The Spiked Heel

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.”