The Spiked Heel

What on earth did Manelli know about any of this? If Griff and Davidoff had to muster their combined factory knowledge, experience, graphs, charts, and figures to come up with a decent estimate, how could Manelli — fresh out of Accounting — hope to approve or disapprove their estimates with any measure of efficiency?

How could Manelli possibly dispute, say, seventeen cents/two mills as the cost of an insole cover? How could he possibly know? Davidoff knew how much leather the insole cover would take. Griff knew the cost of that leather. Together, they could work it out. What was there for Manelli to approve or disapprove?

The entire idea was fantastic, and, when Griff’s relief over not having been fired had evaporated, there remained only this request, and the stupidity of it, and the delay it would cause. Suppose Manelli didn’t get to the cards the moment they were delivered? What was supposed to happen then? Costing would delay pricing and pricing would delay production! Damn, this was simply foolish.

When Marge saw his face, she went to him instantly.

“What is it, Griff?” she asked.

“Not what we thought. Manelli wants to approve all my cost cards before prices are established.”

Marge sighed heavily. “Oh, thank God.”

Aaron looked up from his desk suspiciously. “Hey,” he said, “what is it with you two? Ever since Monday, you’ve been—”

“You just hush,” Marge said. “Are you annoyed, Griff?”

“Sure, I am. What the hell does that idiot know about costing?”

“He wants to check all the cost cards?” Aaron asked.

“Yes.”

Aaron cocked his head. “That’s peculiar.”

“Peculiar? It’s moronic.”

“Well,” Marge said, “go along with it. It probably won’t last very long.”

Griff sighed, still troubled. “There’s not much else I can do,” he said.

So he went along with Manelli’s request, and at the close of that Friday, he brought his cost cards to Manelli’s office, still thinking the request both peculiar and moronic, but never once considering it the opening gun in a suddenly declared war.

On Monday the distant rumble of artillery came a little closer.

Ed Posnansky called from the Chrysler Building at ten o’clock. Marge answered the phone, and then informed Aaron the call was for him. Aaron promptly picked up his extension, exchanged the customary cordial greeting, and then got down to listening, interjecting an occasional “Uhhuh,” or “Yes, I see.” He ended the call with an “All right, Ed, I’ll see you tomorrow,” and then he hung up.

“What was that?” Griff asked.

“Big to do at Chrysler,” Aaron explained. “Seems one of the other houses was showing a pump with a lucite heel during Guild Week, and everybody at Chrysler thinks they’ve stolen a march on us. Posnansky thinks we can make a similar pump, provided we can get the heels. He wants to discuss getting a sample up. Hengman’ll be there, and our heel man, and some people from Fashion. He wants Cost in on it, too.”

“Oh,” Griff said.

“Say,” Aaron said, “why didn’t he ask you to come along, too?”

“I don’t know,” Griff said slowly.

“I’ll buzz him back,” Aaron said. “He’s in such a dither, he probably…” He let the sentence trail, lifted his receiver, and asked the operator for Chrysler. When he got Posnansky, he said, “Say, Ed, this meeting tomorrow… no, I can make it all right… but shouldn’t Griff…?” He paused. “Yes, Griff…” He paused again. “Oh, I see… well… no, that’s not it. I just thought…” Aaron’s brow creased. “Sure, but if the shoe is going into our line… but Griff is head of the department, he should… oh, I see… well, sure… sure… all right, Ed, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up and stared at Griff. Marge looked up from her typewriter.

“He said he doesn’t want to pull you away from anything important, Griff,” Aaron said, puzzled.

“Well,” Griff said, “I am pretty busy.”

“Yeah, but…” Aaron shrugged. “He doesn’t usually call these meetings without you. I mean… gee, I don’t know what to make of it.”

Griff smiled and tried to pass it off jokingly. “He knows this factory would collapse if I left it for even a moment,” he said.

“Indubitably,” Aaron replied, smiling. “But still.”

“Forget it,” Griff said. “I hate those damn meetings anyway.”

He went back to his work, but he could not hide the fact that he was troubled and hurt. He was, after all, head of the department, and it was not like Ed to purposely exclude him from anything important. A new shoe in the line was important. Ed should have… He put it out of his mind. Until the next day.

The next day, the heavy tanks came rumbling up.

The heavy tanks came rumbling up in the freight elevator. The heavy tanks were disguised as long rolls of carpet, and the carpet was a pleasant teal blue, and the carpet was laid in every office on the ninth floor while the women squealed in ecstasy and the men nodded in appreciation. The shining new desks followed the carpet, wheeled off the freight elevator on dollies, firmly implanted themselves in the thick carpeting on the floor of each office.

Each office but Griff’s.