The Spiked Heel

“Yes, well, that’s a large operation, a large operation. So, I hope my ignorance can be excused.” He spread his hands wide, as if the entire thing were simply too big for him.

“I can understand how…”

“Now, put yourself in my position. Can I ask every man in the factory to submit a written summary of what he does? Hell, half these people probably can’t write their own names. Of course, the office is another thing again. How many people are there up here on the ninth floor, Griff?”

“About sixty, I suppose,” Griff said.

“Say, you know…” He paused, as if trying to get the idea straight in his mind. “Say, that isn’t a bad idea at all. Here, Griff, what do you think of it? It’d certainly make this job of understanding a lot simpler, a whole hell of a lot simpler. Suppose I asked Mr. Manelli, your new comptroller, to have each man on this floor submit a short summary of what he does?” He snapped his fingers. “I like that idea, I really do.”

“Well—” Griff started.

“Oh, just a brief summary,” McQuade interrupted. “Hell, I’m not teaching a course in English Composition. But something that will acquaint me with each man’s job, and nothing — God forbid — which will ever be used against anybody later on. Griff, I’m sincere when I say I’m not here to pry or spy.” He leaned over the desk, folding his large hands. “I want to get along with the people here. I want to do my job, that’s all. Look, I’m here to marry Titanic with Julien Kahn. I’m something of a minister, you might say, the Reverend Jefferson McQuade — Marryin’ Mac.” He laughed a short laugh and then sobered instantly. “I want to be friends, Griff. You don’t know how much I appreciate the time you gave me this afternoon. I know what a pain in the neck these damned requests can be, believe me. That’s why I think these summaries will be a good idea. Matter of fact, I think I’ll go talk to Mr. Manelli about them right this minute.”

He stood abruptly, unfolding his length, his height coming as a complete surprise after getting used to him sitting.

“In the meantime, Griff — if you will — you might have your department get started on those summaries, sort of get the jump on the rest of the floor. Nothing fancy, you understand, just a few words. And please, for God’s sake, don’t entertain any fears in respect to these summaries. I wish you’d pass that word along. As I told you, I only want them so that I can better acquaint myself with each man’s job. All right?”

He tossed his coffee container into a wastebasket and started for the door. At the door, he turned and said, “He’s right down the hall, isn’t he? Mr. Manelli, I mean?”

“Yes,” Griff said.

“Good. I probably won’t be back at all this afternoon, but I’ll see you at nine Monday morning. You might have those summaries ready for me by then, all right? Then we can talk a little more intelligently. And remember, please, no trepidation. No reason to feel…” He hesitated and his brow knotted, as if he were reaching for the appropriate words. “No reason to feel… well, as the French would say… en garde!” His eyes met Griff’s levelly. “Okay, Griff?”

He smiled pleasantly then, turned his back, and left the office.

Griff watched his departing back until it was no longer visible down the corridor. A smile crept onto his face. “Touché, McQuade,” he said aloud, and then he broke into quiet laughter.

3

Monday morning, March 1, came in with all the customary bluster of the lion. Griff arrived at the factory at eight fifty, parked the car, and then shoved his way against the strong winds which threatened to tear off his overcoat. He went up to the office and forewent his usual cup of coffee, deciding to get right to work on pricing the orders which had gone untended Friday during McQuade’s factory tour. He had already begun working when Marge came in and walked directly to his desk.

“Here’s my summary, boss,” she said.

She put a sheet of paper in the center of his desk. Halfway down the page, she had carefully typed the words: “I type.” Beneath those, in the lower right-hand corner, she had typed, “Sincerely, Margaret R. Gannon.”

“Brief and to the point,” she said. “Nothing flowery.”

Griff smiled. “All right,” he said, “where’s the legitimate one?”

“I can never trick you, can I?” Marge said. She took off her gloves and coat, and then fished the real summary from her purse. She brought it to Griff, and he glanced over the paragraph-long outline of her duties and then put it into the IN basket on his desk.

“What’d you think of him?” Marge asked.

“McQuade?”

“Yes.”

“I think I like him.”

“Really?” She seemed surprised. She took a mirror and lipstick brush from her purse and began repairing her mouth.

“Yes,” Griff said. “Shouldn’t I like him?”

“I don’t know,” Marge answered, preoccupied. “I imagine he’d give me an inferiority complex if I were a man. I don’t think I’d like… well, say Betty Grable… working at the desk opposite me.”

“He’s a good-looking guy, all right,” Griff said, nodding.