. He didn’t want to tell Cara about Marge, and at the same time he couldn’t very well just let the thing ride. He walked to her desk, wrestling with the problem, deciding to make a clean breast of it.

“Hi,” he said. “Busy?”

“Loafing, as usual,” Cara said. “I’ll tell Mr. Manelli you’re here.”

“Sure, in a second.” He paused. “Cara, about that date…”

“Griff—” she started.

“I thought—”

“I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “but I’ve already made a date for this Saturday and—”

“You did?” he asked, hoping his relief didn’t show.

“Well, you disappeared suddenly and Mac was so very nice to me.” She paused awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Griff.”

Griff smiled. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. He could not bring himself to tell her that he’d wanted to back out. There was something dishonorable about stealing her thunder. “Do you want to buzz Joe?” he asked.

“You’re not angry?”

“No, have a good time,” he said. It bothered him that her date was with McQuade, but he certainly had no right to tell her what company she should keep. She buzzed Manelli, and Manelli asked her to send Griff in. He smiled, walked to the door, squared his shoulders, and entered.

“Hello, Griff,” Manelli said pleasantly. “Come on in, boy.”

He was momentarily taken aback by Manelli’s genial attitude. If a man was going to fire you, he certainly didn’t conceal the dagger behind a smiling face, did he?

“Sit down, Griff,” Manelli said. “Cigar?”

“No. Thanks, Joe.” He sat in the easy chair alongside Manelli’s desk.

“Well, now,” Manelli said, “let me see. Oh yes, the, cost cards.”

An immense feeling of relief swept over Griff. He knew he was not going to be fired, and the news affected him like a reprieve from the governor.

“What about the cost cards?” he asked.

“Nothing serious,” Manelli assured him. “I’ve just been feeling a little guilty. Guess we all feel a little guilty every now and then, eh? Here I am comptroller of Julien Kahn, and, by God, it’s time I started earning my keep, don’t you think?”

Griff shrugged and smiled.

“So, here’s what I’d like. Before you establish a selling price on any shoe, I’d like to approve the cost cards. Now, I’m not checking up on you or anything, but I’m trying to anticipate any possible beefs from Chrysler, and—”

“Well, I usually work pretty closely with Chrysler, anyway,” Griff said. “I mean… well, Joe, they’ve got to sell the damned shoes, so price is pretty important to them, too.”

“Naturally, naturally, but — as I say — I don’t want any beefs from them.”

“Well, we haven’t had any so far,” Griff said. His relief was giving way before a nagging sort of annoyance. The Cost Department ran very smoothly, and it would sure as hell not run as smoothly if every cost card had to go to Manelli for approval before any action could be taken.

“No, but you never know when a beef will come, do you?” Manelli asked. “So, I’d like to approve all those cards before you do any pricing. I’m sure that won’t upset your routine too much.”

“Well, Joe, to tell the truth—”

“I hate to rush you out like this, Griff, but I’ve got to run down and discuss a few things with Boris. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Joe—”

“Might be a good idea to let me see the cost cards whenever any are ready, eh? I imagine you’ll have some for me on the intermediate line soon, won’t you?”

“I’m working on those now,” Griff said.

“Good. Let me see ’em, eh?” He rose and patted Griff’s shoulder affectionately. “Now scram so I can see the Hengman.” He chuckled and then practically shoved Griff out of the office.

Griff mulled over Manelli’s request on his way down the corridor. A cost card was a fairly complicated document. It was a necessary bit of drudgery that accompanied every pattern the factory ever made or would make. Actually, the cost card was the basis of all pricing, pricing generally being the simple process of adding a fair margin of profit to the cost of the shoe. Griff, in cooperation with Morris Davidoff — the company’s wizard material surveyor — was in charge of listing the material costs. Sal Valdero, when Griff was finished with the card, itemized the labor costs. When the card reached Griff again, he was able to establish a tentative selling price for the shoe, a price he then discussed with Sales, if discussion were called for.

Everything was on that cost card. The itemized costs of sock lining, leather lining, faille lining, backstay, drill and fleece, tufsta and underlay, piping and stripping, elastic gore, tape, thread, nailheads, cement, box toes, platform covers, leather shanks, steel shanks, welting, heels, toplifts, embossing, laces and ribbons, cleaning chemicals, boxes, buckles and ornaments, finishing supplies, hell, everything and anything that went into the final package the retailer received.

What on earth did Manelli know about any of this? If Griff and Davidoff had to muster their combined factory knowledge, experience, graphs, charts, and figures to come up with a decent estimate, how could Manelli — fresh out of Accounting — hope to approve or disapprove their estimates with any measure of efficiency?

How could Manelli possibly dispute, say, seventeen cents/two mills as the cost of an insole cover? How could he possibly know? Davidoff knew how much leather the insole cover would take. Griff knew the cost of that leather. Together, they could work it out. What was there for Manelli to approve or disapprove?

The entire idea was fantastic, and, when Griff’s relief over not having been fired had evaporated, there remained only this request, and the stupidity of it, and the delay it would cause. Suppose Manelli didn’t get to the cards the moment they were delivered? What was supposed to happen then? Costing would delay pricing and pricing would delay production! Damn, this was simply foolish.

When Marge saw his face, she went to him instantly.

“What is it, Griff?” she asked.

“Not what we thought. Manelli wants to approve all my cost cards before prices are established.”

Marge sighed heavily. “Oh, thank God.”

Aaron looked up from his desk suspiciously. “Hey,” he said, “what is it with you two? Ever since Monday, you’ve been—”

“You just hush,” Marge said. “Are you annoyed, Griff?”

“Sure, I am. What the hell does that idiot know about costing?”

“He wants to check all the cost cards?” Aaron asked.

“Yes.”

Aaron cocked his head. “That’s peculiar.”

“Peculiar? It’s moronic.”

“Well,” Marge said, “go along with it. It probably won’t last very long.”

Griff sighed, still troubled. “There’s not much else I can do,” he said.

So he went along with Manelli’s request, and at the close of that Friday, he brought his cost cards to Manelli’s office, still thinking the request both peculiar and moronic, but never once considering it the opening gun in a suddenly declared war.

On Monday the distant rumble of artillery came a little closer.

Ed Posnansky called from the Chrysler Building at ten o’clock. Marge answered the phone, and then informed Aaron the call was for him. Aaron promptly picked up his extension, exchanged the customary cordial greeting, and then got down to listening, interjecting an occasional “Uhhuh,” or “Yes, I see.” He ended the call with an “All right, Ed, I’ll see you tomorrow,” and then he hung up.

“What was that?” Griff asked.

“Big to do at Chrysler,” Aaron explained. “Seems one of the other houses was showing a pump with a lucite heel during Guild Week, and everybody at Chrysler thinks they’ve stolen a march on us. Posnansky thinks we can make a similar pump, provided we can get the heels. He wants to discuss getting a sample up. Hengman’ll be there, and our heel man, and some people from Fashion. He wants Cost in on it, too.”

“Oh,” Griff said.

“Say,” Aaron said, “why didn’t he ask you to come along, too?”

“I don’t know,” Griff said slowly.

“I’ll buzz him back,” Aaron said. “He’s in such a dither, he probably…” He let the sentence trail, lifted his receiver, and asked the operator for Chrysler. When he got Posnansky, he said, “Say, Ed, this meeting tomorrow… no, I can make it all right… but shouldn’t Griff…?” He paused. “Yes, Griff…” He paused again. “Oh, I see… well… no, that’s not it. I just thought…” Aaron’s brow creased. “Sure, but if the shoe is going into our line… but Griff is head of the department, he should… oh, I see… well, sure… sure… all right, Ed, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up and stared at Griff. Marge looked up from her typewriter.

“He said he doesn’t want to pull you away from anything important, Griff,” Aaron said, puzzled.

“Well,” Griff said, “I am pretty busy.”

“Yeah, but…” Aaron shrugged. “He doesn’t usually call these meetings without you. I mean… gee, I don’t know what to make of it.”

Griff smiled and tried to pass it off jokingly. “He knows this factory would collapse if I left it for even a moment,” he said.

“Indubitably,” Aaron replied, smiling. “But still.”

“Forget it,” Griff said. “I hate those damn meetings anyway.”

He went back to his work, but he could not hide the fact that he was troubled and hurt. He was, after all, head of the department, and it was not like Ed to purposely exclude him from anything important. A new shoe in the line was important. Ed should have… He put it out of his mind. Until the next day.

The next day, the heavy tanks came rumbling up.

The heavy tanks came rumbling up in the freight elevator. The heavy tanks were disguised as long rolls of carpet, and the carpet was a pleasant teal blue, and the carpet was laid in every office on the ninth floor while the women squealed in ecstasy and the men nodded in appreciation. The shining new desks followed the carpet, wheeled off the freight elevator on dollies, firmly implanted themselves in the thick carpeting on the floor of each office.

Each office but Griff’s.

At the beginning of the day, he thought there’d been some error. The carpet layers had started with Credit, right next door to him, and he thought they’d mistakenly skipped Cost at the end of the corridor. As the day wore on, he began to think they’d passed him accidentally and then forgotten about him in the rush of getting the new desks into each of the offices. By quitting time, when the carpet layers and maintenance men had covered every other office on the floor, he began to get a little miffed. He stopped one of the maintenance men in the hallway and asked what the story was.

“Gee, Griff,” the man said, “don’t get sore at me. I’m only doing what I was told.”

“Told? What do you mean?”

“We were told to skip Cost, that’s all.”

“Who told you this?”

“It wasn’t told to me, Griff. It was told to Frank. He’s in charge of the job.”

“Where is he?” Griff asked.

The maintenance man looked around. He shrugged. “Probably knocked off already.”

“Was there any reason given? For skipping Cost?”

“I think they’re gonna paint your office first, or something. That’s the way I got it, anyway.”

“When are they going to paint?”

The maintenance man shrugged. “Griff, you got me.” He smiled suddenly. “I wouldn’t worry about it, I was you. You’ll probably wind up with the best-looking office on the floor.”

“Yeah,” Griff said.

On Wednesday morning, the first line of infantry appeared on the horizon. Manelli called and asked to see Griff. Griff went down to his office, and Manelli cleared his throat and spread a batch of cost cards on his desk.

“These cards,” he said.

“Um?”

“Few things, Griff. Here, take this pattern L 678. That’s the Scudderhoo last, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got piping and stripping listed as one and four-ninths yards, and you’ve indicated ‘see list’ for the cost. But you haven’t indicated the cost any place on the card. And as far as I can see, the cost of piping and stripping was never included in the total cost of the shoe.”

“May I see the card?” Griff asked.

Manelli handed him the card, and Griff studied it for a moment.

“Oh,” he said, “I can explain that. We don’t have any piping or stripping on this pattern.”

“Then why is it listed at all?”

“I thought we’d look ahead a little. Davidoff figured out the approximate yardage we’d need to pipe or strip it. So if we get a request for a variation on the pattern, I can just check my cost card and I’ll know it calls for one and four-ninths yards. Then I’ll look at my list and add the current cost of piping and stripping to the shoe. Simple.”

“How do you know there’ll be one and four-ninths yards?”

“Davidoff worked it out for me,” Griff said. “I just told you—”

“I see. Well, check it again with Davidoff, and then look up the cost and insert it somewhere on the card. And then change your figures accordingly.”

“But piping and stripping is not a usual cost on this shoe. Don’t you see…?”

“I see, Griff, but if you’ve taken it this far, I want it taken all the way. Figure out an alternate set of figures for the shoe if it did have piping and stripping.”

Griff sighed. “All right,” he said reluctantly.

“Now this one,” Manelli said, picking up another card. “Pattern A 361.”

“Yes?”

“You’ve got your heel height listed as a 27 on the 103 last. Well, that’s all right. But you estimate cost of the heel covering at.070. That seems low to me.”

“Well,” Griff said, “I got the amount of leather needed from Morris, and then I figured the cost. Joe, all my costs are based on material surveys which come from Morris. He works them out on—”

“Well, check this with him again. It seems low.”

“If you say so,” Griff said impatiently.

“Same for these three. Matter of fact, everything on these three cards seems low to me. Either Davidoff is underestimating the amount of material we need, or you’re undercosting it. In any case, you’d better check.”

“All right,” Griff said, keeping his anger down.

“And on this one, the labor is figured at 2.036. That, I’m sure, is far too high.”

“Sal Valdero works out the labor estimates. He knows just what each piece job will—”

“Then check it with Sal, will you?”

“If this is a question of survey and labor, why not check it directly with Morris and Sal yourself?” Griff asked. “After all…”

Manelli smiled. “Well now, you’re head of the Cost Department, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Griff said dully.

“I hate to be a bother, Griff,” Manelli said, “but these things have to be checked and, well, what’re you gonna do, eh?” He shrugged genially. “Meantime, let me see the other cards you’re working on, won’t you?”

“If I ever get around to them,” Griff said sourly.

On Thursday morning, at nine twenty-five, the blitzkrieg started.

“It’s Dave Stiegman, Griff,” Marge said. “On four.”

Griff lifted the phone. “Hello, Dave,” he said. “How are you?”

“Fine, Griff. You? Listen, on this lucite heel thing.”

“Yes, what about it?”

“I’m going to need Aaron here at Chrysler for the next few days, so—”

“What for?” Griff asked.

Stiegman chuckled. “Well, you know. Busy, busy.”

Griff didn’t know. His brow furrowed.

“So,” Stiegman went on, “I wanted you to know we’re having a sales meeting next week. Tuesday, in fact.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. We’re trying to rush these shoes into the line, and we want to get our men on the road with samples right away, follow?”

“Then we are putting in samples on it?”

“Oh, yes, definitely. Working them up right now, matter of fact. That’s why I’m calling. I should have the samples by Tuesday, and I’d like cost and recommended price from you at the same time.”

“By Tuesday?” Griff asked. “Well, I don’t know, Ed. I haven’t even seen a sketch of the shoe yet.”

“We sent one over to the factory, should be in the Pattern Room now. Why don’t you call down for it?”

“What material are we using on it?”

“Black suede,” Stiegman said. “Griff, I’ve got to hurry. There’s about a million things to—”

“Hold it a minute, will you? What kind of a shoe is it? Is it a new shoe, or a jump-off on an old base?”

“Call the Pattern Room, Griff. It’s number L039. Okay?”

“Sure, but—”

“Griff, I don’t like to press you, believe me, but we’ve got to get a price. Work up an estimate, huh, boy? And while you’re at it, make a list of the established prices for the whole line and ditto a few dozen copies for the men, will you?”

“Well, that part’s simple enough, we’ve already worked out… but this other, Dave. A new shoe, and no—”

“Pattern L039. Call down for it. Griff, I’m as busy as a hound dog chasing flies. By Tuesday, huh? So long.”

Griff hung up and stared at the phone disconsolately. He looked over to Marge’s desk, disappointed because she had left the office, wanting to discuss this with her. He paced the empty office for several moments, and then turned abruptly when she walked in. She looked over her shoulder secretly, rushed to him, and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. Where’d you disappear…?”

“Manelli sent for me. They’ve got new samples on Naked Flesh, and he wants me to go down to the try-on room and model a few of them. Apparently McQuade thinks this is going to be a really big shoe.”

“I keep forgetting you’re a model,” Griff said, smiling. The smile dropped abruptly. “Hey, what am I gonna do for a typist?”

“Oh, I won’t be gone long, darling.”

“I know. But these rehashes Manelli wanted are ready, and I need someone to type them up.”

“Get a floating typist, Griff.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll have to. Are you leaving right away?”

“Manelli said to get down there as soon as possible.” She glanced toward the door and kissed him soundly and then, pulling away weakly, she rolled her eyes and said, “Ohhhhhhh, Mr. Griffin!”

“Hurry back,” he said.

As soon as she left, he called Stan Zibinsky in the Pattern Room.

“Hello, Griff,” Zibinsky said. “What can I do for you?”

“Dave Stiegman tells me Chrysler sent over a sketch on this new lucite heel job.”

“Lucite heel?” Zibinsky said. He paused. “Oh, yep, yep, that one. What about it?”

“Can I have the sketch?”

“Love to give it to you, Griff, but we only got one copy. I’m having some more run off by Production. Soon as we get a couple, I’ll send one up to you. Okay?”

“Well, I’ve got to cost this thing and… how about the paper patterns?”

“Yeah, we made those already. Lemme see now, where the hell did I put that envelope?” Griff heard the rustle of papers. “Somewhere around here,” Zibinsky said.

“That’s L039, right?” Griff said.

“Yeah, that’s what it said. L039.”

“What kind of a shoe…?”

“Griff, I’m pretty busy. You want to stop down for these paper patterns, or what?”

“All right, I’ll be down for them.”

“Good. ’Bye-bye, sweetheart.”

Griff hung up, sighed, and then called Personnel to ask for someone from the typing pool. The girl they promised him arrived at his office less than five minutes later. He was a little more than slightly dismayed when he noticed that she was chewing gum, but he shrugged his doubts aside and handed her the penciled notes he’d made, notes which showed that Manelli’s criticisms had been unfounded.

“How many carbons?” the girl asked efficiently.

“One,” he said, “and please make it neat, will you? These are going to the comptroller’s off—” The phone rang, and he cut himself off.

It was Manelli. He wanted to see Griff at once.

Griff sighed heavily and went down the hallway, and Manelli greeted him with his customary executioner’s smile.

“Griff,” he said, “I’ve been trying to make heads or tails out of these cost cards you’ve been submitting, but I’m afraid the job is a little too complicated for me.”

Griff smiled happily. “I’ve got those figures you wanted,” he said, “and they show the original estimates to be correct.”

“I see. Well, that’s fine. But here’s what I had in mind. It’s a little difficult to get the full picture by seeing only a sampling of these cards as you send them through, do you know?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What I’d like is all the cost cards for the past year.”

“The past year!” Griff said, astonished.

“Yes. Now, it would be positively senseless for me to go through each and every one of those cards, don’t you agree?”

“I imagine it would take you a good month,” Griff said.

“Well, surely not that long. But I’ve got other things to do, eh? So, here’s what I want, Griff. I want you to go through all your cost cards for the past year, and for each pattern I want three things.”

“Three things?”

“Yessir. I want your estimated cost without factory profit, and I want your estimated cost with factory profit, and I want our selling price on the shoe.”

“Joe, that’s impossible,” Griff said. “I’ve got to price this lucite—”

Manelli glanced at the note on his desk. “Oh yes, one other thing. For each pattern I want to list the total pairage sold.”

“Total…?”

“Yes. By account.”

“By account! Joe, for Christ’s sake, it would take me two weeks to work this out. I’m right now in the middle of—”

Manelli began laughing. “Two weeks? Two weeks, Griff? Nonsense, nonsense. Can you have it for me by…” He paused and raised his eyes. “Tuesday?”

Griff stared at him levelly, and Manelli turned his head away.

“Tuesday?” Griff answered blankly.

“Yes.”

“What is this, Joe?”

“What is what?”

“This Tuesday business. First Stiegman steals Aaron and then he asks for—”

Manelli spread his hands wide. “A simple request from your comptroller,” he said. “You can handle it, I’m sure. I’m busy, Griff.”

Griff turned his back and walked out of the office. Everything had suddenly fallen into place. The initial approval-of-cost-cards request, the slight from Posnansky at Chrysler, the skipping of Cost in the redecoration of the ninth-floor offices, the petty horse manure about undercosting of materials and overcosting of labor, the theft of Aaron, Stiegman’s rush demand for prices on the lucite heel pattern, and now this fantastic project Manelli had cooked up.

Or had Manelli cooked it up?

The name began to shape in his mind even before he was fully conscious of its being there. He began to nod his head, his lips pressed grimly together.

McQuade.

Of course, McQuade.

But what in holy hell was he trying to do? If he wasn’t going to let the Guild Week incident pass, why didn’t he simply fire Griff and get it over with? Why all the… pressure?

Pressure. Why, certainly. Pressure was being applied, but pressure for what reason? Was he trying to run Griff into the ground with impossible requests? Or was he trying to get Griff so sore that he’d…

Quit?

The idea astonished him. Could that be it? But why? Why not simply fire him? No, that couldn’t be, no, he was mistaken. And yet… but why in hell…?

No, it simply couldn’t be.

He went back to Cost, his brow knotted. He walked over to Marge’s desk and picked up a sheet the girl from the typing pool had completed.

On the third line, she had typed, “…piping and stripping on L678 Ava Gardner calf, as per our conversation of…”

He looked at the line again. Ava Gardner calf?

“What the hell is Ava Gardner calf?” he asked the girl.

The girl stopped chewing and typing. She looked up from the machine. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m only typing your notes, sir.”

He consulted his notes. In a very clear hand, he had written Avocado calf.

“That’s Avocado,” he said. “That’s a color. Green. Avocado. You’d better retype this.” He paused. “Wait a minute, let me look over the rest of this before you…”

He picked up the sheet again.

“This is supposed to be marvel embroidered linen, not marble embroid… and what’s this?”

The girl looked at the sheet. “Just what was in your notes, sir,” she said loftily. “Center, 2601½.”

“That’s counter,” he said wearily. “Don’t you know anything at all about shoes?”

“I’ve only been working here a week, sir,” she admitted.

“I see.” He made the corrections on the page and said, “Well, retype that sheet, will you? And if there are any other words you’re not sure of, please, ask me.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She resumed chewing and typing.

Griff went to the phone and called Masters in Personnel.

“Fred,” he said softly, “this gal you sent me doesn’t know shoes from Shinola. How about sending someone who’s been around a while?”

“Sorry,” Masters said. “I’m busy as hell, Griff. She’s the only one available.”

“Haven’t you got…?”

“The only one, Griff Smile.”

“Sure.” He hung up and stared at the typist, wondering suddenly if Marge’s call to the try-on room wasn’t all a part of the plot to make things tough for him. Ava Gardner calf! He sighed resignedly and went down to the Pattern Room.

Stan Zibinsky seemed to have forgotten all about L039.

“L039? What? What do you want, Griff?”

“This lucite heel shoe,” Griff said patiently. “Pattern number L039. You said you had—”

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Look, do me a favor, sweetheart, will you? The envelope is on the desk there someplace. Help yourself, huh? Dig it out. It’s marked on the envelope. L039. I’m busy, sweetheart.” He showed Griff the desk, and then left him to wade through the muck and mire of what looked like a highly disorganized operation. When Griff finally located the envelope with the numerals “L039” lettered in blue pencil on its face, he was ready to hurl Zibinsky’s desk together with its contents into the nearest blazing fire. Containing his anger, he opened the envelope and looked at the delicate paper patterns for a moment. L039. He was not familiar with the number. The paper patterns in his hand looked like any of a hundred patterns. A new shoe, and it had to be costed by Tuesday, and priced… oh, hell. He put the patterns back into their envelope, and went down to see Morris Davidoff.

Davidoff kept him waiting outside for ten minutes. When he finally got in to see him, Davidoff was very busy.

“What is it?” Davidoff said. “Griff, I’m swamped.”

“Yeah, I see. I want to work up a cost on this lucite heel pattern with you.”

Davidoff held up his hand in a “stop” signal. “Don’t even take them out of the envelope,” he said.

“What…?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Told you. Swamped.”

“Granted. But Chrysler’s having a sales meeting on Tuesday, and they want price sheets on this…”

“What can I do?” Davidoff said. He was a tall man with a Lincolnesque face and sad eyes. His office was as cluttered with slide rules and measuring devices and charts and graphs as any electrical engineer’s. Davidoff was the man who surveyed a pattern, figuring how much leather went into a certain vamp, how much stripping was needed on a sandal, how much faille was needed to cover a wooden heel. He went about his job with all the secrecy of an alchemist, consulting his charts and his graphs and his slide rules. Griff had grown used to his mysterious methods over the years, but he’d never been able to decipher the mystery completely, even though he worked very closely with Davidoff.

“You can drop whatever you’re doing,” Griff said, “and get to work on this pattern. That’s what you can do.”

“Can’t,” Davidoff said.

“Swamped, I know. Morris, this is important.”

“So is this. I’m working on something for the Hengman.”

“Hengman? What the hell does he…?”

“A project,” Davidoff said sadly, “Always projects when I’m up to my nostrils in other stuff. He says we’re not making enough money on Bare Facts. Now, if there ever was a shoe I surveyed right on the button, that was it. But Hengman says we’re making more on our other sandals, and he wants to know why. So he wants me to work out a detailed survey of material on that shoe as compared to our other sandals. You know how many sandals we’ve made in our history, Griff? That’s why I’m swamped.”

“Morris, this can wait. Chrysler—”

“Hengman wants it by Tuesday,” Davidoff said.

“I see,” Griff said slowly.

“Do you think I’m happy about it, Griff? I swear to God, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect this was just a time-wasting operation that some stupid bastard dreamed up. But can I tell that to Hengman?” Davidoff shrugged helplessly.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Griff asked.

Davidoff shrugged again. “Call Chrysler. Tell them to postpone their meeting.”

“They won’t do that, Morris. The salesmen have to get out on the road.”

“Then call the Hengman.”

“May I use your phone?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Davidoff said.

Griff asked for Hengman’s extension, and then he waited.

“Hello?” Hengman asked.

“Boris, this is Griff.”

“I’m busy, Griffie. What is it?”

“Morris tells me he’s working up something for you, and I need him on this new lucite heel pattern.”

“Griffe dis is assantial. I ken’t pull Morris off what he’s doing now.”

“What’s so essential now about a pattern we’ve been making for years? Can’t it wait?”

“Losing money ken’t wait, Griffie.”

“Are you in on this, too, Boris?” he asked impulsively.

“In on what? What?”

“Never mind. What am I supposed to do meanwhile? How the hell can I come up with a recommended price when…?”

“You the head of the Cust Depottment, or me?” Hengman asked, and then he hung up. Griff stared at the receiver as if he could not believe he was holding a dead line. He dropped the phone back into its cradle.

“Can you stay over tonight, Morris?” he asked dully.

“What for?”

“To work up this cost. If I can’t have you during the day, I’ll have to settle for overtime.”

“Titanic doesn’t like overtime,” Davidoff said.

“Yes or no? If you’re in on the deal, say no, and I’ll work out something for myself.”

“What deal?” Davidoff asked. There seemed to be honest concern and bewilderment in his eyes. “Griff, I’d do anything in my power to help you. But my wife is expecting any day now, and I’m afraid she’ll deliver all over the bathroom floor if I’m not home to take her to the hospital.”

“Oh,” Griff said. He wiped a hand over his face. “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll fiddle with your charts myself. You don’t lock the office, do you?”

“No.”

“I’ll stop in tonight. Thanks, Morris. Meanwhile, I’ll see Sal. Maybe I can work out the labor estimate with him.”

He left Davidoff’s office feeling curiously empty. He had not expected Boris Hengman to turn on him, and it had come like a slap in the face. He realized then just how tight McQuade’s grip of fear was, and the knowledge was saddening.

When he reached Sal Valdero’s office, he was not surprised to find him busy. He waited by Valdero’s desk until he looked up.

“Oh, hi, Griff” Valdero said. “What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble, Sal.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

“Something called L039. It’s the new lucite heel pattern. I need a labor estimate from you, and I need it by Tuesday.”

Valdero was already shaking his head.

“What’s the matter?” Griff asked.

“Tuesday. Everybody wants everything by Tuesday. No can do.”

“Read it to me,” Griff said.

“I’m working out a new piece rate for Mr. McQuade. Planning another raise for the men. He wants it by Tuesday.”

“I see.”

“So…” Valdero shrugged.

“Mardi Gras,” Griff said.

“Huh?”

“Greasy Tuesday,” he answered, and he left Valdero’s office.

He did not once think of quitting.

If McQuade’s building of pressure was intended to force him to quit, it came nowhere near its mark. The thought never once entered his mind. On the contrary, he was determined not to let the pressure beat him, even if he dropped dead trying.

Marge was in the try-on room for the remainder of that Thursday. He suffered the substitute typist’s clumsy abortions all day long, wrangling with Manelli’s cost cards at the same time. He had called Chrysler earlier and asked one of the sales clerks to send over the Pattern Log Book, from which he might obtain the number of pairs sold on any pattern, by account. When the book arrived by messenger, he dropped the cost cards and got to work on the pairage sales.

At quitting time, he went to Davidoff’s office and tried deciphering the charts and graphs, fumbling with the slide rule. He left the factory at midnight, said good-by to the watchman, and went home, no closer to a cost and price estimate than he’d been when he started.

On Friday morning, Marge called in to say she’d be in the try-on room with Naked Flesh all that day, and I love you. He told her he loved her, and then he got to work on the pairage again, working on it all that day. He went to Davidoff’s office after hours and tried again to work through the maze of charts, giving up at eleven. He took his cost cards home with him, jotting down the cost without profit, the cost with profit, the selling price, tallying them on long sheets beneath the pairage sold by account, the information he’d got from the Pattern Log Book. There were thousands and thousands of cards for him to wade through.

He called Marge on Saturday and told her he wouldn’t see her that week end, and then admitted the reason only after constant questioning from her. She was at his apartment within the hour, taking off her gloves and efficiently beginning to transcribe the figures he had jotted down.

They worked steadily over the week end, stopping only for an occasional meal or an occasional kiss. By Monday morning the cost cards were almost finished. The costing and pricing of the lucite heel pattern hadn’t even been started.

On Monday morning Aaron magically appeared at the office, freed from the nebulous Chrysler Building duties. Marge, as was expected, was yanked out of the office and transported to another modeling of Naked Flesh, an intrigue she suffered reluctantly now that she knew what was in the wind. Aaron, blithely unaware of the stress, sat at his desk and rattled on about the lucite heel shoe.

“A beauty, a real beauty, you’ve got to hand it to our Fashion people. Like walking on air, Griff. The sun strikes that shoe right, and you’d never guess there was a heel on it.”

“Yes,” Griff said, thinking, Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Just what do I tell Stiegman when he calls for the prices?

“Glockamorra,” Aaron said, “a honey even when we built it on the 429 last. But with this improved last, and with the lucite heel… say, do you remember Glockamorra?”

“Yes.”

“There was a shoe,” Aaron said proudly. “But picture it with the lucite heel! That’s the difference, my friend. You stick the lucite heel on it, and you’ve got that honey of a black suede and then this clear plastic. Oh, brother, you’ve got a shoe then!”

“Yes,” Griff said.

“They’re calling it Spindrift,” Aaron said. “From Glockamorra to Spindrift. What does spindrift mean?”

“I don’t know,” Griff said.

“But it clicks anyway, doesn’t it? Sort of a drifty, spinny feel to it, like walking on air. Glockamorra on air. Glockamorra with a lucite heel.”

“What?” Griff said.

“Huh?”

“What did you say?”

“I said… how should I know… why don’t you pay attention?”

Griff was on his feet. “Did you say Glockamorra with a lucite heel? Is that what you said?”

“Yes. Yes, I guess so. Hey, what’s…?”

“You mean this lucite heel pattern is just Glockamorra? It’s just that black suede pump with a lucite heel substitute? Is that all?”

“Is that all? Man, it took all our combined brains to shove this thing into the line so fast. The competition will flip when Kahn comes out with—”

“But that’s impossible,” Griff said. “The pattern number on Glockamorra is 537. This one is L039. How come they’re diff—”

“We’re using a new last,” Aaron said. “Improved, better-fitting. And then, of course, there’s the lucite heel. Didn’t want any confusion between Glockamorra and this new baby, so we’re giving it a different pattern number.” Aaron stared at Griff, puzzled. “You mean… you mean you didn’t know this was the same shoe?”

“Then L039 is just a new pattern number for 537? Oh, those rotten bastards! Why didn’t someone tell me?” And then his eyes lighted with the calculations he immediately began to make. “Same cost,” he said, “less the suede heel covering. Slight difference perhaps, because of the improved last, but I can gamble on that. Just substitute the lucite for the wood heel. Same labor, too, unless the lucite heel requires special work. But I can check that with Heeling.” He snapped his fingers. “Where are we buying the heels, Aaron?”

“What?”

“The lucite heels. Where the hell are we buying them?”

“Oh. That was another piece of genius. It took us almost two days to locate—”

“Where?” Griff shouted.

“All right, all right,” Aaron said, surprised by this outburst. “Plastics, Inc. Four thirty-two Madison Avenue. You want the phone number?”

Griff grinned broadly. “Goddam right I want-the phone number!”

He called Plastics, Inc., and talked to a man named Franklin there. Franklin told him just how much each lucite heel was costing Julien Kahn, and Griff jotted down the cost and then went down to the Heeling Department to talk with Baldy Pujaks. Pujaks said no, he could see no reason why the lucite heel should bring more per piece than the ordinary heel would bring the workers. Griff thanked him and went back up to Cost.

He fished the card for the Glockamorra pattern from his files, pattern number 537, a pattern he knew like the back of his hand, oh those rotten bastards, and then he made his allowances for difference in cost between lucite and wooden heels, deducted the cost of the heel covering as listed on the cost card, and then adjusted the total cost to conform, realizing he was taking a very slight gamble because of the new last but certain his estimated cost and price would be damned close nonetheless. He dug out the prices he’d arrived at for the entire fall line, jotted those down under the price for the new lucite heel pattern, L039, L039, God damn it, it was Glockamorra all along, and he was ready to roll. All he needed now was a ditto machine, and there were two of them down in Production.

Pat O’Herlihy was in charge of Production. He was a big red-headed man with a barrel chest and a deep voice. When Griff showed him what he wanted run off, he shook his head.

“I’m sorry, m’boy,” he said.

“What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble a’tall. Except both my ditto machines are tied up and will be tied up all day, I’m that busy.”

“What are they tied up with?”

“Th’ Hengman sent down a flock of notices he wants dittoed. Says he needs them in a hurry.”

“What kind of notices?”

“Here, be takin’ a look at one of them for yourself.”

O’Herlihy led him to the two ditto machines where the girls with their ink-stained fingers were pulling sheets. He picked up one of the sheets and handed it to Griff. It read:

Griff stared at the notice incredulously. “This?” he asked.

“That,” O’Herlihy said. “That and a few dozen others of similar nature.”

“Can’t you run them later?”

“Wants them tomorrow, he does.”

“For July Fourth? Jesus Christ, this is still April!”

“Do I argue with Hengman? Now, what good will arguing with Hengman do me, I ask you?”

Griff shook his head. “When will the machines be free, Pat?”

O’Herlihy shrugged. “When we knock off to go home, I suppose.”

“Thanks, Pat.”

At five o’clock that evening, he and Marge went into the Production Department. They set up both ditto machines and knocked off more than enough price sheets for Stiegman and his salesmen, more than enough price sheets, in fact, for the entire Russian Army.

They went out for a quick dinner, and then they went to Griff’s place where they finished compiling the cost card information Manelli had demanded.

At 9:00 A.M. the next morning, that information was on Manelli’s desk.

And Dave Stiegman was slightly surprised when a messenger walked into the Chrysler Building at ten-thirty and delivered the price sheets he needed for his sales conference.

For the moment the pressure was off.