The Spiked Heel

“Well, surely not that long. But I’ve got other things to do, eh? So, here’s what I want, Griff. I want you to go through all your cost cards for the past year, and for each pattern I want three things.”

“Three things?”

“Yessir. I want your estimated cost without factory profit, and I want your estimated cost with factory profit, and I want our selling price on the shoe.”

“Joe, that’s impossible,” Griff said. “I’ve got to price this lucite—”

Manelli glanced at the note on his desk. “Oh yes, one other thing. For each pattern I want to list the total pairage sold.”

“Total…?”

“Yes. By account.”

“By account! Joe, for Christ’s sake, it would take me two weeks to work this out. I’m right now in the middle of—”

Manelli began laughing. “Two weeks? Two weeks, Griff? Nonsense, nonsense. Can you have it for me by…” He paused and raised his eyes. “Tuesday?”

Griff stared at him levelly, and Manelli turned his head away.

“Tuesday?” Griff answered blankly.

“Yes.”

“What is this, Joe?”

“What is what?”

“This Tuesday business. First Stiegman steals Aaron and then he asks for—”

Manelli spread his hands wide. “A simple request from your comptroller,” he said. “You can handle it, I’m sure. I’m busy, Griff.”

Griff turned his back and walked out of the office. Everything had suddenly fallen into place. The initial approval-of-cost-cards request, the slight from Posnansky at Chrysler, the skipping of Cost in the redecoration of the ninth-floor offices, the petty horse manure about undercosting of materials and overcosting of labor, the theft of Aaron, Stiegman’s rush demand for prices on the lucite heel pattern, and now this fantastic project Manelli had cooked up.

Or had Manelli cooked it up?

The name began to shape in his mind even before he was fully conscious of its being there. He began to nod his head, his lips pressed grimly together.

McQuade.

Of course, McQuade.

But what in holy hell was he trying to do? If he wasn’t going to let the Guild Week incident pass, why didn’t he simply fire Griff and get it over with? Why all the… pressure?

Pressure. Why, certainly. Pressure was being applied, but pressure for what reason? Was he trying to run Griff into the ground with impossible requests? Or was he trying to get Griff so sore that he’d…

Quit?

The idea astonished him. Could that be it? But why? Why not simply fire him? No, that couldn’t be, no, he was mistaken. And yet… but why in hell…?

No, it simply couldn’t be.

He went back to Cost, his brow knotted. He walked over to Marge’s desk and picked up a sheet the girl from the typing pool had completed.

On the third line, she had typed, “…piping and stripping on L678 Ava Gardner calf, as per our conversation of…”

He looked at the line again. Ava Gardner calf?

“What the hell is Ava Gardner calf?” he asked the girl.

The girl stopped chewing and typing. She looked up from the machine. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m only typing your notes, sir.”

He consulted his notes. In a very clear hand, he had written Avocado calf.

“That’s Avocado,” he said. “That’s a color. Green. Avocado. You’d better retype this.” He paused. “Wait a minute, let me look over the rest of this before you…”

He picked up the sheet again.

“This is supposed to be marvel embroidered linen, not marble embroid… and what’s this?”

The girl looked at the sheet. “Just what was in your notes, sir,” she said loftily. “Center, 2601½.”

“That’s counter,” he said wearily. “Don’t you know anything at all about shoes?”

“I’ve only been working here a week, sir,” she admitted.

“I see.” He made the corrections on the page and said, “Well, retype that sheet, will you? And if there are any other words you’re not sure of, please, ask me.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She resumed chewing and typing.

Griff went to the phone and called Masters in Personnel.

“Fred,” he said softly, “this gal you sent me doesn’t know shoes from Shinola. How about sending someone who’s been around a while?”

“Sorry,” Masters said. “I’m busy as hell, Griff. She’s the only one available.”

“Haven’t you got…?”

“The only one, Griff Smile.”

“Sure.” He hung up and stared at the typist, wondering suddenly if Marge’s call to the try-on room wasn’t all a part of the plot to make things tough for him. Ava Gardner calf! He sighed resignedly and went down to the Pattern Room.

Stan Zibinsky seemed to have forgotten all about L039.

“L039? What? What do you want, Griff?”

“This lucite heel shoe,” Griff said patiently. “Pattern number L039. You said you had—”