The Spiked Heel

“Oh, yeah, yeah. Look, do me a favor, sweetheart, will you? The envelope is on the desk there someplace. Help yourself, huh? Dig it out. It’s marked on the envelope. L039. I’m busy, sweetheart.” He showed Griff the desk, and then left him to wade through the muck and mire of what looked like a highly disorganized operation. When Griff finally located the envelope with the numerals “L039” lettered in blue pencil on its face, he was ready to hurl Zibinsky’s desk together with its contents into the nearest blazing fire. Containing his anger, he opened the envelope and looked at the delicate paper patterns for a moment. L039. He was not familiar with the number. The paper patterns in his hand looked like any of a hundred patterns. A new shoe, and it had to be costed by Tuesday, and priced… oh, hell. He put the patterns back into their envelope, and went down to see Morris Davidoff.

Davidoff kept him waiting outside for ten minutes. When he finally got in to see him, Davidoff was very busy.

“What is it?” Davidoff said. “Griff, I’m swamped.”

“Yeah, I see. I want to work up a cost on this lucite heel pattern with you.”

Davidoff held up his hand in a “stop” signal. “Don’t even take them out of the envelope,” he said.

“What…?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Told you. Swamped.”

“Granted. But Chrysler’s having a sales meeting on Tuesday, and they want price sheets on this…”

“What can I do?” Davidoff said. He was a tall man with a Lincolnesque face and sad eyes. His office was as cluttered with slide rules and measuring devices and charts and graphs as any electrical engineer’s. Davidoff was the man who surveyed a pattern, figuring how much leather went into a certain vamp, how much stripping was needed on a sandal, how much faille was needed to cover a wooden heel. He went about his job with all the secrecy of an alchemist, consulting his charts and his graphs and his slide rules. Griff had grown used to his mysterious methods over the years, but he’d never been able to decipher the mystery completely, even though he worked very closely with Davidoff.

“You can drop whatever you’re doing,” Griff said, “and get to work on this pattern. That’s what you can do.”

“Can’t,” Davidoff said.

“Swamped, I know. Morris, this is important.”

“So is this. I’m working on something for the Hengman.”

“Hengman? What the hell does he…?”

“A project,” Davidoff said sadly, “Always projects when I’m up to my nostrils in other stuff. He says we’re not making enough money on Bare Facts. Now, if there ever was a shoe I surveyed right on the button, that was it. But Hengman says we’re making more on our other sandals, and he wants to know why. So he wants me to work out a detailed survey of material on that shoe as compared to our other sandals. You know how many sandals we’ve made in our history, Griff? That’s why I’m swamped.”

“Morris, this can wait. Chrysler—”

“Hengman wants it by Tuesday,” Davidoff said.

“I see,” Griff said slowly.

“Do you think I’m happy about it, Griff? I swear to God, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect this was just a time-wasting operation that some stupid bastard dreamed up. But can I tell that to Hengman?” Davidoff shrugged helplessly.

“So what am I supposed to do?” Griff asked.

Davidoff shrugged again. “Call Chrysler. Tell them to postpone their meeting.”

“They won’t do that, Morris. The salesmen have to get out on the road.”

“Then call the Hengman.”

“May I use your phone?”

“Sure, go ahead,” Davidoff said.

Griff asked for Hengman’s extension, and then he waited.

“Hello?” Hengman asked.

“Boris, this is Griff.”

“I’m busy, Griffie. What is it?”

“Morris tells me he’s working up something for you, and I need him on this new lucite heel pattern.”

“Griffe dis is assantial. I ken’t pull Morris off what he’s doing now.”

“What’s so essential now about a pattern we’ve been making for years? Can’t it wait?”

“Losing money ken’t wait, Griffie.”

“Are you in on this, too, Boris?” he asked impulsively.

“In on what? What?”

“Never mind. What am I supposed to do meanwhile? How the hell can I come up with a recommended price when…?”

“You the head of the Cust Depottment, or me?” Hengman asked, and then he hung up. Griff stared at the receiver as if he could not believe he was holding a dead line. He dropped the phone back into its cradle.

“Can you stay over tonight, Morris?” he asked dully.

“What for?”

“To work up this cost. If I can’t have you during the day, I’ll have to settle for overtime.”

“Titanic doesn’t like overtime,” Davidoff said.

“Yes or no? If you’re in on the deal, say no, and I’ll work out something for myself.”

“What deal?” Davidoff asked. There seemed to be honest concern and bewilderment in his eyes. “Griff, I’d do anything in my power to help you. But my wife is expecting any day now, and I’m afraid she’ll deliver all over the bathroom floor if I’m not home to take her to the hospital.”

“Oh,” Griff said. He wiped a hand over his face. “If you don’t mind, then, I’ll fiddle with your charts myself. You don’t lock the office, do you?”

“No.”