The Spiked Heel

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.