The Spiked Heel

15

McQuade was not smiling.

Manelli was smiling, but McQuade was not. McQuade looked as if he had never smiled in his life. Griff sat in the easy chair and watched both men. The office was very hot, and a large electric fan in the corner did not reduce the heat; it only rearranged it. He could see the droplets of sweat on Manelli’s nose, and above that the round circles of his eyeglasses, and below that the small circle of his mouth, opening, opening.

“Mac’s had an interesting idea,” the mouth was saying.

Griff said nothing.

Manelli shrugged, as if the idea were simply too fantastic, something unheard of. “He thinks we can do without a Cost Department.”

The sound of the electric fan was suddenly very loud, and the room seemed hotter all at once. Griff looked at Manelli, and then at McQuade. McQuade raised his head, but his eyes were hooded with a thin layer of ice, and when he spoke he did not address Griff. He spoke to the wall behind Griff.

“I don’t know how familiar you are with the Titanic Shoe setup, Griff,” he said.

He calls me Griff. The son of a bitch hates me, and he has the gall to call me Griff, the way my friends do.

“Not very,” he replied.

“No, I didn’t think you were,” McQuade said. He cleared his throat. “We’ve found, over the years, that once an average cost has been established for a pair of shoes, that cost — with slight variations — can serve as the basis of our operation thereafter.”

“I don’t understand,” Griff said.

McQuade flicked sweat from his brow. He moved majestically, almost as if he first shoved back his crown before performing the simple earthy task of pushing the sweat away.

“It’s really quite simple,” he said. “Let us assume the average cost of a pair of shoes has been calculated to be… oh, four dollars. Using that average cost as our basis, Titanic can estimate its future budget fairly accurately. At least, that’s the way it’s worked for us in our other factories.”

“I see,” Griff said. The room was oppressively hot. He wanted to get out of that room and away from McQuade.

“Oh,” McQuade went on, “the cost may vary five or six cents in any given year, but it still serves as a good starting point, and the five or six cents is really negligible in a large-scale operation.”

“What do you think of that, eh?” Manelli said, smiling.

“Well…” Griff started.

“Joe,” McQuade interrupted, “was good enough to let me see the figures you submitted from your cost card, data for the past year. The figures showing cost without profit, cost with—”

“Yes, I know the ones you mean,” Griff said sourly, remembering the foolhardy job, and still resenting it.

“Very well,” McQuade said, ignoring Griff’s tone. “From those figures, by the simple process of long division, I was able to compute an average cost of any pair of shoes that leaves the factory.”

“Last year’s average cost, you mean,” Griff said.

“Yes, of course.” McQuade scratched his jaw. “It comes to seven dollars and twenty cents.”

“You realize—”

“Our selling price on a pair of shoes varies,” McQuade said. “Sometimes I find the factory making a ten per or even twelve per cent profit, which is well above the six per cent return we normally expect. In other cases, unfortunately, our profit barely comes to two and a half per cent.”

“I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” Griff said.

McQuade folded his hands patiently. “We have now established,” he said, “an average cost of seven twenty per pair. That means that every pair of shoes which went through this factory in the past year cost us exactly seven twenty to make.”

“That’s not true,” Griff said.

McQuade arched one eyebrow. “Oh, isn’t it?”

“No. In the first place, it’s an estimated cost. And in the second place, it’s not a true one. An alligator may have cost us, say, sixteen dollars to make and a sandal may have cost us… well, I don’t know, maybe two dollars… and another shoe may have cost us three dollars. If you add those costs and divide them by three, you’ll get an average cost of seven dollars, but it’s not a true cost.

“Seven dollars and twenty cents, to be specific,” McQuade said, “and no one is inquiring into the truth or fiction of the cost. We are labeling it average cost, and surely you are not disputing the fact that it is an average cost.”

“No,” Griff said, “but it’s still an est—”

“The point is this,” McQuade said. “Once having established an average cost, seven twenty in this instance, the factory could then add its six per cent profit, and it would even be possible to maintain an average selling price which—”

“You mean you’re going to sell an alligator pump for the same price you’re going to sell a sandal? Really, that’s—”

“I did not say that, Griff,” McQuade said. “We will add our six per cent profit to the average cost and then sell every shoe we make to the Sales Division, at an average selling price.”

“The Sales Division?”

“Yes. They will be billed for the shoes, which will remain in our stock room until delivery is called for. We will be paid for the shoes when they are billed. All on paper, of course.”

“I see. But—”

“After that, the Sales Division can put whatever goddam selling price they want to on a shoe. If they want to merchandise an alligator pump at ten cents, that’s their business. But at the end of the year, the factory will be showing a profit, and if Sales is showing a loss, they’d damn well better be ready to account for it.”

“Well,” Griff said, “that may sound all right, but—”

“You will admit that Sales is the logical place for a selling price to be established?”

“No.”

“You think Cost should establish the price?”

“Cost, in cooperation with Sales. Just the way we’ve been doing it.”

“I can’t agree with you. I’ve already sent a recommendation to Georgia, suggesting that Julien Kahn follow the procedure now being used in our other divisions.”

“It won’t work,” Griff said, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“For several reasons. First of all, you’re dividing Sales from Factory. You can’t—”

“They should be divided.”

“No, they should not be,” Griff contradicted. “When Factory is slow, it’s Sales that comes through with permission to cut stock shoes. Why should Sales order stock shoes and then be penalized if they haven’t sold those shoes at the end of the year? Or penalized if they cut the price in order to merchandise them?”

“Factory is not going to be slow ever again,” McQuade said. “We are now cutting twenty-eight hundred pairs a day. We’ll be cutting three thousand soon. After that, who knows? There’ll always be plenty of work, believe me.”

“Except in slack seasons,” Griff said. “Besides, that’s not the most important thing.”

“What is?”

“Your figuring. It’s all wrong. You’ve taken yourself an average cost of seven dollars and twenty cents, based on last year’s pairage. You’ve just now said we’re already up to twenty-eight hundred, and soon we’ll be up to three thousand and maybe higher. Your cost is going to come down when we start making more shoes. It’s come down already.”

“Then we’ll adjust the average cost accordingly.”

“Sure, you can do that. Sure, why not? But it’ll still be nonsensical. This happens to be a fashion house. Suppose the fashion genuises decide that sandals are going to be the big thing next year? We’ll be cutting sandals until our eyes fall out. All right, the labor is higher on a sandal, but the cost of material is practically nil. What makes you think last year’s cost would apply in a year big with sandals?”

“It will,” McQuade said. “It’s worked in our other factories.”

“But what are you cutting in your other factories? Men’s shoes! What the hell ever changes on a man’s shoe? From year to year you’ve got the same damned thing, oh, a few extra gimmicks here and there, but basically the same. So, sure, you can figure so much for your leather, and so much for each operation, and aside from minor rises and drops in pay scale or material prices, that figure will apply year after year. Your average cost will be a working thing. The same damn thing with casuals.

“But this is fashion, fashion! Who knows what’s going to happen next year, or the year after? With women, you never know. They may take to walking in the street barefooted! God damn it, surely you know this for a fact! Who expected skirts to drop in forty-six or forty-seven or whenever the hell it was? Who can predict anything that will happen in the fashion world? I’m telling you that running a fashion house on an average-cost system is pure suicide. You’d be losing money left and right. You’d be losing so much—”

“I don’t think so,” McQuade said.

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Griff said recklessly. He was talking about shoes now, and he was talking about Julien Kahn, and he knew and loved both. “I can go back in our books and show you. We’ve gone back one year already. All right, go back two years and three years, if you like, and you’ll see how the average cost for last year differs from the average cost for the years preceding it, and differs enough to make a big—”

He stopped short, realizing he was about to say “difference” and hating himself for getting tangled up in his own heated discussion.

“You can show me that from your books?” McQuade asked.

“Damn right, I can.”

“Then show it to me.”

“Show…?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Manelli said. “Why don’t you show it to him, Griff?”

Griff glanced sourly at his comptroller.

“Go back to your cost cards,” McQuade said. “You’ve already given me the figures for last year. All right, go back two years, and then go back three years, listing your costs without profit for every pattern we made. Let me have average costs for two and three years ago, costs which we can then compare with the average cost for last year. If there is any appreciable difference…” McQuade shrugged. “I will then send the figures to Georgia, and let them decide.”

“That seems like a lot of work for nothing,” Griff said, beginning to suspect another invented work project, beginning to feel like something of a fool for having stepped into it so easily. “You can take my word for it that—”

“I take no one’s word where it comes to possible loss,” McQuade said quickly.

Manelli smiled. “Can’t condemn a man for that attitude, can you Griff?”

“I’ll tell you frankly what I have recommended, Griff,” McQuade said. “I’ve recommended that the Cost Department be disbanded, its employees transferred to other departments of our operation. I’ve recommended the establishment of an average cost, the addition of Factory’s six per cent profit to that cost, and the sale of shoes on completion to the Sales Division, the transfer to take place on paper. I’ve recommended that Sales be allowed to establish its own selling price, with full responsibility for them.” He paused. “You can see, I’m sure, that if we no longer find it necessary to either cost or price a shoe here at the factory, well, there’s no longer any need for the Cost Department.”

Griff shook his head. “No,” he said. “I tried to explain to you before that our costs are all estimated. In actual production, the cost comes all the way down. If you’re figuring an average cost based on estimated cost, you’re going to have a top-heavy budget. You’ll overprice yourself right out of the competition.”

“You’ll have to prove that to me, too.”

“You mean that actual cost is lower than estimated cost? Oh, hell, that’s a simple production fact. Everyone knows that.”

“Certainly, but how much lower?”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re not interested in a difference of ten cents or so per pair. That wouldn’t strain us, budget-wise.”

“It would come to a hell of a lot more than that, I can tell you,” Griff said.

“How can you tell me?”

“How? By checking the actual figures with Sal and Morris. They’ve got figures which show what every pair of shoes that ever went through this factory really cost us. No guesswork there, Mr. McQuade, none at all. They know what we paid for material, and they know how much material went into each shoe, and they know what the man got for working on that shoe. Why, how do you think we check our estimates?” Against those figures, and we adjust our price accordingly.”

“In that case, we could base our budget on the actual cost for last year,” McQuade said, spreading his hands at the simplicity of the idea.

“But the actual cost for last year won’t be the actual cost for this year,” Griff said wearily. “Not in a fashion house, can’t you see that? That’s why we have a Cost Department. Look, take this Far Eastern brocade we’re working on now. Do you know what that stuff costs? Forty dollars a yard! All right, we’re now figuring our budgets on a four-month basis. Suppose the next four months is going to be loaded with this brocade, and alligators, and lizards, and Sapphire silks. We get those silks from Spain, you know. Do you honestly think your average cost, estimated or actual, will be the same for those four months as it was for the preceding four months? That’s plain lunacy. I never heard of a budget based on—”

“Titanic does it,” McQuade insisted.

“With your goddam men’s shoes and casuals,” Griff exploded. “This is a fashion house! Your Cost Department is the only department that can keep an eye on trends and adjust the budget accordingly. Your budget must be based on what is actually happening. You can’t possibly base it on a crazy figure you took from last year’s books.”

McQuade smiled for the first time, as if he were happy the conversation had swung back to the books again. “Prove it to me,” he said.

Griff sighed. “And if I don’t?”

McQuade shrugged. “My recommendation is already in.”

“I see.” He paused. “You’ll send my figures to Titanic? You’ll let them judge on the basis of those figures?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll get the figures for you.”

“In a hurry, I hope.”

“I’ll need at least two weeks. Even with Marge and Aaron helping, it’ll take at least two weeks. There’s other work to be done every day, too, you know.”

“Oh yes, I know,” McQuade said, his smiling expanding. “But two weeks sounds fair enough. If your figures prove valid, I’m sure Titanic will veto my recommendation. If not…” He gestured limply with one hand.

“What do you consider ‘valid’?” Griff asked.

“A sizable difference between estimated costs over the past three years. And for last year a sizable difference between average estimated cost and average actual cost.”

“And what do you consider a ‘sizable difference’?” “What do you consider a sizable difference, Griff?”

“I’d say anything over ten cents a pair would be a large enough difference to knock your budget all to hell. But I won’t quibble. I’ll give you twenty cents on a pair.”

“That sounds fair enough, Griff. You know, of course, that I’ll have the figures thoroughly checked before sending them down to Georgia.”

“Of course,” Griff said sourly. He raised his eyes, meeting McQuade’s levelly. “And you know, of course, that I’m not talking through my hat, don’t you? You know these figures are going to prove you wrong.”

McQuade smiled. “We’ll see,” he said. “I suggest you get started as soon as possible.”

“I will,” Griff said.

“Well,” Manelli said, sighing and smiling. “Well, now.”

Griff rose. There seemed no need for further conversation. He nodded his head briefly and walked out of the office. He probably would have gone directly past Cara’s desk had he not noticed her face. He stopped abruptly, staring at her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Cara looked up from her desk. Her eyes were wide, and brown… and dead. They were lusterless and dull, emotionless… dead.

“What’s the matter?” he asked again. “Is something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing,” she said.

“You look…”

“I’m leaving Julien Kahn, Griff,” she said. “I’ve already given notice.”

“You are?” he said. “Why?”

She was silent for a long while. Then she said, “I have to.”

“Has Joe been giving you…?”

“No, no, he’s fine. It’s… for myself, Griff. I think… I think this is a dead end; do you know what I mean?”

He watched her eyes. There was no life in her eyes. She seemed to be an empty shell with nothing inside. And then suddenly her eyes clouded, and then they were wet, and he stared at her surprised, wondering what had caused the tears.

“Hey, look,” he said, “what’s the matt—”

“Griff,” she said, “be careful. Please, please be careful.”

“Of what? Hey, come on now. You don’t have to—”

“Of McQuade,” she said, and there was timbre in her voice now, and her eyes sparked momentarily.

“I am careful of him,” Griff said honestly.

“You’re a good guy,” she said, “one of the good guys. Don’t let him destroy you, Griff. He… he can destroy you, you know.”

“Is he the reason…?”

“Promise, Griff,” she said. “Promise you’ll watch yourself.”

“I promise,” he said. He paused. “Listen, let us know where you relocate, won’t you? Marge and I would like to…”

And then he stopped because her eyes had become dead again, and she was not listening to him.

He was not for a moment fooled by McQuade’s strategy, nor was he annoyed with having been taken in by it. Actually, he’d had no choice. He knew that McQuade was wielding a double-edged sword, and he examined each razor-sharp edge dispassionately.

The first edge had been dipped in the oil of despair and then honed with subtlety, a last quiet attempt to force Griff into throwing up his hands in disgusted defeat. Searching back through an additional two years’ cost cards was nothing more than a tedious, back-breaking job. Compiling actual cost for the past year was another thankless task. The tedium and monotony itself would have been enough to discourage most men.

A lesser man, or perhaps even a smarter man, would have said to hell with it. A smarter man, or perhaps even a lesser man, would have conceded to McQuade and left Julien Kahn to plow its own insane road to certain disaster.

But there was still the other edge to McQuade’s weapon, and that edge was a sharp one, far sharper than the first.

Griff was fighting for his job.

McQuade had already made his senseless recommendation to Titanic. The recommendation, if acted upon, would eliminate the Cost Department. Griff did not want Cost eliminated.

If his figures showed McQuade to be wrong, McQuade and Titanic would undoubtedly concede, and the Cost Department would survive, but the flow of stupid requests would not end until Griff quit the job. If he refused to work up the figures, the Cost Department was doomed, and he’d be transferred God only knew where. In either case McQuade would win.

But suicide was not a cheerful prospect, nor was Raymond Griffin the type of man who could put a gun to his own head. And so, doggedly, wearily, almost vengefully, he got to work on the problem of fighting for his job, the job that was his life and his roots.

The idea was a curious one. In his mind, it took on an overwhelming enormity that went beyond the tangible aspects of the problem. He felt, somewhat foolishly, like the last bastion of defense against McQuade’s encroaching army. The picture of a hero standing alone sometimes made him want to laugh aloud, but, amusing or not, he accepted the picture.

McQuade was only one man, a representative of the machine which was Titanic Shoe. He had stepped into Julien Kahn, and he had sweet-talked and bludgeoned and oiled and pressured, but he was only a man, wasn’t he? He was only a man trying to do a job, that’s all. He was only a stationmaster trying to get those trains to run on time. Well, by God, he was succeeding. The trains were running jim-dandy now what with all the factory changes. There was just one funny thing: nobody liked riding the trains any more.

It was sure a funny thing, all right. Hadn’t Titanic done everything possible for the workers? Raises, sanitation, safety, comfort, leisure? Hadn’t Titanic magnanimously showered all these wonderful things on the populace of Julien Kahn?

But beneath the smooth running of the trains, beneath the slick, streamlined metal and the smoking cars and the shining new rails and the clean depots, there was an unspoken fear: no one wanted to get run down.

Griff was no exception. With calm, saddening resignation, he realized that he was no exception.

There was something frightening about that rushing sleek steel monster. He did not want to be run down.

But he did want his job.

Doggedly, wearily, almost vengefully, he got to work.

“Pattern number 73–41,” Davidoff said.

“Seven three dash four one,” Griff repeated.

“Last 601 J.”

“601 J.”

“Upper materials. Suede, .143. Pair, 1476. Unit, .90. Pair, 1.318.”

“Got it.”

“Calf, 134. Pair, .1474. Unit, .98. Pair, 1.445.”

“Check.”

“Lining, sock, .45. Pair, 504. Unit, .26. Pair…”

“Tape,” Marge said.

“Point zero zero six,” Aaron replied.

“Thread.”

“Point zero five zero.”

“Cement.”

“Point zero zero five.”

“Nailheads…”

“Cutting,” Valdero said, “.185.”

“Check.”

“Prefitting, .089.”

“Check.”

“Fitting, .827.”

“Check.”

“Assembly, .016.”

“Check.”

“Stockfitting, .078…”

         .206…

           .036…

             1.001…

           .703…

         .225…

    1.289…

    2.307…

    1.006…

    ———

    4.602

   .118  .1357  .45  .611

   .120  .1310  .26  .024

    ⅜″ d.f.   2½ yards lin.

    (SEE LIST)

Pat. 2.633

Calf 2.688

Suede 2.703

      Total Upper Materials

       Total Other Materials

           Total Materials

           Total Factory Overhead

            Total Factory Cost

silk

  faille

    linen

      brocade

        lace

          alligator

            lizard

              sapphire

                black snake

      brown suede & calf combination

     sport rust cobra

    green cobra

      white cobra

       purple cobra

        red cobra

         red and black calf

             1.418

             1.445

              .833

             1.445

              .131

              .611

              .037

              —

              .120

              —

              —

              .450

              .100

         ———————

         1234567891011121314

            123456

               78910

                 1234567891011

    suede and calf and patent leather

  recapitulation and elements of cost

   and selling price and profit and loss

     and upper materials

      and reserve

       and other materials

        and reserve

         and direct

          labor and

         shipping

          expense and

           selling

            expense and

       advertising expense and administrative

      expense and executive expense and

     discounts on sale and provision for returns

    and provision for expense and expense

   and expense and expense and

       .01 and

      .02 and

     .03 and

    .04 and

  five and

   six and

  seven and

  eight and

     9

      10

      11

      12

      13

      15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, Saturday,

  Sunday, monday, monday.

Monday, Tuesday, May 25, Wednesday, Thursday, friday Friday FRIday FRIDay FRIDAy

“You can see the figures for yourself,” Griff said. McQuade glanced at the rows and rows of figures. “Yes,” he said.

“Our average estimated cost for last year was seven twenty, as you said it was. Now take a look at what we’ve totaled as the actual cost for last year: six seventy-one. That’s a difference of forty-nine cents between estimated and actual. Can you see now why a budget based on estimated would ruin us?”

McQuade did not answer.

“Forty-nine cents a pair!” Griff repeated, hoping to evoke some response. “Figure that on the basis of seven hundred thousand pairs a year, and you’ve got a difference of almost three hundred and fifty thousand dollars!”

“I’ll have to check the figures,” McQuade said.

“Sure,” Griff answered. “And look at these estimated cost comparisons. Last year, as you know, seven twenty. Year before last: seven fifty-seven. That’s a thirty-seven cents’ difference. And the year before that: six ninety-two. Twenty-eight cents’ difference. Even if actual cost weren’t lower than estimated, you’d still have this variable estimated to contend with.”

“I’ll have to check the figures,” McQuade said, his eyes never leaving the sheets. “I’ll do that over the weekend, and then get them off to Titanic. Titanic will take whatever action it sees fit.”

Griff smiled triumphantly. “I’m sure it will,” he said.

On Wednesday, June 2, a wire arrived from Titanic.

It was addressed to Jefferson McQuade at the New Jersey factory of Julien Kahn, Inc. McQuade read the wire and then went into Cost and put it on Griff’s desk.

The wire read:

Griff could not finish the wire.