The Spiked Heel

“So,” Stiegman went on, “I wanted you to know we’re having a sales meeting next week. Tuesday, in fact.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. We’re trying to rush these shoes into the line, and we want to get our men on the road with samples right away, follow?”

“Then we are putting in samples on it?”

“Oh, yes, definitely. Working them up right now, matter of fact. That’s why I’m calling. I should have the samples by Tuesday, and I’d like cost and recommended price from you at the same time.”

“By Tuesday?” Griff asked. “Well, I don’t know, Ed. I haven’t even seen a sketch of the shoe yet.”

“We sent one over to the factory, should be in the Pattern Room now. Why don’t you call down for it?”

“What material are we using on it?”

“Black suede,” Stiegman said. “Griff, I’ve got to hurry. There’s about a million things to—”

“Hold it a minute, will you? What kind of a shoe is it? Is it a new shoe, or a jump-off on an old base?”

“Call the Pattern Room, Griff. It’s number L039. Okay?”

“Sure, but—”

“Griff, I don’t like to press you, believe me, but we’ve got to get a price. Work up an estimate, huh, boy? And while you’re at it, make a list of the established prices for the whole line and ditto a few dozen copies for the men, will you?”

“Well, that part’s simple enough, we’ve already worked out… but this other, Dave. A new shoe, and no—”

“Pattern L039. Call down for it. Griff, I’m as busy as a hound dog chasing flies. By Tuesday, huh? So long.”

Griff hung up and stared at the phone disconsolately. He looked over to Marge’s desk, disappointed because she had left the office, wanting to discuss this with her. He paced the empty office for several moments, and then turned abruptly when she walked in. She looked over her shoulder secretly, rushed to him, and pecked him lightly on the cheek.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi. Where’d you disappear…?”

“Manelli sent for me. They’ve got new samples on Naked Flesh, and he wants me to go down to the try-on room and model a few of them. Apparently McQuade thinks this is going to be a really big shoe.”

“I keep forgetting you’re a model,” Griff said, smiling. The smile dropped abruptly. “Hey, what am I gonna do for a typist?”

“Oh, I won’t be gone long, darling.”

“I know. But these rehashes Manelli wanted are ready, and I need someone to type them up.”

“Get a floating typist, Griff.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll have to. Are you leaving right away?”

“Manelli said to get down there as soon as possible.” She glanced toward the door and kissed him soundly and then, pulling away weakly, she rolled her eyes and said, “Ohhhhhhh, Mr. Griffin!”

“Hurry back,” he said.

As soon as she left, he called Stan Zibinsky in the Pattern Room.

“Hello, Griff,” Zibinsky said. “What can I do for you?”

“Dave Stiegman tells me Chrysler sent over a sketch on this new lucite heel job.”

“Lucite heel?” Zibinsky said. He paused. “Oh, yep, yep, that one. What about it?”

“Can I have the sketch?”

“Love to give it to you, Griff, but we only got one copy. I’m having some more run off by Production. Soon as we get a couple, I’ll send one up to you. Okay?”

“Well, I’ve got to cost this thing and… how about the paper patterns?”

“Yeah, we made those already. Lemme see now, where the hell did I put that envelope?” Griff heard the rustle of papers. “Somewhere around here,” Zibinsky said.

“That’s L039, right?” Griff said.

“Yeah, that’s what it said. L039.”

“What kind of a shoe…?”

“Griff, I’m pretty busy. You want to stop down for these paper patterns, or what?”

“All right, I’ll be down for them.”

“Good. ’Bye-bye, sweetheart.”

Griff hung up, sighed, and then called Personnel to ask for someone from the typing pool. The girl they promised him arrived at his office less than five minutes later. He was a little more than slightly dismayed when he noticed that she was chewing gum, but he shrugged his doubts aside and handed her the penciled notes he’d made, notes which showed that Manelli’s criticisms had been unfounded.

“How many carbons?” the girl asked efficiently.

“One,” he said, “and please make it neat, will you? These are going to the comptroller’s off—” The phone rang, and he cut himself off.

It was Manelli. He wanted to see Griff at once.

Griff sighed heavily and went down the hallway, and Manelli greeted him with his customary executioner’s smile.

“Griff,” he said, “I’ve been trying to make heads or tails out of these cost cards you’ve been submitting, but I’m afraid the job is a little too complicated for me.”

Griff smiled happily. “I’ve got those figures you wanted,” he said, “and they show the original estimates to be correct.”

“I see. Well, that’s fine. But here’s what I had in mind. It’s a little difficult to get the full picture by seeing only a sampling of these cards as you send them through, do you know?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“What I’d like is all the cost cards for the past year.”

“The past year!” Griff said, astonished.

“Yes. Now, it would be positively senseless for me to go through each and every one of those cards, don’t you agree?”

“I imagine it would take you a good month,” Griff said.