The Spiked Heel

7

Dave Stiegman tapped the letter in his hand and then threw it across the desk to Ed Posnansky.

“What the hell is this guy talking about?” he asked. It was a mild day for March, and from the sixteenth-floor suite of the Chrysler Building he could see New York lying at his feet.

Posnansky extended his short thin frame and reached for the letter. He adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and then began reading. Stiegman watched him, waiting for his reaction. In the street below, he could hear the moving stream of traffic and people. He suddenly wanted to go down there in the street, watching skirts blowing, seeing pretty legs. America has very pretty legs, he thought. Stiegman was a married man who had begun to feel the itch. The itch was very strong in Stiegman. He put the feeling aside and tried to concentrate on shoes.

“He’s crazy,” Posnansky said, tossing the letter back to the desk.

“He may be crazy,” Stiegman answered, “but he says we shipped him a pair of house slippers, and he says he still has them in the box to prove it.”

“Now why in hell would we ship him a pair of house slippers?” Posnansky asked. “We don’t even make house slippers.”

“He says they were old house slippers,” Stiegman said.

“He’s nuts. Every week, one of our vast consuming public sends us a crank letter like this one. We had one last week from some old bag in Iowa who said the white skin on her cobra shoe was turning blue. Now, how the hell could it turn blue? These people must think we’re all idiots here.”

Stiegman shrugged and consulted the letter again. This was not a crank letter from one of the “vast consuming public.” This was a complaint from a big account, and Titanic sure as hell wouldn’t appreciate a foul-up of this sort if it came to their attention.

“He says he ordered thirty pair, fifteen of which were our Flare pattern, which is going very well with him.”

“I read the letter,” Posnansky said. “He’s nuts.”

“He says he was going through the belly sizes,” Stiegman went on, unperturbed, “when he found a pair of house slippers in place of the 7A he’d ordered.”

“You know what he can do with his house slippers, don’t you?” Posnansky said.

“Oh, come on, Ed, give me a little attention, will you? If the son of a bitch got house slippers, he’s got a legitimate beef.”

“How could he get house slippers from us?” Posnansky asked. “He probably gets his slippers from another outfit, and he’s trying to stick us for a pair of shoes. Can’t you see he’s a chiseler?”

“This is our biggest account in Philly,” Stiegman said quietly.

“Big outfits can be crooks, too.”

“I can’t picture the buyer of a big shop going crooked over a pair of shoes, especially when he does such a volume with us. We do thousands of dollars of business with this man each year, Ed. Even if he has fouled up someplace, we ought to send him another pair of shoes.”

“So send them to him. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is how do we account for the pair that supposedly went to him already?”

“That’s Factory’s problem.”

“Shall I call Manelli?”

“Go ahead,” Posnansky said. “Call Manelli if you want to. I really don’t see what the hell all the noise is about. A lousy pair of twelve-dollar shoes, and you act as if—”

“How’s your ulcer this morning, Ed?” Stiegman asked, reaching for the phone.

“Screw you, amigo,” Posnansky said, unsmiling.

Griff was in Manelli’s office when the call from Stiegman came.

Manelli flicked the ash from his cigar, excused himself, clicked on the intercom, and said, “Yes?”

“Mr. Stiegman from the Chrysler Building, sir,” Cara said. “On seven.”

“Thank you,” Manelli said. He clicked off, excused himself again, and then picked up the phone. “Manelli speaking,” he said. “Oh, hello, Dave, how goes every little thing, eh?… Oh, so-so, you know how it is, new job, new responsibilities.” He listened for a moment and then began chuckling. “Yes, yes, I guess so. So what’s on your mind, Dave? To what do I owe the honor of this… how’s that?” He paused and listened. “Oh, I see. Well, that sounds very unlikely. Oh, it’s possible, of course, but it sounds… Yes, I understand… Naturally, I’ll have another pair shipped, but… No invoice, of course… Yes, well, let me get the number of that shoe, Dave… just a second.”

He reached for a memo pad and pencil, and then he said, “All right, go ahead. Flare, yes… Yes, I’ve got that… And the style number?… Um-huh… case number… yes, I’ve got it… 7A… All right, I’ll take care of it… Certainly, no trouble at all. Give my regards home, eh, Dave?… Oh yes, thank you… she’s fine, thanks… nice talking to you.” He hung up and stared sourly at the memo pad.

“What is it?” Griff asked.

“Oh, some stupid bastard in Philly says we shipped him a pair of house—” The intercom on his desk buzzed. He flicked it on angrily and said, “Yes?”

“Mr. McQuade is waiting to see you, Mr. Manelli.”

“Send him right in,” Manelli said.

Griff said, “I’d better run along, Joe. If you two have—”

“No, no, quite all right, stay where you are. I want you to expand on what you were telling me, anyway, and it might not be a bad idea for Mac to hear it, eh? Stay put, Griff, stay put.”

The door opened, and McQuade stepped into the office, ducking his head slightly as he did.

“Joe,” he said politely, “and Griff! This is a surprise. How are you, boy?”

Griff had not seen much of McQuade since the fire hose episode last Wednesday. That had been a week ago, and he had more or less put it out of his mind. Seeing McQuade reminded him of it again, and the picture of McQuade with the hose in his hands became a very vivid thing. He smiled somewhat stiffly, and took McQuade’s proffered hand.

“Fine, Mac,” he said. “And you?”

“Busy as a son of a, but enjoying myself nonetheless. I didn’t break in on anything, did I?”

“No, no,” Manelli assured him, “I was just telling Griff about this—” Manelli stopped short, as if he were debating the advisability of discussing what had just happened with McQuade.

“What is it, Joe?” McQuade asked, smiling.

“Oh, nothing important.” He seemed to be searching for some unimportant thing he could substitute for the phone call from Stiegman. A cleverer man might have come up with something instantly, but Manelli was not a very clever man, so he reluctantly told the truth. “One of our accounts in Philadelphia complained we sent him a pair of house slippers. Silly damn thing.”

“I’ll say,” McQuade said, lifting his eyebrows in amusement.

“So, we’ve just got to send him another pair of shoes, that’s all,” Manelli said, dismissing the subject and shoving the memo pad to a corner of his desk. “Now then, Griff, suppose you tell Mac what you were—”

“What happened to the pair of shoes we sent him?” McQuade asked curiously.

“Eh? Oh,” Manelli said, “well, that’s hard to say. He got these house slippers instead, you see.”

“That seems very odd, doesn’t it? I mean, I don’t know very much about it, but how could we have possibly shipped him a pair of house slippers?”

Manelli shrugged. “Well, that’s what he says. And he’s a pretty big account, Mac. No sense irritating him.”

“No, of course not,” McQuade said.

Manelli smiled, once more dismissing the subject. “Griff and I were discussing possible ways of increasing production. He’s come up with a good idea, and I thought you’d like to hear it.”

“Certainly,” McQuade said. He walked to an easy chair and plopped himself into it.

“Well, it’s not really my idea,” Griff said. “That is, we’ve done it before, whenever Factory was slow. Sales just gives permission to—”

“Is it possible that someone in the factory,” McQuade said, “substituted those house slippers for our pattern?”

“What?” Manelli asked.

“Someone here in the factory,” McQuade repeated.

“You mean…?” Manelli considered this. “Well, I don’t know. I mean, of course anything’s possible, but…”

“I’m just trying to figure out how a pair of house slippers got shipped to an account, that’s all,” McQuade said, smiling and spreading his hands. “After all, it doesn’t speak very well for our efficiency, does it? Opening a Julien Kahn box and finding a pair of house slippers instead of a fashion shoe. Which shoe was it?”

“Flare,” Manelli said. “The Swisscraft straw number. Seems to be catching on nicely, especially on the Eastern seaboard, God only knows why.”

“The red shoe, isn’t it?” McQuade asked. “Yes, I recall seeing that one in the factory. That’s a nice shoe. What do we get for it, Griff?”

“Twelve dollars,” Griff said automatically.

McQuade tilted his head appreciatively. “That’s a little piece of change, isn’t it?” He nodded and then said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, Griff, forgive me.”

“That’s all right,” Griff said. “What we’ve done in the past is cut a lot of stuff we could throw into stock. That brings up our pairage and it also guarantees a margin of safety because we’re cutting tried and true patterns, you see, stuff we will always get calls for. It would keep our cutters busy during the slack, and at the same time—”

“Where’s the first place we get a finished shoe, Joe?” McQuade said suddenly. “Packing, isn’t it?”

“Well, we get a finished shoe in Prepacking, too, more or less. Just needs a little trimming and such, but for all practical purpos—”

“But there are no boxes in Prepacking, are there? What I’m driving at, Joe, if a pair of house slippers were to be substituted for Flare, it would have to be in the Packing Room or the Shipping Room, is that right?”

“Yes, I suppose so. But—”

“Is it conceivable that someone working in either of those two departments stole the shoes?” He said the word “stole” as if it were something loathsome that he had to spit out.

“Well, yes,” Manelli faltered, “it’s conceivable. Certainly, theft is a common occurrence in any large busi—”

“How many people are there in Packing, Joe?” McQuade asked. A glow had come onto his face, focused on his eyes, reflected in the eagerness of his mouth.

“I… I don’t know,” Manelli said. “I can check it for you.”

“Please do. And find out how many people are in the Shipping Room, too. And find out how many people in both departments are women, will you?” He leaned back and looked at Manelli.

“Right now?” Manelli asked, raising his eyebrows.

“If you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. Actually, this is more in Boris’s department than mine, you understand.” He tried a timid smile. “I mean, any trouble in the factory is not really my responsibility. It—”

“Why, Joe,” McQuade said, seemingly surprised, “you’re underestimating yourself. You know very well the comptroller should keep a hand in everything that happens in this building.”

“Yes, yes, of course. What I meant, however, was that Boris Hengman would naturally know more about anything that went on in the factory than…” Manelli shut up, suddenly realizing he was entangling himself in a sticky web of self-denunciation. Reluctantly, he said, “I’ll… I’ll get those figures for you.”

Manelli busied himself on the phone, and McQuade smiled at Griff pleasantly. “You know,” he said, speaking above Manelli’s low rumble, “it’s very important that we discourage dishonesty.”

“Well,” Griff said, shrugging, “theft is actually figured into our budget, you know.”

“It is?” McQuade asked incredulously.

“Yes. You’ll find it listed under Miscellaneous Loss. That’s theft, or shrinkage. We lost a good many pairs through shrinkage, but nothing to really concern ourselves about. Wherever there are people working, there’ll be theft. As a matter of fact,” and here he smiled, “it’s something of a compliment. People don’t want to steal junk. When they stop stealing our product, then it’s time to worry.”

McQuade made a dubious gesture with his head. “I wish I could agree with you, Griff, but I’m afraid I can’t. Every worker in this factory should feel a deep responsibility toward the company. If they steal from the company, they steal from their own pockets. I don’t mind telling you that I agreed wholeheartedly with Joe’s insistence on putting the prices of our shoes in code. It’s not wise to have too well-informed a group of workers, Griff. These men are making — what? — a cent, two cents an operation? They look at the work ticket and they see that we’re selling the shoe for fourteen ninety-five, and that’s a hell of a long way from what they’re getting. They begin to get dissatisfied, and then they begin to ask questions and dispute authority. Like that business in the Cutting Room last week. All right, I know you think I behaved rather harshly and I can’t blame you for the way you feel. But I hope you don’t think I enjoyed what I did? Far from it, Griff. It was a necessary evil. Those men had to be taught to obey!” He noticed the frown on Griff’s forehead. “Well, perhaps obey is too strong a word. Forgive me for using it. They’ve got to understand, though, that we are running a business and not a charity fund, and we’ll do everything in our power to see that they get a fair shake… but not at the expense of ruining the business. The business comes first, Griff. Once they understand that, well, you’ll see the changes.”

Griff said nothing. He nodded noncommittally.

“And don’t think Titanic isn’t taking the worker into consideration. The workers are the strength of any company, Griff. Without the workers, Management can whistle a pretty tune and it’ll get them nowhere. Workers are power. Power. It’s a question of channeling that power so that it will do the most good for… for the company. Titanic started with a well-organized company putting out a damned cheap line of playshoes. They retailed for a dollar and a quarter, so you can imagine what they cost us. But the company was well organized and well handled. It made money, and it began expanding. A few small companies at first, a few companies that put out shoes going for five dollars, let’s say, or six dollars. And then a few men’s-shoe companies, and then a few more, growing all the time, getting stronger and stronger, so that people who used to laugh at the name ‘Titanic’ when it applied to a cracker-box flea-bitten little outfit don’t laugh any more. They don’t laugh because they know we’re strong, and they know we’re getting stronger all the time. Well, see for yourself. We’ve got a toehold in the fashion shoe industry now, and that’s just the beginning. But what I was starting to say is that we don’t believe in making our workers unhappy. You’ll begin to see some radical changes around here in a very short while, and all before we’ve really started to realize any profit from the merger.”

“What kind of changes?” Griff asked curiously.

“Changes in the factory, and also in the ninth-floor offices. The toilets in the factory are like pigsties, you know that, don’t you? And the lockers are relics of the Civil War. We’ll be getting cleaner, better facilities. And we’ll be putting in better windows, and better lighting, fluorescent lighting, and we’ll be putting in new safety factors and sanitation measures. You won’t recognize this place in six months, I can guarantee you that. And look at your own office! For God’s sake, is that an office for a talented Cost executive? The hell you say! You’ll be getting a good desk, and new filing cabinets, and rugs on the floor. What the hell, Griff, this is where you live, isn’t it? Look at all the time you spend here. If you’re going to be happy, you’ve got to have happy surroundings.”

“I suppose so,” Griff said, toying with the idea of a new desk and rugs on the floor.

“But that’s why we can’t allow anything like theft to go on under our noses. We lost twelve dollars on that pair of shoes, we also lose twelve dollars that could have gone toward a new lighting fixture. I think that’s a reasonable enough attitude, don’t you?”

“If you want to hire policemen,” Griff said. “Stealing, Mac, is something that goes on no matter what you—”

“No, that’s not true. Stealing does not have to be. And it won’t be. Stealing is only profitable when it goes ignored. We’re damn well not going to ignore it, and people who are suddenly without jobs are going to realize it’s not worth the risk. You can’t spread butter on a pair of shoes, Griff, even if you got them for nothing. I’m sure Titanic doesn’t want to see any Miscellaneous Loss charges on its budget. Hell, I’m just a nobody who’s trying to get acquainted with a new phase of our operation, but I’m sure I can safely speak for Titanic on that one score. Theft is definitely out as far as the Titanic big shots are concerned.”

He heard Manelli replace the phone in its cradle, and he turned instantly.

“There are thirteen people in Packing,” Manelli said. “Eight of them are women.”

“Yes?”

“In Shipping, we’ve got ten people. Only two women there.”

“That narrows it down to ten possible suspects, doesn’t it?” McQuade said.

“You mean—” Manelli started. He stopped short and rephrased his question. “Are you going to try to find out who stole those shoes, Mac?”

“Well, of course!” McQuade said. “How the hell else are we going to put a stop to it?”

“Well…” Manelli said uncertainly, glancing at Griff.

“You don’t condone stealing, do you, Joe?”

“No, no, certainly not,” Manelli said, righteously indignant. “But isn’t production a little more important at the moment? We’re trying to work out a scheme whereby we’ll increase our production by perhaps a thousand pairs a month. When you stack that up against the loss of a twelve-dollar shoe, well, Mac, if you’ll pardon my saying so, I think we’re making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“You’re pardoned, Joe, but we’re not making a mountain out of a molehill. We’ve simply found a molehill, and now we’re trying to dig out the mole. Clear?”

“I see,” Manelli said.

“What other information have you got on the stolen shoes?” McQuade asked.

“If they were stolen,” Griff said.

“Oh, what else?” McQuade said happily. “What have you got, Joe?”

“Size, style number, case—”

“Size?” McQuade almost shouted. “Size! Well, for Christ’s sake, Joe, that narrows it down to almost nothing! We’ve got our crook where the hair is short!”

“It’s a 7A,” Manelli said unhappily. “That’s a belly size. We’ll probably find a lot of those.”

“In ten women? So even if five of them wear a 7A, which is highly unlikely, we’ve still got five to work with, rather than ten. Joe, this is going to be duck soup. Now here’s what I’d like you to do, if you will. Phone the supervisors in both Packing and Shipping. Tell them, oh… tell them Titanic is thinking of giving bonuses… yes, bonuses in the form of shoes to the women in those departments which show the most increase in production during the next month. Ask the supervisors to pass this on to the women in their departments and then to get the shoe size of each woman. This way, you see, the crook will have no reason for lying. Follow?”

“Yes,” Manelli said tiredly.

“Have the supervisors send up a list of the women’s names together with their shoe sizes. We want those immediately, Joe, and please don’t sound anxious on the phone, whatever you do. We don’t want the thief hiding that shoe size for fear of exposure. We want her to think she’s going to get another pair of shoes on the house. And is she going to be mistaken!”

There were three women with a shoe size of 7A in Packing and Shipping. McQuade phoned down for a pair of the Flare pattern, and then he asked the supervisors to send the women up to Manelli’s office. He asked Griff and Manelli to please stay, an invitation Griff received with some discomfort. He had watched McQuade’s preparations with baleful eye, a little leery of what was coming. He knew that the shoe size of every woman in the factory was listed on her permanent employment record — a system which facilitated the acquisition of a model whenever one was needed — but he had not volunteered the information to McQuade, unwilling to become any sort of an accomplice. McQuade seemed very happy now, as if he were ready to embark on the West Junctionville Chowder and Marching Society Picnic. McQuade was the man in charge of pickles, relishes, mustards, and catsups. He was happy as hell, and his happiness bred a contagion which gave the lie to the solemnity of the occasion.

When the three women were seated outside, he asked Cara to send the first one in. Griff and Manelli sat on the couch to the right of Manelli’s desk. McQuade sat behind the desk, the picnic smile on his face until the door opened.

The instant it did, something happened to McQuade. It was as if he suddenly dropped a mask, or perhaps put one on. His entire physical appearance changed. He had been sitting in the chair idly before that door opened, his long legs stretched out under Manelli’s desk, the preoccupied happy smile on his face. The moment the knob began to turn, he pulled in his feet and sat upright in Manelli’s padded chair. His shoulders snapped to attention, his head jerked erect, his blond brows pulled down over his eyes at the same instant his mouth pulled taut into a tight line. A pair of hoods seemed to descend over his gray eyes, giving them a curiously opaque appearance. He looked rather frightening, even a bit maniacal, and Griff felt an involuntary shiver move up his spine.

The woman stood just inside the doorway. She was close to fifty, Griff surmised, a small blond woman with a gold tooth in the front of her mouth. She was obviously frightened, but she tried a timid smile which turned pasty on her mouth. She did not move from the doorway.

“Come in,” McQuade snapped.

The woman moved into the room. If she had been a man, she’d undoubtedly have come to attention at the sound of McQuade’s voice. Being a woman, she fussed nervously with her hands and shifted from one foot to the other.

“What is your name?” McQuade asked stiffly.

“Martha Goldstein,” the woman said.

“Where do you work?”

“In Shipping, sir.”

McQuade reached into the bottom drawer of Manelli’s desk, pulling out a red shoe which he swiftly placed on the top of the desk.

“Did you ever see this shoe before?”

Martha Goldstein started at the shoe. She began nodding before she spoke. “I think so, sir.”

“Yes or no?” McQuade said, his voice rising.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you take a pair of these shoes home from the factory?”

The woman’s eyes widened. She stared at McQuade in disbelief, her lip trembling a little. Griff felt an overwhelming embarrassment for the woman. She was old enough to be McQuade’s mother, and he was putting her through…

“Yes or no?” McQuade shouted. “Tell the truth!”

“No, sir. No, sir, I never—”

“You realize the penalty for lying?”

“Sir? Sir, I never—”

“Did you or did you not take a pair of these shoes home with you?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I swear it, sir. I never stole anything in my life. I been with Julien Kahn for sixteen years, and you can ask Mr. Hengman if I ever touched anything that didn’t belong to me. I’m a good worker, sir, and I’ve never given anybody no trouble. I wouldn’t touch anything that didn’t belong to me, sir, you can ask Mr. Hengman, he’ll tell you, just call Mr. Hengman and ask him, that’s all you have to—”

“You may go,” McQuade said. “Griff, see that she doesn’t talk to the other women outside. That’ll be all, thank you.”

Griff rose hesitantly, not wanting to be a part of McQuade’s inquisition, not wanting the woman to think he was in any way associated with the bludgeoning she’d just received. He led her to the door and opened it for her, and then walked out past Cara, feeling this deep shame inside him, and wanting to say something to the woman, something to squelch his own shame, and something to let her know he was not in any way connected with this. He could think of nothing. He led the woman out, and on his way back, he heard McQuade say, “Bring in the next woman, Griff, if you please.”

He avoided the eyes of the Puerto Rican girl sitting on the edge of the easy chair nearest Manelli’s door.

“Will you come in, please?” he said softly.

The girl rose. She was a young girl, and her face was white with fear. She went into the office, and Griff closed the door behind her and then went to sit beside Manelli. He was seized with a desire to run away from all this, but at the same time he was morbidly curious, as if McQuade held a sinister magnetism for him from which he could not pull away. He glanced up at the desk and saw that McQuade had removed the shoe.

McQuade stared at the girl silently for several moments. The girl was visibly trembling. She was not a bad-looking woman, with small perfectly formed breasts beneath the thin smock she wore. Her legs would have been good if they were not so thin. There was a small, healing scratch on her right leg, and the scratch somehow made her seem more vulnerable to McQuade’s penetrating stare. McQuade looked her over from her head to her toes, scrutinizing her face, and then her body, examining her like a man ready to buy a slave on the open market. His gaze seemed to pierce the girl’s body. She raised her hand, covering her small breasts, and then dropped it suddenly.

McQuade changed his tactics.

“You know why you’re here, don’t you, miss?” he asked. His voice was low but forceful, like the thud of a rubber-headed hammer.

“No. No, I do not, señ... sir.”

“What is your name, miss?”

“Maria Theresa Diaz.”

“You stole a pair of shoes, didn’t you, Maria?” McQuade said softly.

Maria blinked at him.

“You did, didn’t you, Maria?” he said hypnotically. “You stole a pair of shoes from the company, didn’t you? Where do you work, Maria?”

“I work een Packin’,” she said. Her lips trembled and she could barely get the words out. Griff thought she would collapse on the carpet. He tensed himself, ready to leap for her when she started to fall.

“And that’s where you stole the shoes, isn’t it, Maria? Isn’t that true, Maria? You stole a pair of red shoes in the Packing Department, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Maria?” He brought the Flare pattern to the top of the desk in one fluid movement, almost as if the movement were a part of his low, rumbling speech. “This is the shoe you stole, Maria. We know you stole it, Maria. You did steal it, didn’t you? Didn’t you, Maria?”

The girl’s lips moved. She tried to speak, but no words came to her mouth. She kept her eyes on McQuade’s face, as if she could not pull them away. Her entire body strained in an effort to take her eyes from McQuade’s face, but she could not do it.

“You did steal them, Maria, didn’t you?” he asked slowly and quietly. “We know you stole them, Maria, so you can tell us about it. They’re very pretty shoes, Maria, and we know you stole them, so why don’t you just tell us about it? You did steal them, didn’t you, Maria?”

The girl began shaking her head. She still could not speak, but she began shaking her head mutely, and tears welled up in her eyes and then trickled down onto her cheeks while she shook her head.

McQuade rose, huge and wrathful behind Manelli’s desk.

“You stole these shoes!” he shouted, and the girl flinched before his voice, as if he had struck her in the mouth with his fist. “You stole them, you thieving, sniveling little cheat. Admit it! Admit it!”

The girl began to blubber. She put her hands to her face and sobbed into them. “I… I deed not want… only to try them on… only to try them on… Meester Gar’ner, he come back… I wass only try them on… I wass—”

“You took them home?” McQuade roared.

The girl nodded, sobbing, her breast heaving.

“Bring those shoes back,” McQuade said, “do you hear? Bring them back with you tomorrow morning, do you understand? You may go now.”

The girl stood sobbing before the desk, unmoving.

“You may go, I said.”

She nodded her head, and then shook it, and then nodded it again. She turned then and walked out of the office, and Griff watched her go, watched the defeated slump of her shoulders, the battered droop of her head.

The office was very silent for several moments. Griff could hear Manelli breathing harshly beside him. McQuade walked from behind the desk and stood staring at the closed door.

“When she brings those shoes back, Joe,” he said, “fire her. And then I think it would be a good idea to get a memo off to every floor in the factory, telling them of the incident. Of course, that’s up to you.”

He was changing again. Right before Griff’s eyes, he was changing back to the smiling gentleman from Georgia. He was removing his mask and his blood-smeared gloves, and he was picking up his walking stick and donning his high felt hat. The smile mushroomed onto his face, illuminating his good looks, full of beneficence and warmth, full of humble clay, full of good-guyness. It took him less than ten seconds to complete the change, and once he’d managed it, it was almost impossible to remember the persecuting bastard who had raged at the frail girl before Manelli’s desk. This was the real McQuade, this smiling, genial fellow. The other man had never existed.

“Well now, Griff, what were you saying about increasing our pairage?” McQuade asked, smiling.

“I… I…”

“Or would you rather get it clear with Joe before you ring me in on it? Is that it?”

A man with a fire hose in his hands popped into Griff’s mind. The man unleashed a torrent of water, and the water turned to a torrent of words, and then the water and the words vanished, leaving only a smile like sunshine in a godlike figure, a golden glow of sunshine around a blond smiling face, a golden glow that wiped away the mist of confusion, smiling, smiling…

Smiling, McQuade walked toward the door. “You two talk it over,” he said. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

He was gone then, and Griff squeezed his eyes shut tightly, remembering the panic of Martha Goldstein, remembering the silent sobbing terror of Maria Theresa Diaz.

Beside him, Joseph Manelli cleared his throat. Griff looked up, his eyes meeting Manelli’s.

“He… he gets things done, doesn’t he?” Manelli said. His voice was a little sad, and it lacked conviction.

Griff did not answer him. Griff was struggling with the curious trembling that had suddenly attacked his body.