The Spiked Heel

They did not tell him to shut up this time. They seemed to be listening this time, and they seemed to be weighing Griff’s advice. The crowd, too, had had enough. They had expected quick blood, but there had been none, and now they were weary of the proceedings. There was work to be done, and tickets to be clipped and they sure as hell weren’t making any money standing around watching these two boobs who still hadn’t come anywhere near to drawing blood. Griff sensed this changed atmosphere, and he knew the fight was nearing an end.

“Come on,” he said gently, “let’s put down those murderous clubs and daggers, huh?”

He saw a somewhat embarrassed smile mushroom onto Steve’s face, and then Charlie’s hand lowered a little, as if he would drop the cutting knife, and then Hengman’s voice burst onto the floor like a mortar explosion.

Griff saw Charlie’s knife hand come up again, tensed, ready. He turned abruptly as Hengman shoved his way through the throng of workers. Behind Hengman, he could see McQuade, his head towering above those around him, his wide shoulders cutting a swath through the crowd.

“All right, all right,” Hengman said, “what’s ull dis abott, hah? What’s gung on here?”

“The Hengman,” someone yelled, and then the whispers fled over the floor, “The Hengman, hengman, hmmmm…”

“Gat beck to your banches!” Hengman shouted. He was a short bald man with a black Hitler mustache. He waved his fists in the air like a windmill and kept shouting, “Gat beck to your banches!” No one moved. “Come on,” he shouted, “you dint hear me, maybe? Gat beck, already!” He shoved his way through the crowd, stopping alongside Griff. “What kind nonsanse you allowing, Griffie? What the hell…”

He didn’t wait for Griff’s answer. He looked past Griff to where Steve and Charlie had become suddenly alert again.

“You two! What you stending around like a bunch monkeys for, hah? Gat the hell off the floor and beck to work!”

A new element had intruded itself into the picture. This had been a friendly sort of heart-slashing, head-bashing duel between brothers of toil up to now. This had been a strictly Labor fight, but now Management had stepped into the picture, and Management had no right in it.

“Agh, shut up, Hengman,” someone shouted, and Hengman whirled quickly, trying to locate the voice, but another voice joined it too rapidly, from the other side of the ring.

“Leave them alone, Hengman.”

And then another. “Back to your hole, Hengman!”

And another, and another. “Shut up, Hengman.” “Drop dead, Hengman,” and suddenly the blood lust was back, and the voices were no longer cheering two fighters, they were cheering two people who were opposing Management.

“Come on, Charlie, stick the son of a bitch!”

“Go at him, Steve! Go get him, boy.”

And the “Go, go, go, go,” chant rose again, higher in its fury this time, higher in its disrespect for the Management Hengman represented.

“How’d this happen?” McQuade asked Griff.

Griff didn’t answer. He turned to Hengman instead. “Boris, do me a favor, will you?” he said. “Get the hell off the floor. I can handle this. Please, will you?”

Hengman stared at him for a moment. He nodded his head then, and began shoving his way toward the stairwell.

“What do you propose doing, Griff?” McQuade asked.

Griff watched the fighters. They were unaware of Hengman’s departure. They heard only the cries for blood again, and the cries attacked their own blood, and they circled menacingly now, caution thrown aside, eager to do battle.

“Griff, what do you—” McQuade started.

Griff ignored him. “Charlie,” he called, “Steve! Look, Hengman is gone. Can’t you see there’s no sense to—”

He was surprised to hear the voice beside him. He was surprised because that voice had been soft and gentle whenever he’d heard it before. It was not soft and gentle now. It was strong and powerful and it blasted out above the hum of the workers.

“Get back to your benches, men, or you’ll be out in the street tomorrow!” The voice was McQuade’s.

Griff turned anxiously. “Mac,” he said, “that’s not the right app—”

McQuade shoved him aside. He walked out to the center of the floor, keeping a good distance between himself and the armed men, but going close nonetheless. He was taller than both of them, and his blond hair caught the rays of the sun, giving him a fiery-crowned appearance.

“Put down those tools!” he roared. “Get back to your work!”

Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the godlike figure behind him. The floor had gone dead all at once. The workers knew this was the man from Titanic, and they respected his power, and they were also in awe of his physical appearance, a giant of a man who was standing on the floor now, and who they were sure would disarm both men if provoked far enough.

“Put ’em down!” he bellowed.

“Go ahead, chicken,” Steve said. “Do what the man says!”

Charlie turned his head quickly and then lashed out with the cutting knife, reaching for Steve’s chest.

“I’m warning you!” McQuade shouted ominously, his voice echoing over the quiet floor.