The Spiked Heel

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

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

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

“But—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t imagine it did.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

There was a baby.

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

The baby was named Naked Flesh.

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

By June 15 the baby had come into its own.

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

18

Because Griff was back at his old job of tracer, because this job took him to every corner of the factory, he had the opportunity to observe what was happening with Naked Flesh — the way a doctor observes the fever of an epidemic while making his weary rounds.

And because Cost would have kept a close watch on the production of a shoe, because problems would automatically have been brought to Cost, because Griff knew the factory, because Griff was a friend — everyone came to him now with their troubles. Even those who had turned on him, even those now turned to him in their desperation.

“He’s canceled all vacations!” Manelli said. “Griff, he has cancelled all vacations!”

“He can’t do that,” Griff said. “The union’ll jump on his back so hard he’ll—”

“I told him that. I told him our contract calls for a two-week vacation for all factory personnel. He said the contract does not specify when this vacation shall be granted. He says we’ll never meet orders oh Naked Flesh if the factory lays off for two weeks.”

“He’s right. The retailers are snapping up that shoe as if it were—”