The Spiked Heel

17

“Naked Flesh,” McQuade said. His eyes were glowing. There was a smile on his face, and he produced the words with the triumph of a man producing a royal flush in a poker game.

Andy Neggler held McQuade’s eyes, trying hard to avoid the contagion of their fervor. He had had people come into his Chrysler Building office with ideas before. It was too simple to get on fire about something, only to have the fire suddenly cool off. Neggler didn’t like holding dead ashes in his fist.

“I want to make it the biggest shoe in our history,” McQuade said.

“We’ve had a lot of big shoes in our history, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler answered calmly.

“None that’ll compare to this.”

“You feel this shoe is really going to catch on, is that right?”

“I know this shoe is going to catch on, Andy,” McQuade said. “I know it’s going to catch on, because I’m going to make it catch on. This shoe is going to be my baby, Andy.”

“Well, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler said, “I don’t know very much about obstetrics, except that some babies are stillborn. There’s no telling what the consumer will go for, and what she won’t.”

“That’s why we have an Advertising Department, Andy,” McQuade said.

“Admittedly. But we could advertise this thing to hell and back, and if milady doesn’t want it she won’t buy it.”

“She’ll buy it,” McQuade said flatly. “It’s our job to make her want to buy it. When we get through with this shoe, she’ll think it’s more desirable than the Kohinoor diamond.

“That’s a pretty optimistic viewpoint. Naturally, Advertising is here to advertise, but—”

“Of course,” McQuade said.

“But,” Neggler continued, unruffled, “you have to realize that we don’t guarantee results.”

“You should,” McQuade told him. “If Advertising doesn’t get results, we need a new Advertising Department.”

“Well, uh, that’s not exactly what I meant, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler said. He studied the man from Titanic carefully. He would have to be cautious now. He would have to watch what he said. “I simply meant that the female consumer is a fickle person who—”

“What’s your usual advertising outlay on any single shoe?” McQuade broke in.

“Well, we don’t usually work it that way, Mr. McQuade,” Neggler explained. “The Cost Department generally works up a tentative budget for the whole line, figuring in our profit, and figuring what sort of an outlay would be feasible for—”

“Julien Kahn no longer has a Cost Department,” McQuade said.

“Well, even so, our job is selling every shoe in the line. To concentrate on one particular shoe… well, that could be disastrous if the shoe didn’t catch on. Here in Advertising, we try to—”

“One big shoe,” McQuade said, “could carry the whole line. And that big shoe this fall will be Naked Flesh.”

“Maybe,” Neggler said. “It depends on—”

“No maybe’s about it. I want it to be the big shoe,” and it’s going to be the big shoe.” He paused. “How many ads do you take in a given month?”

“That’s hard to say. We try to spread them out. If we’re hitting Vogue and Seventeen this month, we’ll hit Harper’s and Mademoiselle the next month. We’ll spot ads in Glamour, Town and Country, oh, anywhere we think the ad’ll pull. We’re trying to sell shoes, you see.”

“I see.” McQuade thought for a moment. “Have you ever hit all of them in a single month?”

“All of them?” Neggler asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, no, we haven’t. That can run into a lot of dough, Mr. McQuade. We’ve got to consider our budget.”

“Hit all of them with Naked Flesh,” McQuade said, smiling.

“You mean… well, what do you mean by all of them?”

“Every magazine a style-conscious woman will read. And the Sunday supplements of the newspapers that get national distribution. And the snob mags. All of them.”

“That can… that can run into a high five-figure advertising outlay for… well, for a single shoe. And in a single month.”

“That’s right,” McQuade said.

“Maybe even six figures. Frankly, I wouldn’t advise—”

“I’m not here for your advice, Andy,” McQuade said.

Neggler studied McQuade for a moment, wondering how best to put his thoughts into words tactfully and still get his department off the hook. “You see,” he started cautiously, “I couldn’t do this without… well, without clearance.”

McQuade smiled. “You’ve got clearance,” he said.

“I mean, well, you know, Mr. McQuade. I mean from Titanic.”

“I mean from Titanic.”

Neggler waited for McQuade to say more. McQuade was silent. Neggler wet his lips. “What I mean is, we’d… I’d have to tell Titanic just what Advertising was going to do.” He tried a feeble laugh. “After all, I can’t just dump buckets of the company’s money into a single appropriation without authority.”

“That’s right,” McQuade said, smiling.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. McQuade?”

“You’ve got your authority, Andy.”

Neggler nodded, accepting this. “What about… what about the rest of our line?”

“Naked Flesh will carry the rest of the line.”

“It may not, you know. It may—”

“It will,” McQuade said flatly.

Neggler smiled weakly. “Whatever you say, Mr. McQuade.”

“I want you to get up some brochures on Naked Flesh, too.”

“Brochures?”

“For the salesmen. I want that shoe photographed in every conceivable position. I want copy on it that’ll make the retailers drool. And I want the copy to stress the fact that this shoe is getting a tremendous national advertising build-up.”

“These brochures can run into a lot of change, too, Mr. McQuade. Especially if you want them in color. In view of the large advertising expenditure, I don’t think—”

“Do it,” McQuade said. He paused, thinking a moment. “There’s one other thing.”

“What’s that?” Neggler asked apprehensively.

“We’ve been giving a two and a half per cent discount to the retailers, that discount to be used for local advertisement, am I right?”

“Yes. We’ve found that we can absorb that loss by the increased volume of—”

“We’ll boost the discount to five per cent,” McQuade said.

“Fi — that’s a… that’s a big chunk for local advertising.”

“It’s not a big chunk,” McQuade corrected. “Not if we can sell this shoe. I want this shoe to hit women in the eye wherever they look. Do they read the Ladies’ Home Journal? All right, I want an ad there. Do they read the Oshkosh Despatch-Courier? Fine! The local retailer will be advertising in the paper, with cuts supplied by us, with monies supplied by our five per cent discount. If this shoe catches on, we may even take car cards in trains and buses. I’m bucking for a landslide sale, can you understand that? I want everyone to know that Julien Kahn is on its feet, and that Julien Kahn is going to push forward from now on. I want Naked Flesh to be the biggest-selling shoe we’ve ever made. I want Naked Flesh to lure those women into the shops, pull them, seduce them into the shops. I want them to buy that shoe, and I want them to ogle the rest of our line, and the rest of our line will take care of itself! Get started, Andy. They’re a lot of people I’ve got to see yet!”

Dave Stiegman sat opposite McQuade, watching him. He felt uncomfortable in McQuade’s presence. No man had a right to be so big or so handsome. No man had a right to be such a powerhouse. A man like McQuade should have had the antitrust law clamped down on him.

“I want you to get copy out to your salesmen,” McQuade said. “I want you to get copy out to them every day.”

“Every day?”

“From now until our ads break in July. I want them goosed every day, Dave, a different way each day. I want Naked Flesh burned into their minds, do you understand? I want them impressed with the fact that this is going to be a big shoe, a shoe they must push. And in order to do that, I want enthusiasm, genuine enthusiasm!”

“Well, Mac, we can’t generate enthusiasm where there is none, you realize that.”

“But there is enthusiasm for this shoe. You saw that at the Guild Week showings.”

“Yes, that’s true,” Stiegman conceded.

“All right, I want that enthusiasm kept red hot. I want these men to pour into the retail shops with the purpose of selling one shoe and one shoe alone: Naked Flesh.”

“What about the rest of our line?” Stiegman asked dubiously.

“They’ll sell that, too, of course,” McQuade said irritably.

“It just sounded as if you—”

“Never mind what it sounded like. I want them to sell this shoe. I want you to get sales notices out to them every day — every day — Dave! By the time our ads break, I want the salesmen and the retailers to be red hot! In short, Dave, I want to see those orders pouring in soon. Damned soon.”

“We’ve got orders already,” Stiegman said, “without any pressure.”

“I don’t call those orders,” McQuade said.

“Why, we got a five-hundred-pair order just the other day from a retail chain. Six stores in the chain, Mac, and that’s a nice order.”

“By the time our ads break,” McQuade said, “I want that chain to have ordered five thousand pairs.”

Stiegman smiled. “That would be nice, sure.”

“Dave, I don’t think you understand me,” McQuade said. “I’m not dreaming. I’m not hoping this shoe will bring in five-thousand-pair orders from a six-store chain. I’m banking on it. It better do what I expect it to do!”

Stiegman considered this for a moment. “Well, okay,” he said, “whatever you say. If you’re expecting this to be such a big thing, though, perhaps you’d best check it with Boris. If we take orders, we’ve got to meet delivery dates, you know. Boris’ll know what the production setup is.” Stiegman paused. “Although Sales usually checked this with Griff. He was a sort of go-between for us, knowing the factory the way—”

“I’ve already told Boris I want to see him,” McQuade interrupted.

“We can only make de shoe so fast,” Hengman said. “I dun’t care, Mec, if this is my Nekkid Gran’mudder, we can still only make it so fest.”

“How fast, Boris?”

“How fest?” Hengman shrugged. “It depends on how many woods we got in de shop.”

“Woods? Oh, lasts. Well, how many do we have?”

“Jost a minute, which lest are we using alraddy on det shoe?” Hengman snapped his fingers impatiently. “Griffie knows. I’ll cull Griffie.”

“Never mind Griff,” McQuade said. “You know the last. Think.”

Hengman thought. “Twelve eighty-four, I think,” he said. “Nekkid Flash? Mmmm, yas, twelve eighty-four.”

“And how many pairs do we have?”

“Twelve eighty-four, det’s d’one. Now you want t’know how many woods we got, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You wait a sacond, end I’ll check in the uffice reputt.” He went to his desk and rummaged through the papers on it, coming up with a dittoed sheet. “Here,” he said. He glanced down the list of figures on the sheet. “Twelve eighty-four, here it is. We got fifteen t’ousand two hundert fifty woods.”

“Those are pairs, am I right?”

“Yas, certainly.”

“That’s fine,” McQuade said, grinning. “We’re turning out three thousand pair of shoes a day now. With a five-day week, that means we can turn out fifteen thousand pair of Naked Flesh each week. And, luckily, we’ve got more than enough lasts.” He kept grinning. Hengman looked at him curiously.

“You kidding me, Mec?” he asked at last.

“Kidding? Why, no.” McQuade frowned. “What makes you think I’m kidding?”

“Wull… I mean, you know we got udder shoes t’make, too, you know det, dun’t you?”

“Of course I know that.”

“So if we turnin’ out tree t’ousand pair a day, det dun’t mean we turnin’ out tree t’ousand pair of Nekkid Flash.”

“Oh.” McQuade’s frown deepened. “Yes, of course. Silly of me.”

“Ulso, we got fifteen t’ousand two hunert fifty pair of the twelve eighty-four lest, but we ain’t makin’ Nekkid Flash alone on dis lest. Mebbe we makin’ twenty udder shoes, too, on it.”

“I see.”

“So we’re lucky d’fect’ry can turn out mebbe two t’ousand pair dis shoe each wik.”

“Unless, of course,” McQuade said, “we begin juggling our lasts around.”

“Mebbe it can be made on anudder lest, mebbe not. In any case, dis’s an expansive muhterial we workin’ wit. D’cutter can only cut so fest. Mistakes can be custly. We like they should take their time wit’ expansive goods.”

“I see,” McQuade said.

“R’member, Mec. It takes six wiks to run a shoe t’rough dis fect’ry. Six wiks. No metter which lest we use. Six wiks.”

“We’ll take the orders,” McQuade said suddenly. “We’ll take the orders and, by Christ, we’ll fill them.”

“We batter fill dem,” Hengman said. “You twenty, thirty days late on a delivery, it can mean d’retailuh’s season is over. You know what he can do wit’ his shoes den, dun’t you?”

“What?” McQuade asked.

“The same ting he’ll tell us t’do wit’ dem.”

“We’ll meet delivery dates, don’t worry,” McQuade said.

“One udder ting I’m warned abott,” Hengman said. “I tink you should warry abott it, too, when you takin’ your orders.”

“What’s that?” McQuade asked.

“D’whole demn fect’ry goes on vacetion July futh.”

Peter Magistro was the leather buyer for Julien Kahn.

Peter Magistro was the man who had purchased the alligator lizard skins for Naked Flesh.

“We’re going to get swamp orders on this shoe,” McQuade told him. “I want you to get out there and buy all the alligator lizard you can get your hands on.”

“I’ll do my best, naturally,” Magistro said, “but—”

“I know you’ll do your best,” McQuade told him.

“But—”

“We’ve got to have the material to meet orders on this shoe. I don’t want any bottlenecks resulting from a shortage of material. I don’t want cutters sitting around waiting for skins.”

“Mr. McQuade,” Magistro said patiently, “I can appreciate the urgent demand, but generally I’m given a little more advance warning. If Sales or Cost expect a shoe to be a big item, they generally—”

“Sales expects this shoe to be a big item,” McQuade said.

“Yes, I understand that. So why didn’t Griff come to me sooner and tell me what we’d be needing—”

“Griff is now working as tracer,” McQuade said. “This matter is not in Griff’s hands.”

“Well, someone should have come to me sooner,” Magistro said.

“I’m coming to you now,” McQuade answered.

Magistro sighed. “Mr. MacQuade, this isn’t a piece of crap leather we’re dealing with. This is alligator lizard, expensive stuff. It’s costing me about twenty-seven cents an inch, and there’s probably between twenty-eight and thirty inches of the stuff in a shoe. It doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

“I didn’t imagine it did.”

“Okay, then you can appreciate my problem. I’ve got to pick out skins that are good, you know. The grain is very important on a reptile. I can’t shop for these the way I’d shop for junk.”

“The skins you’ve purchased so far are excellent.”

“Sure, I know that. What I’m trying to say, you’re not giving me very much time. You expect orders to begin piling up before July first. Okay, so you give me a couple of weeks to pick out a batch of quality skins at a reasonable price. That may not be so easy. You got to remember that a selling price has already been established on this shoe. We can take a beating if those skins cost us too much.”

“The selling price is the Sales Division’s headache,” McQuade said. “We’re operating on a cost-plus basis here in Factory.”

“Mr. McQuade,” Magistro said, “you’ll excuse me, won’t you, but if Sales takes a beating, Julien Kahn takes a beating. Besides, we’re operating on average cost now, aren’t we?”

“Yes.”

“Sure,” Magistro said. “So if these skins go up in price, this single shoe can jack up the average cost a great deal. And then Factory will be in a hole, too. You got to remember, Mr. MacQuade, that Griff worked out a selling price for this shoe on the basis of a normal run. If we get caught in a squeeze, if those skin prices zoom up—”

“Never mind Griff,” McQuade said. “You just go buy your goddam skins!”

There was a baby.

The baby had been conceived somewhere in the mind of a besandaled and besmocked designer when the sperm of imagination sparklingly united with the egg of foresight. The baby was squeezed into life on a drawing board, slapped by the factory obstetricians until it let out an alligator lizard sample yell, and then was held up for everyone to see. There was a party, and the baby was exhibited to all the out-of-towners who had come especially for the occasion. The baby’s relatives passed out cigars and drinks, and the relatives all commented on the baby’s style and grace, and the out-of-towners agreed that this was some baby, that this was a baby built for beauty, comfort, and durability.

The baby was named Naked Flesh.

And somewhere along the line, it had been taken out of the hands of its parents and relatives and adopted by the man from Titanic, adopted by Jefferson McQuade, who promptly pumped the tyke full of vitamins and minerals, taught it to gurgle and then to talk, taught it to walk and then to run, all before the little dear was two months old.

By June 15 the baby had come into its own.

By June 15 the orders began pouring into the Chrysler Building.