The Spiked Heel

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.