The Spiked Heel

“I doubt if Titanic would do that, Mr. McQuade,” Grant said confidently. “I don’t know how many millions of dollars were involved in this purchase but even Titanic doesn’t buy factories just to close them.”

“Of course not,” McQuade said, “but it can be done. Titanic closed down a factory in New Hampshire because of union trouble, and, when the union still wouldn’t play ball, we moved that factory down to Georgia, and that’s right where it sits today. We threw that whole damned town out of work, John, so do you think we’d hesitate over a tiny little factory in New Jersey?”

“I can see your point, Mr. McQuade,” Grant said calmly, “but I don’t think it would be feasible to transport Julien Kahn to Georgia. You can undoubtedly get labor down there, Mr. McQuade, but you’re not going to get the Donatos and the Cohens down there, and these are the men who know how to make shoes. You’re running a fashion house here, Mr. McQuade. Quality is your product. You can’t pull in a bunch of farmers and run your factory with them.” Grant paused. “It’s your Italians and your Jews and your Poles who are running those sewing machines for you, Mr. McQuade. You won’t find them down in Georgia.”

“Then we’ll move the factory to wherever we can find them,” McQuade said.

Grant chewed his cigar silently for a moment. “I thought Titanic was for the workers,” he said at last.

“Ah, but only if the workers are for Titanic,” McQuade said.

“I see. Then there’s no sense talking.”

“There’s a lot of sense talking,” McQuade said, “a whole hell of a lot of sense. What, when you get right down to it, is your beef? Are you sore because two men didn’t kill themselves on the eighth floor? Are you sore because we caught a thief on the second floor? Are you sore because we’re trying to give your people better working conditions, safer conditions, cleaner conditions? Are you sore because we’re trying our damnedest to increase production so that your workers will be able to share in increased profits? Are you sore because we’re declaring bonuses? Are you sore because we’re trying to turn a rusting, filth-clogged machine into a well-oiled, smoothly functioning one? When you get right down to it, men, just what the hell are you sore about?”

“These firings—” Hensen started.

“What about them? Were you fired, Hensen?”

“No, but others were. I’m a shop steward, and when I see—”

“But how have these firings harmed you, Hensen, you as a citizen of the factory? Have you been touched? These people were getting paid for doing nothing. These people were stealing money out of your pocket, Hensen!”

“Well…”

“Think it over.”

Hensen remained silent, thinking.

“Look at it this way, Hensen. Suppose we divided up the money those men were earning. Suppose we did that and added it to each worker’s salary, would you be happy then? Of course you would. Don’t you see, if we stop cheating the company, the worker gains, the worker can’t help but gain.”

“I don’t see any of that money being divided up,” Hensen said.

“I was coming to that,” McQuade said.

The men were suddenly silent.

“John,” McQuade said, “you may have been wondering what Sal, our labor man, is doing here. Well, if you’ll stay after the meeting, you’ll find out. I want to sit down together, the three of us, and work out a pay raise for the men. Understand, of course, that we can’t go too high at the moment, not with all the expensive changes we’re making. But we can afford a little more than we’ve been giving, and once we increase our pairage per day, I can promise a hell of a lot of overtime — but necessary and important overtime. I’d like to work this all out with you and Sal.”

Grant smiled. “I’d be very happy to stay, Mr. McQuade.”

“Good,” McQuade said, nodding. “And to clear up this other thing that seems to be bothering you, let me assure you that the firings are over and done with.”

“How do you mean?” Grant asked.

“Over and done with,” McQuade repeated. “You expected firings, didn’t you? Has there ever been a merger without resultant firings? I can’t think of any. But we’ve done all the firing we’re going to do, and I can assure you there will be no more firings to come. Unless theft or physical violence is involved, of course.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Gardiner said.

“All right, Bob,” McQuade answered, “then you will see it. You’ll see a memo to that effect tomorrow morning, and you’ll see it posted on every floor of this factory. There will be no more firings from now on. Titanic can promise you that.”

“Well, the men certainly appreciate that,” Grant said, relieved.

“But what about this other thing?” Gardiner persisted. “The workers are being treated like—”