The Spiked Heel

Joseph Manelli and the company’s labor man, the man who set the pay rate for piecework, a man named Sal Valdero, were there representing Management. Jefferson McQuade went along “just for the ride.”

The men met in Manelli’s office, and Manelli was most cordial, behaving like the perfect genial host, passing out cigars and introducing everyone to McQuade, and asking everyone if they’d care for a little schnapps, eh? The men — with the exception of, McQuade — all accepted the smokes and declined the drink. McQuade neither drank nor smoked.

They sat around and lighted up, and Manelli beamed at them from behind his desk and said, “Well, fellers, to what do I owe the honor of this meeting?”

The men all laughed a little and enjoyed the aromatic pleasure of the fifty-cent cigars Manelli had handed out (cigars which Kurz had left behind in the desk humidor) and then they cleared their throats and got down to business. It was a little difficult to get down to business with McQuade sitting there. McQuade, as it happened, was a major part of their business that day.

“I understand there’s been a lot of unrest in the factory, Mr. Manelli,” Grant said, glancing at McQuade.

“Is that right, John? What sort of unrest?”

“The wholesale firings for one thing. The men tell me—”

“The men don’t like the way people are getting fired right and left,” Gardiner said.

“Well,” Manelli said, spreading his hands, “what can we do, fellers? You know as well as I do that this is a business and not a charity organization. When a man’s got to go, he’s simply got to go.”

“Seems like an awful lot have been going lately,” George Hensen said sourly.

“Well,” Manelli said, “we’re trying to modernize this business, George. We’re trying to make it a better place in which to work. That means clearing out the dead wood. More profits mean higher wages for those men who remain. I’m sure you know that.”

“We haven’t seen any higher wages yet,” Hensen said, glancing at McQuade. “We only see people getting fired, and we don’t like it.” McQuade remained silent, staring thoughtfully at his hands.

“There’s more to this than just the firings, Mr. Manelli,” Gardiner ventured. “A lot of us have been working for Kahn for a good many years now. We like Kahn, and we like making shoes, and so we’ve stayed on. But there was always a healthy respect for the working man here, and now there doesn’t seem to be that respect any more.”

“How do you mean, Bob?” Manelli asked.

“Well…” Gardiner looked at McQuade. “Everybody knows about what happened to those two cutters. Now, really, Mr. Manelli, that’s a hell of a way to treat a human being. We’re not slaves here, you know, and we’re not prisoners, either. I mean, turning a fire hose onto—”

“Those two men were ready to kill each other, Bob,” Manelli said.

“Kill, yeah, maybe,” Gardiner answered. “They didn’t kill each other before the hose was turned on, though, did they? And chances are they wouldn’t have killed each other, neither. But that’s not the point. The point is, we got our dignity, too, and you don’t go turning fire hoses on people. What is this, Alcatraz?”

“On the contrary,” McQuade said suddenly.

“Do you have any ideas on this, Mac?” Manelli asked, grateful to have been let off the hook.

“Yes, a few,” McQuade said. “I don’t want to interrupt, though, without the permission of everyone present. After all, it’s your problem and not mine.” He smiled graciously. “Besides, I keep remembering what one Mr. Grant did to us back in the eighteen-hundreds, and I’m a little leery of getting into an engagement with another one now.”

John Grant chuckled, but at the same time he told himself to watch out for McQuade, who seemed to be a pretty smooth character. “I’d like to hear what you have to say, Mr. McQuade,” he said, puffing on his cigar. “I understand it was you who turned the hose on.”

“Yes,” McQuade said, “that’s right. I did turn the hose on, but only as a last resort. You’ll forgive my saying so, Mr. Grant, but neither you nor any of these men were up on the eighth floor that day. You did not see those cutters, and so you don’t know how close they were to doing actual physical harm to each other, and perhaps to throwing the entire floor into a state of panic.”

“Still—”

“I think, Mr. Grant,” McQuade went on forcefully, “that you would have done the same thing under the circumstances. I assure you, I do not have a cruel or insensitive soul. I was trying to stop a fight which might have led to a free-for-all in the Cutting Room, a dangerous place — you will admit — for any display of violence.”

“You could have stopped them by—”