The Spiked Heel

19

Julien Kahn, Inc.

Chrysler Building

New York, New York

Gentlemen:

The success of “Naked Flesh” is phenomenal!

It’s a beautiful shoe, and a well-built shoe, and your ad campaign on it has been brilliant. Customers are flocking into our shop, buying “Naked Flesh,” and generally purchasing other shoes in your line while they are in the store.

In shot, please accept our congratulations for an excellently conceived and executed maneuver which has briskly stimulated business.

And to back up our flowery praise, we’re sending on an authorization for the largest reorder we’ve ever made on a single pump, in our usual breakdown of sizes.

   Sincerely,

   SAMUEL HALVER

   for Halver House

The letter was photographed and copies run off for salesmen and retailers. McQuade had a copy made and encased in lucite and he hung it in the new marble entranceway to the factory, so that anyone entering or leaving the factory couldn’t fail to see it. It seemed as if McQuade’s fantastic gamble had paid off. Naked Flesh was a big success. It seemed as if the worries of Julien Kahn, Inc., were over. It seemed as if prosperity was just around the corner.

The woman said, “But I’ve always worn 6½AA in your shoes. I don’t understand it.”

The salesman looked at her dubiously. “Well,” he said, “this is a 6½AA.”

“It doesn’t fit,” she said simply. “I’ve wanted this Naked Flesh ever since I saw the ads, too.”

The salesman smiled. “We’ll try 7A, how’s that? Maybe that’ll turn the trick.”

“A 7½B?” the blonde asked. “That’s ridiculous. I wear a 7B. Let me see that shoe.”

“This is the one you asked for, madam,” the salesman said. “Naked Flesh.”

“I want to see the last number inside the shoe,” the blonde told him. She took the shoe from his hand and studied the numbers stamped on the inside. “That’s funny,” she said. “It’s the 1284 last. But your shoes always fit me so well. This one pinches.” She handed the shoe back to him. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to let it go. It’s such a pretty shoe, too.”

The fat lady with the blue hair said, “I took a size larger against my better judgment. It still doesn’t fit. It keeps slipping off my foot when I walk. What’s wrong with this shoe, anyway?”

The chic brunette with the poodle cut said, “I didn’t notice the grain on this shoe until I got home. Why, look at it! It’s disgusting! Am I supposed to pay thirty-seven fifty for that? I’m sorry, but I want my money back!”

The woman in the brown woolen jacket was absolutely furious.

The woman in the brown woolen jacket demanded to see the manager of the store, and when the manager appeared she opened the Julien Kahn shoe box and pulled out a pair of Naked Flesh.

“The sole fell off!” she shouted. “Thirty-seven fifty, and the sole fell off! What kind of a shoe is this? What kind of crooks are you people? I don’t even believe this is a Julien Kahn shoe! Look!” She turned it over. “It doesn’t even have the two dots that Kahn always puts on its soles! I want my money back!”

The manager calmed her down, but not before a half-dozen women in the shop had heard her complaint. He returned her money, and the shoe jockeys regarded the pair of Naked Flesh sourly. A returned pair of shoes meant a lost commission, and Naked Flesh was being returned with alarming swiftness.

Slowly the letters began reaching the Chrysler Building and then the New Jersey factory. Something was wrong with the shoe, the letters said. The fit was bad, and the skin was bad, and there had been complaints about the shoe’s falling apart. It was a shame, the letters said, because the campaign on this shoe had been a tremendous one, but what could the retailer do when shoes were being returned to the shops? What could the shoe jockeys do when women refused to buy a shoe that did not fit the way they expected a Julien Kahn shoe to fit?

Cancel our orders, the letters said.

We are returning our last shipment, the letters said.

Please credit the refund toward our order of Glockamorra, the letters said.

Cancel!

Return!

Refund!

“It’s gung ruin us!” Hengman shouted. “Dey turnin’ det shoe beck like flies! An’ my whole demn fect’ry is fouled up because uv it. When I’m gung to meet deliveries on my udder shoes?”

“There’s a man waiting outside to see you, Mr. Hengman,” his secretary told him.

“Who? What d’hell does he want?”

“He says he’s got a truckful of five thousand lasts outside. He wants to know where you want them.”

“Holy Moses!” Hengman shouted, slapping his forehead.

The man from Titanic was called Harley Ford.

He was six feet two inches tall, and his shoulders were broad, and his eyes were a startling blue, and his hair was a deep black. A thick Southern drawl clung to his voice. He stood by the windows in Manelli’s office, and he spoke quietly, but there was firm conviction in his voice. Griff, sitting in a chair near Manelli’s desk, listened attentively.

“I must say,” Ford said, “that we didn’t rightly look upon Mistuh Griffin’s arrival in Georgia with favor. Nor did I partic’ly enjoy the prospect of a trip to New Juhsey, as chawmin’ as this fair state may be.” Ford smiled. Griff smiled with him. Manelli looked nervous.

“As it’s turned out,” Ford said, “we may still be able to save somethin’ from this mess.”

“You realize, of course—” Manelli started.

“I realize, of course,” Ford interrupted, “that you were mo’ or less actin’ on the orders of Mistuh McQuade, suh, but I also realize that you are the alleged comptroller of this fact’ry op’ration, an’ I’m afraid I don’t look too kindly upon the actions you have condoned.”

“I was only—”

“We’re goin’ to lose a heap o’ money on that Naked Flesh shoe,” Ford said. “That’s all right, because now we know where we made our mistakes. Titanic’s a good comp’ny, a damn good comp’ny. And Titanic is for the workers, and anyone who isn’t damn well doesn’t belong with Titanic. Anybody who’d plow ahead th’way Mistuh McQuade did, against the advice of wiser, mo’ experienced men, anyone who’d deliberately withhold pert’nent information regarding Cost an’ Price, is a man we don’t want around. We’ve already given Mistuh McQuade his walkin’ papers. I’m here t’tell you, Mistuh Manell-ih, that I expect to see some changes made and made pretty damn soon.”

“Certainly,” Manelli said, coughing.

“But tha’s all I’m goin’ t’tell you, Mistuh Manell-ih. From now on, you the comptroller.”

“Yes, sir,” Manelli said.

“Once we clean up this Naked Flesh mess, you’re on yo’ own. And once your record shows you not the man for this job, then you can go to work for some other shoe firm, Mistuh Manell-ih, now is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Manelli said.

“Well, now, I’m certainly glad that’s clear,” Ford said. “When I think what could have happened in this fact’ry if Mistuh Griffin hadn’t had the courage to—”

“Mister Ford, it really wasn’t—”

“All right, Mistuh Griffin, call it what you will. I say it was courage. Nobody else was willin’ to stand up on his own two feet. If you hadn’ta come down to tip us off, I hate to think what that McQuade might have done to this fact’ry. We’re mighty obliged to you.”

“Thank you,” Griff said uneasily.

“I’ll be aroun’ for a few weeks, just seein’ that things are runnin’ smoothly again. I’m not goin’ to interfere with anythin’ that’s going on. I’m simply goin’ t’watch and then I’m goin’ to turn in a report. We got the brains an’ the talent right here to run this plant in tip-top condition. I’m sure you-all don’ need any advice from us Rebels.” Ford smiled. “Unless it’s to put in air-conditionin’. Man, are all the offices as hot as this one?”

“It’s a little warm in here,” Manelli admitted, smiling feebly.

“Well, Mistuh Griffin,” Ford said, “I know you’ll be wantin’ to get that Cost Department of yours back into shape, so I won’t keep you any longer.” He shook hands with Griff. “There’s a few more things I’d like to get straight with Mistuh Manell-ih, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Griff nodded and left the office.

Idly, he wondered how much longer Manelli would last. He did not suppose it would be very long. Manelli was not the man Titanic wanted for comptroller, even though they were giving him a fair chance at the job, now that McQuade was gone. He headed down the hallway toward the old Cost Department, passing Payroll, and then Credit, recalling Harley Ford’s personal assurance that Danny would be back soon.

He saw the COST sign over the open doorway at the end of the hall, and he was momentarily surprised until he realized someone had probably replaced the sign, either Marge or Aaron. To the right of the doorway, he saw familiar placards:

He smiled and went into the dapartment. He saw the new blue carpet and the new desks, and the Welcome Back, Griff sign, and then he saw Marge and Aaron standing near the windows, grinning like two positive idiots. Marge came across the room to him, and he lifted her from the floor and kissed her resoundingly on the mouth, while Aaron stood by, smiling foolishly. It was good to be home again.

Aaron left at five for a dental appointment, and Marge left at six to have her hair set and her nails done, exacting a promise from Griff to pick her up at eight on the button. Alone, Griff worked in the silence of the office, happy to be getting his department in shape again. He was filled with a tremendous sense of well-being, a certain knowledge that now everything would be all right.

At seven he glanced at his watch, finished the task he was on, and hastily left the office. The factory was unusually still, the hot lingering days of August having discouraged overtime. He buzzed for the elevator and Bill the watchman came up for him and took him down to the ornate lobby and then let him out of the building. He started for the parking lot, spotting his car at the far end of the field, lonely and forlorn-looking now that all the other cars were gone.

There was a purple wash in the sky to the west, the first shaded beginnings of dusk. The day’s heat still clung to the air, but there was promise of a cool Septemberlike evening, and a lazy sort of atmosphere hung over the parking lot. He walked through the lot gingerly, hearing the steady cadence of his heels on the concrete. He did not see the man near his automobile until he was almost upon him.

The man leaned against the front right fender, his arms folded across his chest, the last rays of the dying sun catching his hair in a red-gold web. For a moment Griff didn’t recognize him, and then he realized it was Jefferson McQuade.

But… but hadn’t he left already? What…?

“Hello, Griff,” McQuade said softly.

“Hello,” Griff said grudgingly, annoyed by the sudden panic that fluttered in his stomach. The same sort of panic he’d felt a long time ago when he’d been waiting for the then-unknown visitor from Georgia. The same panic he’d felt when he thought McQuade had seen the note he’d left for Aaron. The panic that had stabbed at him after his telephone conversation with Hengman, when he’d looked up to find McQuade standing there. The same panic, he realized, that had attacked him after the Cutting Room hosing, that had left him weak after the inquisition of the Puerto Rican girl. The fear he’d felt that night of the Guild Week party, when he thought there would be trouble with McQuade. The fear, later of losing his job. Fear.

Not a lack of knowledge, not a lack of recognition.

Fear!

The fear he had tried to explain to Marge when the fear itself was not inside him at the time. But the fear was inside him now, and now he could explain it to her, oh, now he could, now afraid would have meaning, now he could explain this fear that seemed to breed itself automatically whenever McQuade appeared.

“I hope you don’t mind my waiting for you,” McQuade said.

He stared at McQuade and said nothing, and his mind went back to what Harley Ford had said in Manelli’s office.

“When I think what could have happened in this fact’ry if Mistuh Griffin hadn’t had the courage to…”

He had interrupted Ford even then because the word “courage” had sounded false to his ears. He knew now that he was not courageous, that some animal instinct for survival had taken him down to Georgia, that he was as much afraid of McQuade as he’d ever been. It was, after all, Harley Ford who had put an end to McQuade. Griff had simply run to the protective skirts of Mother, and Mother had handled the problems of the block bully. Well, the bully was back.

That night on Marge’s fire escape McQuade had become a symbol. But McQuade was not a symbol now. McQuade was a man, and that man stood before him now, and Griff was still afraid, and the fear was a slimy, crawling thing that made him want to vomit.

It was growing darker rapidly. They were alone in the parking lot, and he wondered why McQuade had waited for him, and he found himself beginning to tremble again. They were alone, and darkness was coming on, and it seemed he had been waiting months for this very moment, this terrible moment when McQuade would crush him once and for all.

“I didn’t want to leave without saying good-by,” McQuade said.

“Didn’t you?” He could hear the waver in his voice. He wanted to be inside the car, safe. He wanted to drive away from McQuade and all the evil McQuade represented. He-started to walk toward the driver’s side of the car. McQuade followed close behind him.

“Now that Kahn and I are through,” he said, “now that even Titanic and I are through, I wanted to say good-by. Properly.”

The word properly pierced Griff’s mind. He wet his lips and searched McQuade’s face. He could see the darkness spreading itself in long thin fingers around him. For a desperate moment he longed for the reassuring hum of the factory’s machinery behind him, longed for the hot glow of sunlight.

“I imagine you don’t much give a damn what I think, Griff,” McQuade said, “but remember that I was only trying to do a job, will you? And I did it the only way I knew how. Maybe I made mistakes, but everybody makes mistakes, Griff. You can’t condemn a man for making mistakes, can you?” He paused. Griff unlocked the door and stepped into the car. Quickly McQuade moved around the door, standing so that Griff could not close it.

“What difference does it make now?” McQuade asked. “You did what you felt you had to do, and now I’m out. But I bear no enmity, believe me. I’m big enough to realize a man can’t bear enmity and go on living with himself, Griff.”

In the gathering gloom Griff studied McQuade’s face. He wanted to close the car door, lock it, speed away from the lot.

“Well, I just wanted you to know, Griff,” McQuade said. “And… and I’m glad I waited for you, because good-byes are sometimes all a man has left, do you understand? I know you’re responsible for my being out, but that doesn’t matter. Harley Ford is a good man, and Titanic is a good company, and anything I did… and anything you did… that’s all over now, that’s all water under the bridge, believe me. I didn’t try to hurt anyone deliberately, Griff, no I didn’t. Not even you. And I know you weren’t trying to hurt me. That’s why I can stand here with no malice in my heart and wish you all the luck in the world. I just did the job the way I thought it should be done, that’s all. I hope… well…” He grinned awkwardly. “I hope… well… I hope there are no hard feelings.”

“What?” Griff asked, a little dazed. “What did you say?”

He could see McQuade’s smile in the darkness, a dazzling smile now. And then he saw McQuade’s hand reach out, slowly, tentatively, extended for a final handshake.

“No… hard feelings?” McQuade asked humbly.

He looked into McQuade’s eyes, and he saw no mockery there. For a moment he was puzzled again and then surprised by the eagerness with which he reached out to take McQuade’s hand.

McQuade’s fingers closed on his own lightly. “Thanks, Griff,” he said, still smiling.

And then his eyes tightened, and Griff saw all the filth of Jefferson McQuade in those eyes an instant before his grip tightened on Griff’s hand. The eyes gleamed with naked hatred and frustrated power, and as McQuade’s fingers closed, Griff thought with sick panic, I’ve been fooled again. I’ve learned nothing, nothing.

And then a new realization came to him, and he knew why he had taken McQuade’s hand. Not because he’d been fooled.

Only because he’d been afraid.

Only because he and McQuade were alone in a dark, deserted lot, and only because he was afraid of what McQuade might do to him. He had taken the hand eagerly, wanting to dispense with McQuade once and for all, but now he knew the fear was still within him, and he knew he would never be rid of McQuade until he was rid of the fear.

He remembered the Guild Week party, and the pressure of McQuade’s hand then, and he remembered he had wanted to cry out something then, not knowing what to cry.

He tried to pull his hand back now, but McQuade’s grip was firm, and he felt his knuckles yield to the pressure and suddenly he knew what he wanted to shout. He wanted to shout, “Don’t be afraid! God damn it, don’t be afraid!” and when the words came to him, he tried to put them on his tongue.

They rolled into his mouth, but only a single word escaped his lips, and that word was “Don’t!”

McQuade seemed not to hear him. He saw the horrible look on the Southerner’s face, and in that same instant he felt himself being pulled from the car, his body powerless to stop the pulling force of McQuade’s grip.

McQuade gave a sudden yank, and he toppled from the driver’s seat and onto the pavement, trying to break his fall with his suddenly released hand. The full weight of his body landed on his right hand, and for a second he thought the hand was broken. Dizzily, he got to his knees, and that was when McQuade kicked him.

The foot seemed to materialize out of the darkness, speeding for Griff’s face. He gasped when he saw the foot, and then he tried to bring up his hands to stop the kick, but it was too late. He felt the excruciating agony of the blow, and he fell back against the side of the car, feeling the blood spurt hotly from his nose.

McQuade hovered over him, his fists clenched.

“Get up, you bastard!” he roared.

Griff shook his head, trying to clear it. He saw McQuade stoop, and then McQuade’s fist tightened in his shirt front, lifting, pulling, dragging him to his feet. McQuade struck him, and Griff’s arms flailed back as he slammed into the car again. Again McQuade hit him, and again and again. He felt McQuade’s heavy blows, felt the terrible power of his fists, and curiously he thought, This is it, now it will be all over. He felt as if he were falling for a very long time from someplace very high up, and then his back hit the hard, unyielding substance of the lot, and he lay there breathing heavily, his shirt torn, his nose bleeding, his eyes puffed and swollen.

And then McQuade shouted something different: “Get up, frat boy!”

He did not understand McQuade’s words. He lay on the concrete, watching the Southerner. Strangely, he felt very calm. Strangely, behind his battered face, his mind was functioning quite calmly, and his mind was echoing his own words, and the words said, “We allowed him to grind one man, and once he’d done that, he’d ground us all.”

He sat up slowly. His face ached, and his hand ached, but he sat up slowly, and he looked at McQuade, and he said very softly, “What’s the worst you can do, McQuade? Kill me?”

McQuade grinned. “I like spunky little bastards,” he said, and he reached down for Griff and yanked him to his feet. He swung, and his fist ripped flesh from Griff’s cheekbone, and Griff staggered back a few paces and then stood his ground, planting his feet, clenching his fists.

“That’s what you’re gonna have to do,” he said. “You’re gonna have to kill me, McQuade, do you hear? Come on, McQuadel Come on!” he shouted. “Kill me! Come kill me, you dirty son of a bitch! I’m not afraid of you any more. Can you hear me?”

McQuade charged, swinging wildly, infuriated by Griff’s sudden show of defiance. Griff swung at McQuade’s middle, catching him solidly. McQuade grunted and then doubled over, his arms circling his abdomen. Griff brought his fist up from the ground in a powerful swinging uppercut that caught McQuade on the jaw and opened him up like a jackknife.

The blow hurt. McQuade whirled with a shocked, pained look on his face, and then the shock fled because Griff was swinging again. McQuade saw the punch coming, and his eyes opened wide, and then the fist collided with his mouth, and he backed off and said, “Hey!” involuntarily, and suddenly he was spitting blood, and just as suddenly Griff was hitting him again.

“Hey!” he said again, and Griff pounded at his face, and McQuade shook his head. “Don’t!” he shouted, but Griff would not let up. He had seen something in McQuade’s eyes the moment McQuade had whirled, and he knew what that something had been. He knew because he had recognized it.

Fear.

And so he punched out at McQuade’s face until McQuade brought up his hands in surrender, and then he seized McQuade’s jacket front and began shaking the Southerner, shaking him until his head wobbled back and forth on his shoulders, shaking him as if he would shake the very soul out of him, shaking him with a deadly cold, contained fury until his wrists and his arms ached. And then he pushed McQuade away from him.

“Get out of here,” he said hoarsely. “Get out.”

McQuade wiped the blood from his mouth. He stared at Griff for a moment, and Griff shouted, “Get out!” and then McQuade turned and started off across the lot.

Griff watched. He was suddenly trembling again, but not with fear this time. With sudden clarity he realized that there’d never been anything to fear, and the knowledge amused him. He began laughing, an uncontrolled laughter that was a mixture of relief and happiness and amazement and triumph. But most of all, it was a laugh of self-respect because it was the laugh of a healthy man.

And when his laughter died, he went to his car and backed it around so that it was pointed toward the opening in the gate. His headlights swept the empty lot.

McQuade was gone.

The sky behind the JULIEN KAHN, Fashion Shoes, sign was studded with stars. He looked at the sign, and the stars, and he threw a fast salute as he drove out of the lot.