The Spiked Heel

2

The call from Boris Hengman came at one o’clock that afternoon. Griff said, “I’ll get it, Marge,” picking up the receiver. “Cost,” he said. “Griffin here.”

“Griffie?” Hengman asked. “Is dot you, boy?”

“Hello, Boris,” Griff said, smiling at the thick accent which was mimicked all over the factory. The accent, coupled with Hengman’s spasmodic outbursts of temper, had earned him the nickname “The Hengman.” The term was sometimes used affectionately and sometimes not so affectionately. Hengman was the factory supervisor and as such could really play the hangman whenever he wanted to.

“Griffie, you busy maybe?”

“Not too,” Griff said. “Can I help you, Boris?”

“Can he halp me?” Hengman said to himself. “Can he halp me, he esks. Griffie, you know dis Titenic Shoe?”

“Yes,” Griff said. “What about it?”

“What abott it, he esks. I got now here in d’ottside office a young men from Titenic. All the way from Gudgia, he comes. He says he’s gung be here for ah while, and he wants I should show him ahround d’fectory. Meshugah.”

“From Titanic, you say?”

“Sure, what alse? So my hends are tied, Griffie. I got work here up to my ess, and here comes a snotnose from Gudgia, I’m supposed to drop ever’ting and snep to attention. Dis I ken’t do at d’moment.”

“So?”

“So who knows d’fectory like nobody’s business, I esk myself. Who stotted in d’Shipping Room end worked opp his way, I esk myself. Who’s d’ideal men for dis partic’lar slop detell?”

“Who indeed?” Griff said sourly.

“Raymond Griffin, dot’s who,” Hengman said. “So I’m sanding him opp t’ you.”

“Thanks a million,” Griff said.

“He nids, also, office spess. So I’m thinking maybe you end Erron you could maybe mekk room for him in your office while he stays here, okay, Griffie?”

“How long will he be staying?” Griff asked.

“Do I know? Does anybuddy tell me notting? I’m gung cull Chrysler soon as I get off d’phone with you. Den I’ll see what dis whole ting is abott, you follow me, Griffie?”

“I follow you,” Griff said. “What’s his name?”

“Who? Oh, this Gudgia guy. McQued.”

“Who?”

“McQued. Jafferson McQued.”

“Jefferson McQuade?”

“Sure, dot’s what I said. Be nize to him, Griffie. Dis is Gudgia end Titenic we’re dealing with, you follow?”

“I follow.”

“I think maybe he snoops ahround ah little end then goes back don South, let’s hope so.”

“When’s he coming up?” Griff asked.

“I’ll sand him right ahway. Be nize, Griffie.”

“I’ll be nize,” Griff said.

“Good boy. You’re ah good boy, Griffie.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll cull Chrysler. So lung.”

“So long,” Griff said, hanging up. He stared at the phone disconsolately, and then shrugged. He had grown used to these tour requests from Hengman. Whenever a class of squealing high-school fashion students came to the factory to “see how a fashion shoe was made,” the guiding job was passed on to Griff. True, he probably did know the entire factory operation better than any man working for Julien Kahn. In his slow rise to head of the Cost Department, he had worked on almost every floor of the building learning the business from top to bottom as the Kahns tried to find him a niche suited to his talents. He had even worked in the Sales Offices for a while, making him unique in that he understood the selling end as well as the problems of production. The job that had taught him most about the operation had been that of tracer. He’d worked directly for Hengman, checking the production-schedule control board against the actual production of the shoes. He’d rushed from floor to floor, pushing priority shoes through the factory, finding out why a particular lot had not yet left Lasting, or why another lot was still in the drying machines, learning each step of the process as he went along. If Raymond Griffin knew nothing else, he damn well knew how a shoe was made.

But squiring a batch of shapely virginal high-school girls through the building (amid whistling and catcalls from the men working the machines) was a little different from showing around a Georgian representative of Titanic Shoe Corporation of America. He realized abruptly that he knew very little about Titanic, and he suddenly wondered why they were sending up a man, and so fast on the heels of G.K.’s department. He knew the Georgians had infested the Chrysler Building suite, but somehow he had not expected them to bother with the factory. He realized this was faulty reasoning, because he knew the heart of any company was the manufacturing end, but he had deluded himself up to now, and he felt a strange sort of panic while awaiting the Georgian.

He wrangled with his thoughts and decided he was making a mountain out of a molehill. This would probably be, as Hengman had suggested, a short inspection tour, after which Jefferson McQuade would sneak back down to the land of the Dixie Cup.

He calmed himself, and then his panic instantly returned when he heard footsteps down the hallway. He began straightening his desk, and Marge glanced at him curiously, and he wished Aaron were in the office, where the hell was Aaron, and then Benny Pollack walked in.

“Oh,” he said, sighing, “hello, Benny.”

“Hello, handsome,” Benny answered. Benny was foreman of the Lasting Department, a job which required infinite patience and skill. He came into the office wearing his shop apron now, smelling of the compo cement which smothered the atmosphere in his end of the building. Benny, even though his last name was Pollack, was called Benny Compo by everyone in the factory.

“So what’s on your mind?” Griff asked, glancing at the door.

“Nothing. I stopped next door to pick up my pay envelope, and I thought I’d drop in to say hello. What’s the matter, you antisocial?”

Griff smiled. Foremen, unlike the workers who were paid right on the factory floor where their envelopes were distributed by a policeman-accompanied young lady, came directly to the cage in Payroll for their weekly salaries. He had grown used to Benny Compo’s visits, but now, expecting the Georgian, he looked at Benny uneasily, and then he glanced again at the open doorway.

Benny caught the glance. “You expecting someone?” he asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Someone important?”

“From Georgia,” Griff said, nodding.

“Titanic?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Benny thought this over a moment. “Well, I’ll take off then, huh, Griff? Titanic, huh?”

“Yop.”

“Mmm. Well, I’ll see you, Griff.”

He smiled and waved, backing out of the office and almost colliding with the man who stood in the doorway. Benny mumbled something hastily, and then fled down the corridor. The man in the door frame smiled and then looked into the office inquisitively.

He was certainly the most impressive-looking man Griff had ever seen. He filled the door frame with his body, making Griff feel short, somehow, even though he knew he stood at an even six feet. The man was at least six-four, magnificently built, wearing an oxford-gray suit that seemed inadequate across the breadth of his shoulders. He was the kind of man Griff automatically pictured in dungarees and T-shirt, hauling in sail on a yacht, laughing at the sun, his muscles rippling with sinuous grace. He had straight blond hair, bleached brighter by the sun at the left-hand part, combed simply to the right with no attempt to conceal its straightness, no bid for a frivolous pompadour or fingermade wave. His face was lean and tanned, with high bronzed cheekbones and a narrow mouth, a straight nose rushing up to meet blond eyebrows and steel-gray eyes. A white button down shirt went with the gray suit, and a silk gold-and-black striped tie was pinned to the shirt with a small gold fleur-de-lis clasp.

Griff had never given much consideration to his own looks. He knew he was not handsome in the movie-star tradition, and there were mornings — when a thick beard came between him and his mirrored reflection — when he considered himself downright ugly. He knew he had black hair and brown eyes, and he knew that his nose was straight, and he sensed that his mouth was fairly decent as mouths went, with perhaps too thin an upper lip. He weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and he’d have liked to weigh a hundred and ninety or so, but he’d always felt comfortable in his body, and he’d never been really unhappy with his face.

The man standing in the door frame, though, made him feel suddenly inadequate. The man standing there was a toothpaste ad, and a body-building ad, and a well-dressed man ad. The man standing there looked as if he’d be equally at home with an elephant gun or a martini glass in his hands. He blotted out the door frame, and he blotted out the corridor beyond the door, and he damn near overpowered the office with sheer physical strength.

“Mr. Griffin?” he asked.

There was just the faintest trace of a Southern accent in his voice, not a distortion of speech at all, simply a mellowing of tone, a softening of delivery.

“Yes,” Griff said, rising, wanting suddenly to make himself taller. “I’m—”

“Jefferson McQuade, sir,” the man said, smiling and stepping into the room. He walked to Griff’s desk, taking the long graceful strides Griff had always associated with baseball players. He extended his hand, taking Griff’s hand in a firm, warm grip. “I’m very happy to know you, sir,” he said.

“How do you do?” Griff said pleasantly. Marge had looked up inquisitively from her typewriter, and she kept staring at McQuade now, her lips slightly parted, as if Apollo had magically appeared in a burst of sunlight. Griff wondered about the protocol of the situation. Did you introduce a typist to the Titanic representative? He worried his lip for a moment and then said, “Marge, this is Mr. McQuade. From Titanic Shoe in Georgia. Mr. McQuade, Marge Gannon.”

“How do you do?” Marge said, still overwhelmed by his presence.

McQuade smiled graciously. “Happy to know you, Miss Gannon,” he said. ‘He made a very slight bow from the waist, which somehow did not look silly on him. He straightened up then and said, “I certainly hope I’m not interrupting any important work. I know what a nuisance visitors are, and I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“No, not at all,” Griff said. He was beginning to feel a little more at ease. McQuade generated an easygoing warmth and politeness which was infectious and thoroughly pleasing.

“Well, that’s awfully good of you, Mr. Griffin. You lie very graciously.” He smiled again, his lips pulling back over dazzling white teeth. Griff returned the smile, suddenly liking McQuade. “I wouldn’t have troubled you, really, but Hengman tells me that you probably know the factory better than he does, and I certainly appreciate your willingness to make me feel at home. Everyone in Mr. Hengman’s office was very kind to me.”

“Well…” Griff said, not knowing what else to say, wondering why McQuade played the role of the poor relation. Didn’t he know he was the man from Titanic? Didn’t he know every courtesy would most naturally be extended to him?

“I rather imagine,” McQuade said, as if he were reading Griff’s mind, “that there’s been a good deal of anticipation here since the merger. We prefer to think of it as a merger, Mr. Griffin, a consolidation, rather than a… an invasion, so to speak.” He smiled, as if talking about this were painful and embarrassing. “Titanic Shoe is… well… something like a bridegroom, and this merger with Julien Kahn is a little like taking home a bride, do you see?”

“Yes,” Griff said, smiling.

“So,” McQuade said, spreading his tanned hands, “to make a long story longer, there really should be no anxiety here in the factory. We all work for Titanic now, you and I, everyone, and I can assure you it’s a wonderful outfit. For the most part, things will go on running here just the way they’ve been running. As a matter of fact, there’s quite a bit we’ll have to learn from you people who are actually running the factory. After all, this is our first venture into the fashion world. Up to now, we’ve done mostly men’s shoes and casuals. We’ve done our job well, but this is a totally new experience for us.” He paused, smiling. “End of commercial.”

“Well,” Griff said, “I’m sure you’ll find it—”

“In other words,” McQuade interrupted gently, “I’ll try to get underfoot as little as possible. Mr. Hengman said you might give me office space, and anything you can dig up will suit me fine. One of these desks, perhaps.” He looked around the office, and then pointed. “Is that one occupied?”

“Oh, that’s Aaron’s,” Griff said.

“Aaron?”

“Aaron Reis, my assistant. He’s out of the office right now.”

“I see,” McQuade said. “Well, any desk will do.” He smiled genially. “I see there are only three desks, though. I feel something like an unexpected guest for dinner.”

“I think we can get one in from another department,” Griff said. “Marge, do you think that could be arranged?”

“Yes, certainly,” she said. “I’ll do that right now.”

“Well, there’s no great rush,” McQuade said.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Marge answered. She swung her legs out from under the desk and then started to say, “Oh da—” cutting herself off before she finished the phrase, but not cutting off the quick motion of her hand which pulled her skirt back over her knees. She studied the sleek smoothness of her nylons, and then smiled up at Griff. “Just lucky,” she said. “Thought sure I had a run.”

McQuade glanced at her legs cursorily, and then turned away in seeming disinterest, as if good legs were flashed at him all the time. “You might try some scotch tape on the kneehole of the desk,” he suggested pleasantly. “Around the edges. It covers splinters.”

“Why, thank you,” Marge said, smiling at him. She left her skirt up over her knees for a moment, and then shoved it down and stood up, trotting past McQuade and out of the office, her high heels clicking. Griff noticed the exaggerated swing of her backside, and he was momentarily surprised. He had not, before this, attributed any particular amount of sexuality to Marge. He knew, of course, that she was a woman, and he knew about her legs, but he and Aaron — like a pair of Roman senators with the Venus de Milo in their garden — had more or less grown accustomed to the splendor. On the other hand, he had never seen Marge wiggle her bottom with such determination, and he mentally stacked up his own attributes against those of Jefferson McQuade, forced finally to admit that Marge hadn’t had any real incentive for buttock jiggling before this. He lessened the shock of comparison by telling himself that Marge was a smart girl who knew how to butter a slice of bread. McQuade was a most nutritious slice, no denying it, but he was also a representative of Titanic Shoe. Titanic was now boss. If there was the slightest possibility of someone being able to put in a good word for Marge’s gams, Marge wasn’t going to let that possibility pass by without having exhibited her ankle and calf and knee, and perhaps a little bit of her shapely thigh.

“Well, if you want to take a look at the factory,” he said, “why don’t we get started right now?”

“If you’ve nothing important—” McQuade began.

“No, nothing at all,” Griff lied, thinking of the orders covering six thousand pairs of shoes on his desk, orders waiting for pricing, unable to go into production until he priced them. “I just want to leave a note for Aaron, though, so he won’t think I’ve absconded with the company’s funds.”

McQuade smiled. “Surely.”

Griff took a memo slip from his desk. The memo carried an inscription which the stationery buyer undoubtedly felt would humorously spur on the staff to greater productive efforts. It read: ALWAYS SAY KAHN. NEVER SAY KAHN’T. Beneath the inscription, he scrawled: “A man from Titanic is here. Showing him factory now. En garde! Griff.”

He put the note under the inkwell on Aaron’s desk, and then said, “All right, let’s go.”

“Fine,” McQuade said. “I really appreciate this.”

They walked to the elevators, and after Griff had pressed the DOWN button he said, “Two elevators here, passenger and freight. We use both in the morning when the factory people are all arriving, and at night when they go home, to handle the rush.”

“I see,” McQuade said.

“Otherwise, the freight elevator handles the racks that are constantly moving from floor to floor. We’re on the ninth floor now, and all our offices are up here, except Mr. Hengman’s. His is down on the fourth floor, as you know.”

“Yes,” McQuade said.

“The actual factory begins on the eighth floor, and that’s where our operation begins, too, working its way down to the ground floor and the shipping platform. Well, you’ll see as we work our way through.”

“Slow elevator,” McQuade said, almost to himself.

“What?”

“The elevator,” McQuade said. “Does it generally take so long for…?”

“Oh,” Griff said. “Oh, no, not usually.” He stabbed impatiently at the DOWN button. “No, this is very unusual. There must be a holdup on one of the floors.”

“I see,” McQuade said, and then he smiled disarmingly.

“I’ll show you the Cutting Room first, because that’s where the shoe is started. Understand, of course, that these are not actually ‘rooms’ in the generally accepted sense of the word. That is, there are no walls enclosing any one operation — except for the Leather Room and the Repair Department.”

“Yes,” McQuade said thoughtfully. “I’ve… ah… been in factories before.” He grinned boyishly. “Titanic owns quite a few of them.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t know how much you knew about… here’s the elevator now.”

The doors opened, and they stepped inside.

“Eight, Max,” he said, and Max nodded and looked at McQuade quickly, and then closed the doors just as quickly.

“No uniforms?” McQuade asked.

“Sir?”

“Uniforms. On the elevator operators,” McQuade said, his eyes looking surprised.

“Oh, no,” Griff answered. “The elevators are all run by the Maintenance Department, Mr. McQuade. We… well, this is a factory. I mean… did you mean uniforms? Gold braid and such?”

“I suppose it is a somewhat stereotyped idea,” McQuade said, smiling at his own foolishness.

“Well,” Griff said, liking McQuade more and more, “There’s really no need for such pomp here, you know. The Sales Offices are a different thing.”

“Yes,” McQuade said, nodding.

Max threw open the doors and said, “Eight, Mr. Griffin,” and Griff looked at him peculiarly, but Max did not crack a smile. McQuade stepped out onto the floor, and Griff followed.

There was suddenly activity everywhere around them. There had been a quiet buzz in the elevator, the pulse beat of the factory, but that buzz became a rush of sound as they stepped onto the floor. Stretching across the floor as far as they could see were sewing machines, and behind each machine was a girl working quickly and busily. The sounds on the floor mingled, the hum of machinery and the hum of voices, the hum of activity and rush. Racks on wheels, looking like mobilized bookcases, stood alongside each machine, stood near the elevators, stood haphazardly scattered across the floor,’ forming barriers at some spots, impassible dead ends, long narrow corridors elsewhere. Each rack carried stacks and stacks of cut leather and fabric, rubber-banded together and tagged with white or pink slips.

“This is Prefitting,” Griff explained. “I want to show you the Leather Room first, and then the Cutting Room. We’ll come back to this later. Want to follow me?”

“All right,” McQuade said. An excited look had come into his eyes, igniting the gray. The excitement spread to his mouth and even to his shoulders. He licked his lips briefly, took a last look at the sewing machines, and then followed Griff, unaware of the head turnings and sudden conversation at the sewing machines behind him.

“After a shoe is priced,” Griff said over his shoulder, raising his voice in competition with the sudden bustle, “Production makes out a ticket on it. We call this the work ticket, and it outlines every operation that must go into that particular pair of shoes, the leather needed, the fabric, the buckles or trim, the piping; in other words—”

“Every single pair of shoes gets a work ticket?” McQuade asked. Griff looked at him, seeing his excitement.

“No, no, every lot does,” he said. “A lot is fifteen pairs.”

“Yes, I know,” McQuade said, swiveling his head to look at one of the sewing machines.

“A run is something else again,” Griff said, not at all sure that McQuade did know. “A run can be any number of lots, do you see? But every fifteen pair of shoes must have a different case number. A fifteen-pair lot will be numbered, hypothetically, three hundred dash six twelve. The next fifteen pairs will all be numbered three hundred dash six thirteen, do you see? Every factory last has a number, and every shoe we’ve ever made has a style number. But the case number is the important thing. Given the case number, we can trace any shoe this factory ever made.”

“I see,” McQuade said, nodding.

“The Leather Room is up ahead here.” He led McQuade past the benches and benches of cutters, benches against the windows, and benches flanking aisles. At each bench, a man worked busily.

“These men are all pieceworkers,” Griff explained. “That’s why they rush so. They do a good job, though. Here’s the Leather Room.”

He stopped in the doorway where a wire grille partition divided the Leather Room from the Cutting Room.

“The leather and fabrics come up here from our big leather room on the main floor. You’ll see a lot of pastels and patents and fabrics right now because we’re still cutting our spring line. Naturally, you see some of those all year round because we’re always doing resort work, too. But you won’t find, for example, much alligator or lizard at this time of the year. Those are mostly fall and winter wear, and we won’t be cutting those for a while yet.”

“Of course,” McQuade said, standing in the doorway, his wide shoulders almost touching either side of the frame.

“These boys you see,” Griff went on, “are getting the materials for the cutters. When the work ticket comes down from Production, it indicates just what materials are to go into the shoe. Here, I’ll show you.” He reached out and caught one of the runners by the elbow. “Jimmy,” he said, “may I see that ticket, please?”

“Yes, Mr. Griffin,” the boy said and then he glanced quickly at McQuade, his eyes wide. McQuade smiled at him, and the boy seemed to regain some of his composure.

“See,” Griff said, “this is a work ticket.” The ticket was a pink card. “Everything is copied onto this ticket from the original order blank our territory salesmen sent in, after I price the order, you understand. Here, take a look at it. Up here in the left-hand corner, the pairage: fifteen. That means there’s only one lot in this particular run. Pattern, well, this is the pattern number, Mr. McQuade, I’ll show you how that’s utilized in a moment: 4517. And right here is the date: 2/26. That’s today, the day we start production on this run of shoes. And here’s the last number, and the style number, and stamped here in the right-hand corner is the case number, 363–201, and alongside that, the price of the shoe, thirteen seventy-five. That’s only half the ticket, you see. The other half has all the operations listed in detail, and each piece-worker clips off the section of the ticket pertaining to his operation and saves it. He turns those in to his foreman, and he gets paid on the basis of the number of tickets he’s clipped, each ticket representing so many cents. The Payroll Department tallies that. When this ticket finally comes back upstairs to me, I’ll see only this half of it. The other half will have been clipped away as the shoe progresses through the factory. Do you understand?”

“This left-hand side will survive,” McQuade said, “is that it?”

“Yes, yes. Now, look here at this left-hand side again. Beneath the information we just read, we have this information,” and he held out the card:

McQuade looked at the space on the ticket.

“This is information for the Leather Room primarily. When they see this, they know the cutters will cut a vamp and quarter from Peking Blue shantung. The ‘eight hundred sixty-one’ is just our house number for the fabric. Every material we use has a house number. Clear?”

“Very,” McQuade said, smiling. “You really do know the factory, don’t you, Mr. Griffin?”

“Well,” Griff said, smiling modestly. “Here now, right under that, it says the following:”

“I see,” McQuade said, studying the ticket.

“This just tells them what materials to cut for the inside of the shoe. The lining will be white, with a leather vamp lining. The backstay…” Griff paused. “You know, I’m talking as if you know what this is all about, and perhaps making playshoes and men’s shoes is entirely different — even in terminology. Shall I give you a rundown?”

“If you like,” McQuade said.

“Well… let’s see, hardly know where to begin. The vamp. Picture a shoe, and then divide it in half, across the instep. The forward half, where your toes are, is the vamp. From there back and around the heel is the quarter. The section where the instep is, we sometimes call the shank because… oh hell, I imagine it’s the same with all shoes.”

“Well, more or less,” McQuade said vaguely.

“I was telling you about the backstay. It’s a piece of leather put into the quarter. That keeps the shoe on the foot, in addition to the counter.”

McQuade blinked.

“There’s something you wouldn’t know about in casuals,” Griff said. “A counter. It’s just a hard piece of leather which is put into the shoe so that the quarter hugs the foot, and the shoe won’t stretch and slip off after a few wearings. You’ll find a counter on each side of the quarter of any quality shoe.”

“Thank you, sir,” McQuade said, executing a small smiling bow.

Griff smiled, too. “Not at all. Here, back to the ticket again. This tells them which sock lining to cut, and here are the pattern numbers to be pulled for cutting vamp and quarter, and vamp-and-quarter fleece, and… oh, everything’s on this ticket; see, here are the instructions for the Fitting Department, ‘Grograin binding on vamp and quarter,’ with ‘Trade accessories number thirty-two-B midnight blue,’ that may be a little bow or a sprig of flowers or a bell or whatever-the-hell; well, I’m sure this ticket doesn’t interest you, but it’ll give you some idea, anyway.” He handed the ticket back to the boy.

“Thanks, Jimmy,” McQuade said.

Jimmy nodded and rushed off to gather up his materials.

“And from here,” McQuade said, “the leather or fabric is taken to the cutters, is that right?”

“Yes, exactly. Do you see those boys and girls running around in the aisles? They’re pulling patterns from the drawers in the benches. By the time the leather is brought to the cutter, the patterns are waiting for him, too, and he can get right to work on the job. Remember the pattern number I showed you on the ticket? Well, that pattern is pulled from the drawers there. It’s made out of a hard cardboard composition, bound in brass so the cutters’ knives won’t ruin it after one or two uses.”

McQuade nodded.

“Well, come on over. The older cutters are working on the right, over there. They handle all the expensive materials, where mistakes would be costly. Like Spanish Sapphire silk, for example. We couldn’t trust that to an apprentice cutter. Or even lace, for that matter. Cutting reptiles is a different story. When we’re cutting alligator, say, we put the men on time. We can’t afford the rushing that accompanies piece-work, not with reptile skins as high as they are. Now, the apprentice cutters are over here. They’re cutting linings and fleece and backstays and sock linings and cushions and some of the cheaper fabrics for uppers. They’re not as good as our older cutters, you see, but they learn by experience. Come on over and we’ll watch one.”

They worked their way over through an aisle, dodging the runners who were carrying armloads of fabric and leather, dodging the boys and girls who were busily extracting patterns from the drawers.

Griff stopped alongside one of the cutters, a muscular boy who stood almost as tall as McQuade, black hair curling on his head and in the open V of his shirt collar. His sleeves were rolled up, and his sinewy arms were covered with the same dense black growth.

“Hello, Charlie,” Griff said. “How goes it?”

Charlie Fields looked up quickly. “Oh, hello, Mr. Griffin,” he said. Griff was surprised at the formality because he knew Charlie well, and they’d been on a first-name, coffee-drinking, dirty-joke-telling basis for a good long while now. Charlie glanced uneasily at McQuade then, and Griff suddenly got the picture. He remembered Max’s cool formality in the elevator, and Jimmy’s nervousness just now in the Leather Room, and then he remembered telling Benny Compo about the visitor from Georgia. Benny had probably passed the word to the other foremen, and the word had sped along the factory floors. Titanic is here; on your toes! And, forgetting his own earlier panic, Griff found the factory reaction somewhat amusing. Jefferson McQuade was turning out to be a hell of a nice guy, and there was certainly no reason to fear him.

“Charlie,” he said, “would you mind showing Mr. McQuade that knife you’re using?”

“Not at all,” Charlie said nervously. He picked up the knife from the cutting bench and handed it to Griff handle-first. The handle looked like the wooden handle of a manual can opener, round and squat. The blade was a short, hooked piece of curving metal, looking like an extended half moon.

“This is razor-sharp,” Griff said. “It has to be in order to cut through some of the leathers that come out of the Leather Room.”

McQuade-glanced at the knife and then took it from Griff, hefting it on the palm of his hand, as if he were choosing a weapon for a duel. “It looks sharp enough,” he said respectfully.

“What are you cutting, Charlie?” Griff asked.

“Sock linings,” Charlie said. “Shall I cut one for you, Mr. Griffin?”

“Would you, please?”

McQuade handed the knife back to Charlie, and Charlie picked up the brass-bound pattern of the sock lining and placed it on the pale blue fabric. Quickly and expertly, he traced the pattern with the sharp edge of the cutting knife. He pulled the pattern away then and lifted the gracefully feminine sock lining from the bench, leaving the imprint of the sole in the remainder of the fabric, like a wet footprint on a blue tile floor.

“Simple as that,” Griff said. “Thanks, Charlie.” He turned back to McQuade and said, “All of those people are doing the same thing, cutting. Come along, will you?”

McQuade turned his head over his shoulder and smiled. “Thanks for your trouble, Charlie,” he said, and followed Griff.

“So, that’s the Cutting Room,” Griff said, walking over toward the sewing machines, “and here’s Prefitting, where all these girls are working. They do the very basic putting together, the elementary stuff, stitching vamp to quarter, and upper to lining, oh, all the preliminary work before the material goes down to Fitting on the seventh floor. Come on over and take a look.” He led McQuade to one of the sewing machines, and the girl at it looked up and then lowered her eyes quickly. Her hands fumbled with the shoe upper as she placed it in position under the needle, ready to stitch it to the lining. McQuade watched attentively for a moment, and Griff said, “That’s all there is to it. We can take the stairway down, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” McQuade said.

He took him down to Fitting, and he heard his own voice droning on, explaining, explaining. McQuade’s face became expressionless. At regular intervals, he asked interested, pertinent questions, or nodded, or said, “I see,” or “Of course,” or “I understand,” or “Yes,” or “Uh-huh,” but his face remained expressionless throughout the tour.

“…putting in the steel shank here in this department. You’ll never find this in a cheap shoe, Mr. McQuade. This piece of steel in its sleeve is put into the breasting of the shoe here, so that the shoe won’t snap in two some day. Then this cork is glued on either side of the shank, to level it off so that the heel and sole can be…”

“Yes, I see.”

The smells of the factory assailed their nostrils, a new smell, a different smell for each department, the smells Griff would never tire of, the smells he loved. The smell of good rich leather, and the smell of benzine, and the smell of rubber cement, and the smell of ether, and the smell of compo, and the smell of machines and men.

“…is where the sole is glued to the shoe. You’ll see here on the assembly line these leather cushions which inflate with air and press the glued sole tightly to the inner sole. The last, you understand, is still in the shoe during all these operations. The last is not pulled until later. You saw how the uppers were tacked to the last upstairs, remember? That machine that spits tacks into the leather? Well, that last is not removed until the shoe…”

“Of course.”

And the sights of the factory. The fellow doing pinking, with a collection of Marilyn Monroe pinups behind his machine, arranged with painstaking care on two large sheets of cardboard, the most famous pose placed prominently in the center. The old newspapers tacked on the wall behind a machine in the Stock-fitting Department: YANKEES WIN. — IT’S IKE! — SKIRTS GO HIGHER THIS YEAR. The nude calendars everywhere. In Assembly, a calendar exhibiting a naked girl with really remarkable mammary glands, a calendar distributed by GRAINGER’S HARDWARE COMPANY, and on either side of the girl’s magnificent body, the penciled comment: “Some hardware!” The sink near the stairway leading down from Lasting, a dirty, filth-encrusted. sink above which a crayoned sign warned: “Keep this sink clean; It is used by lasters and bed lasters. Thank you.” The union posters on every floor of the factory, the fire hoses in the hallways, the numbers on the racks, 15, 16, 17, announcing the priority each lot of shoes enjoyed, gaily printed on green, yellow, and pink cards.

And the people. The people of the factory. The people bent over glue pots, their fingers encrusted with the stuff. The people shoving leather soles into folding machines, the people stitching and the people sewing, and the people trimming and cutting and stamping and wiping and binding and cleaning and drying and tacking and pulling and talking and laughing; the Puerto Rican women with their full breasts in low-cut smocks, the sweat beaded on their breasts, the gold crosses dangling in the valley of shadow; the mental defective on the fourth floor whom one of the Kahns had hired out of generosity, pushing his racks full of shoes; the people clipping tickets, pink shreds and white shreds, shreds that meant money, one cent, or one cent four mills, or two cents, or two cents two mills, clipped from the work ticket and shoved into a bench drawer, or put into a cigar box, people doing their jobs quickly, adding up the cents, adding up the tenths of a cent; the man at the sanding machine, expertly smoothing the breasting of a shoe, his fingers wrapped in adhesive bandages to forestall any accidents; the man standing near the Muller machine, the machine inoperative, its wide doors open, its red bulb glowing, its leather hanging inside like sides of miniature beef in a butcher shop, waiting to be softened. The people, the people sweating and grinning, intent or indifferent, their laughter suddenly silenced whenever the man from Titanic walked through the floor.

“…man runs that flame over the finished shoe, trimming off all the hanging threads and whatnot.”

“Doesn’t the flame hurt the shoe?” McQuade asked.

“It can hurt it,” Griff said, “but this man knows his job.”

“I see.”

“This is really the manicuring department, you understand. The shoe is really finished for all intents and purposes here, dressed up, so to speak. There, see that fellow spraying those black kids with lacquer? He’s freshening up the shoe before it gets packed into its box.”

“Of course.”

And the sounds of the factory. The giant hum of the big machines, and the high soprano of the sewing machines; and the bell ringing over and over again when they were on the third floor, summoning someone to the foreman’s cage, and the telephone shrilling on the fifth floor; and the tacking machines spitting their tacks, clanging their tacks with a sudden rush, sticking the upper to the last; the whir of the drill in the Heeling Department, the bit sinking through the metal-lined hole in the last, penetrating into the wood of the heel, the screw with its open circular top following the drilled hole; the pneumatic hiss of inflated leather in the Soling Department; the radios on every floor; and the cackle of the old women, and the whispers of the young women, and the raucous laughter of the men; and the clash of the elevator doors, the rasping stealth of a cutting knife.

“…down the chute here into the Stock Room. We keep all our stock shoes here. And then through this door here is the Shipping Room, see those machines stapling the cartons shut there, and, oh, yes, Piping and Stripping is on this floor, too, a little factory of its own, where all the scraps from upstairs are made into…”

“I see.”

And finally it was all over. McQuade looked a little dazed, as if the three hundred and twelve operations that went into the building of a single pair of shoes had been a little too much for him to absorb. Griff could understand his bewilderment. He was exhausted himself. He suggested a cup of coffee and they made their purchases at the lunch counter and were heading for the room behind the counter when McQuade said, “Let’s take it up to the office, shall we?”

“Well, Mr. McQuade, we’re not allowed to have anything at our desks.”

“Nonsense,” McQuade said, smiling pleasantly. “Come along.”

They took the coffee up to Griff’s office, and Griff was not surprised to find a desk waiting for McQuade when they got there.

“Is it all right?” Marge asked.

“Yes, very nice, thank you, Miss Gannon,” McQuade said, moving toward Aaron’s desk. He sat on the edge of the desk, putting the coffee container down, looking around the office. Griff suddenly remembered the note he’d left for Aaron. It sat under the inkwell, not twelve inches from McQuade’s knee. He wet his lips nervously, anxiously.

“Has Aaron been back?” he asked Marge, glancing uneasily at the note.

“No, but he called in, Griff. He’s still checking those lizard and alligator samples for Guild Week.”

“Costing,” Griff explained to McQuade. “One or the other of us usually handles it, depending on who’s free.”

“I see,” McQuade said. His eyes fled over Aaron’s desk top, and a frown crossed his face, and Griff was certain he’d seen the note and its En garde! warning, a warning which seemed ridiculously overcautious now. Marge, who’d apparently read the note while Griff was gone, glanced at him apprehensively. McQuade sipped at his coffee, his blond eyebrows pulled into sharp wings, his gray eyes unreadable.

“Is there anything wrong, Mr. McQuade?” Griff asked. He did not want an open breach with McQuade, because he had honestly, come to like him during the tour of the plant. But if there was going to be any enmity over the note, he preferred bringing it into the open at once.

“This fellow,” McQuade said, snapping his fingers. “I forget which floor he’s on.”

“Which fellow?” Griff asked, suddenly relieved.

“The one with that little hot iron,” McQuade said. “The one who was burning those two holes on the bottom of the finished soles.”

“Oh, yes,” Griff said. “Our eagle-eyer.”

“Is that what you call him?” McQuade asked, amused.

“Yes.”

“Tell me, is that all he does?”

“Sir?”

“Your eagle-eyer. Does he sit there all day long with that iron and burn those tiny little holes on the bottom of each finished sole?”

Griff could not hide his surprise. He had spent more than three hours showing McQuade through the factory, twice as long as he usually took with the high-school classes. McQuade had seemed to be an intelligent observer, asking pertinent questions at every step of the operation, and Griff had been immensely gratified with the response. But now, in the quiet of the office, away from the clatter of the machinery, he had expected more questions, and he had honestly expected questions of a somewhat higher caliber. After all McQuade had seen, was he most interested in a man who burned infinitesimal holes on the bottom of a sole? Was this what had interested him most in the whole fantastic operation of building a fashion shoe?

“I… well… yes, that’s all he does,” Griff stammered. “He burns those two holes on each finished sole. Yes.”

“Why?” McQuade asked. He did not look up from his coffee.

“Why what, sir?” Griff asked.

“Why the holes?” McQuade said.

“Oh. Oh, I see. Well, sir,” Griff said, smiling, “there’s a pretty interesting story behind that. You see, before the industry began using cement on the shoe soles — remember, you saw the assembly belt downstairs where that leather cushion inflates and presses the glued sole to the inner sole?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Well, before the industry took to using cement, each shoe was hand-turned. That meant that the sole had to be tacked and then stitched to keep it in place. Frankly, we turned out a hell of a good shoe then, much better than we get with cement. You ask any of the old shoemakers on the floor, and they’ll tell you. Well, before the sole was stitched, it was tacked in three places. At the toe, in the center of the sole, and again where the instep breaks. Later, when the shoe was almost finished, those three small tacks were pulled. But they left three holes in the sole, three small holes, true, but three somewhat ugly holes. Someone got the idea of dressing up those holes, sort of ‘finishing’ them, to give the shoe a smoother look. The eagle-eyer came into existence then. He dotted each of those small holes with a small hot iron, finishing them, making them a part of the completed shoe. After a while, those three dots in the sole became associated with a quality shoe. When a woman turned over a shoe and spotted those three dots, she knew the shoe was a good one.”

“That’s very interesting,” McQuade said.

“Naturally, when we began using cement, there was no need for tacking the sole any more, and really no need for the dots, either. But milady had grown used to the dots, had come to look for them. We cut out the dot at the toe, figuring we’d save time and expense, but we left the other two dots, as a sort of quality shoe trademark.”

“Those dots, in other words, serve no real purpose.”

“Yes, they do,” Griff said. “In addition to identifying the shoe as a quality product, Mr. McQuade, we want that shoe to look as good underneath as it does on top. When you turn over a Julien Kahn shoe, you don’t just get a monotonous flat sole stretching out before your eyes. You get our eagle-eye treatment, a tiny dot on the center of the sole, and another just where the instep breaks. Those dots… well, they just break the monotony of the sole, that’s all.” He spread his hands wide. “Quality, Mr. McQuade.”

“You’re kidding me,” McQuade said softly.

“Sir?”

“I said you’re kidding me. You do hear well, Mr. Griffin?”

“Well… well, sure I do. No, I’m not kidding you, Mr. McQuade. That’s why those dots are burned into the sole. Those are the only reasons.”

“And is that all that fellow does?”

“Yes, that’s all.”

“Is he on piecework?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“How much is he paid?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I can check with Payroll, if you like.”

McQuade smiled suddenly, looking up from his coffee container. The smile erupted all over his face, making him seem somehow larger than he actually was. “No, no need to do that, no need at all. Forget I even mentioned it, Mr. Griffin.” He slid off Aaron’s desk and walked to the desk Marge had requisitioned for him. “Say, this is certainly a good-looking desk, Miss Gannon. You people get things done in a hurry, don’t you?”

“I’m glad you like it,” Marge said. She smiled broadly.

“Oh yes, I do,” McQuade said. He rubbed his palm over the polished top of the desk, as if trying to absorb the veneer of it. He nodded abruptly then and went behind the desk, sitting in the swivel chair there. He seemed to dwarf everything with which he came into contact. His body seemed too big for the desk and certainly too big for the chair. “Today was quite an experience, Mr. Griffin. I don’t think I can thank you enough.”

“Oh, there’s no need to…”

“I’m afraid you think I’m an impossible incompetent, though. I must admit I was somewhat dazzled by the operation. You people are doing a tremendous job here, tremendous.” He nodded his head, and then touched the cleft in his chin with his forefinger, rubbing it thoughtfully, almost as if he were trying to erase an invisible spot. “It’s…” He left his chin suddenly, bringing his fingers together into a cathedral. “It’s a lot to absorb, all in one day. I hope you’ll forgive my seeming stupidity.”

He seemed waiting for Griff to contradict him. When Griff started to say, “Oh, no…” he interrupted.

“No, really, Mr. Griffin… say, do I have to keep calling you that? I hate formality with a vengeance. Miss Gannon calls you ‘Griff,’ I notice. Would it be all right if…?”

“Oh, certainly,” Griff said.

“All right, Griff,” McQuade said, “man to man. It’s one hell of a job tring to absorb the separate job each man does. One hell of a job. In a factory of this size… well, how many men would you say were in the operation, Griff?”

“About fifteen hundred,” Griff said.

“Well, there you are. And what’s our pairage per day right now, Griff?”

“We’ve been hitting twenty-six hundred,” Griff said.

“Yes, well, that’s a large operation, a large operation. So, I hope my ignorance can be excused.” He spread his hands wide, as if the entire thing were simply too big for him.

“I can understand how…”

“Now, put yourself in my position. Can I ask every man in the factory to submit a written summary of what he does? Hell, half these people probably can’t write their own names. Of course, the office is another thing again. How many people are there up here on the ninth floor, Griff?”

“About sixty, I suppose,” Griff said.

“Say, you know…” He paused, as if trying to get the idea straight in his mind. “Say, that isn’t a bad idea at all. Here, Griff, what do you think of it? It’d certainly make this job of understanding a lot simpler, a whole hell of a lot simpler. Suppose I asked Mr. Manelli, your new comptroller, to have each man on this floor submit a short summary of what he does?” He snapped his fingers. “I like that idea, I really do.”

“Well—” Griff started.

“Oh, just a brief summary,” McQuade interrupted. “Hell, I’m not teaching a course in English Composition. But something that will acquaint me with each man’s job, and nothing — God forbid — which will ever be used against anybody later on. Griff, I’m sincere when I say I’m not here to pry or spy.” He leaned over the desk, folding his large hands. “I want to get along with the people here. I want to do my job, that’s all. Look, I’m here to marry Titanic with Julien Kahn. I’m something of a minister, you might say, the Reverend Jefferson McQuade — Marryin’ Mac.” He laughed a short laugh and then sobered instantly. “I want to be friends, Griff. You don’t know how much I appreciate the time you gave me this afternoon. I know what a pain in the neck these damned requests can be, believe me. That’s why I think these summaries will be a good idea. Matter of fact, I think I’ll go talk to Mr. Manelli about them right this minute.”

He stood abruptly, unfolding his length, his height coming as a complete surprise after getting used to him sitting.

“In the meantime, Griff — if you will — you might have your department get started on those summaries, sort of get the jump on the rest of the floor. Nothing fancy, you understand, just a few words. And please, for God’s sake, don’t entertain any fears in respect to these summaries. I wish you’d pass that word along. As I told you, I only want them so that I can better acquaint myself with each man’s job. All right?”

He tossed his coffee container into a wastebasket and started for the door. At the door, he turned and said, “He’s right down the hall, isn’t he? Mr. Manelli, I mean?”

“Yes,” Griff said.

“Good. I probably won’t be back at all this afternoon, but I’ll see you at nine Monday morning. You might have those summaries ready for me by then, all right? Then we can talk a little more intelligently. And remember, please, no trepidation. No reason to feel…” He hesitated and his brow knotted, as if he were reaching for the appropriate words. “No reason to feel… well, as the French would say… en garde!” His eyes met Griff’s levelly. “Okay, Griff?”

He smiled pleasantly then, turned his back, and left the office.

Griff watched his departing back until it was no longer visible down the corridor. A smile crept onto his face. “Touché, McQuade,” he said aloud, and then he broke into quiet laughter.