The Spiked Heel

Max pulled the doors shut and set the car in motion. The men were silent for a moment, listening to the whir of the car’s mechanism, hearing beneath that the steady thrum-thrum of the factory.

“G.K. gets canned today,” Max said happily.

“He does,” Griff answered, “he does that.” He was always amazed by the efficiency of the intrafactory spy system, a system which apprised every employee of everything that was happening or about to happen even when it was top-level stuff.

Max shook his head in mock sorrow. “I bleed for him.”

“All over the rug,” Griff said, smiling.

“But,” Max said, returning the smile, “those are the breaks. Some got it, and some ain’t got it.” Max paused philosophically. “Yep, I really bleed for G.K., all right. I really bleed for the poor bugger. Now he’ll have nothing to do but sit back and spend what he’s been stealing from the company for the past twenty years.”

“Requiescat,” Griff said.

“Huh?” Max said, and then as an afterthought, “Nine.” He threw open the doors, and Griff thanked him and stepped out of the car. He waved at the closing doors and then walked to the time clock.

5741.

He reached for the card automatically, inserted it into the IN slot, and heard the familiar clicking whir as the card was punched. He looked at the stamped time. Eight fifty-one. He put the card back in the rack, and then walked left down the corridor, passing the huge Payroll Department and then Credit. He doubled back and peeked into the open door, wondering if Danny was in yet. Magruder was sitting at his desk with a container of coffee in front of him. He looked up and waved and then went back to reading his morning newspaper. Griff went down the hallway, toward the partitioning at the end of the wing. A sign over the doorway at the end of the hall read COST. To the right of the doorway, one over the other, two small placards announced the names of the office’s inhabitants:

R. GRIFFIN

A. REIS

He walked through the doorway and directly to Aaron’s desk.

“Good morn-ing, Mr. Reis,” he said pompously.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Griffin,” Aaron replied, using his phony big-business voice. He was a thin man with curling black hair and wide, soulful brown eyes. His nose and mouth seemed to be constantly on the alert for alien smells and tastes, giving him the appearance of a perpetually sniffing cocker spaniel.

“You’re early today, A.R.,” Griff said, expanding his voice in imitation of a tycoon, taking off his coat at the same time.

“Well, R.G.,” Aaron said big-businessly, “I didn’t want to miss the gala festivities.”

“Did you come prepared?”

“How so, R.G.?”

“Rice, confetti, things to throw?”

Aaron snapped his fingers in disappointment. “Damn,” he said. “Only thing I brought to throw was an old monkey wrench. Now, do you suppose the son of a bitch will mind a monkey wrench at the back of his bald dome?”

“Now, now, A.R.,” Griff warned, “you mustn’t speak disrespectfully of the departing comptroller. Remember, my young friend,” and here he looped one thumb through an imaginary suspender, spreading his legs wide and assuming an oldtimer-to-newcomer pose, “that the likes of George Kurz are the foundation, the very foundation stone, of Julien Kahn, Fashion Shoes. Remember, my young friend, that without this bulwark of intelligence and imagination…”

“Horse manure,” Aaron said.

“Without,” Griff persisted, “this bulwark of intelligence and imagination, the entire industry, the en-tire industry may well fall into a state of total collapse, unguided by…”

“You want some coffee?” Aaron asked.

“Boy,” Griff said, seemingly hurt, “you interrupted me.”

“Do you want some coffee?”

“Wait until Marge comes in,” Griff said. He walked to the window where the company inventory calendar hung just over his desk. Beside the calendar, someone from Production had put up a sign reading HANG THE COST! LET SALES WORK IT OUT. The office wags had scribbled their usual comments all over the sign. Hang David Kahn. Hang wallpaper. Heng the Hengeman. And scrawled across the face of the sign, Oh hell, hang it all. He glanced briefly at the sign, and then whirled rapidly, stabbing an index finger at Aaron.

“Hey, man!” he said, “are you happy? Are you happy as hell?”

“I’m delirious,” Aaron said.

“Let’s go split a magnum of champagne.”

“Let’s go split a few cups of coffee.”

“All right,” Griff said enthusiastically. “As soon as Marge gets here.”