The Spiked Heel

“I’ll stop in tonight. Thanks, Morris. Meanwhile, I’ll see Sal. Maybe I can work out the labor estimate with him.”

He left Davidoff’s office feeling curiously empty. He had not expected Boris Hengman to turn on him, and it had come like a slap in the face. He realized then just how tight McQuade’s grip of fear was, and the knowledge was saddening.

When he reached Sal Valdero’s office, he was not surprised to find him busy. He waited by Valdero’s desk until he looked up.

“Oh, hi, Griff” Valdero said. “What’s the trouble?”

“No trouble, Sal.”

“What’s that in your hand?”

“Something called L039. It’s the new lucite heel pattern. I need a labor estimate from you, and I need it by Tuesday.”

Valdero was already shaking his head.

“What’s the matter?” Griff asked.

“Tuesday. Everybody wants everything by Tuesday. No can do.”

“Read it to me,” Griff said.

“I’m working out a new piece rate for Mr. McQuade. Planning another raise for the men. He wants it by Tuesday.”

“I see.”

“So…” Valdero shrugged.

“Mardi Gras,” Griff said.

“Huh?”

“Greasy Tuesday,” he answered, and he left Valdero’s office.

He did not once think of quitting.

If McQuade’s building of pressure was intended to force him to quit, it came nowhere near its mark. The thought never once entered his mind. On the contrary, he was determined not to let the pressure beat him, even if he dropped dead trying.

Marge was in the try-on room for the remainder of that Thursday. He suffered the substitute typist’s clumsy abortions all day long, wrangling with Manelli’s cost cards at the same time. He had called Chrysler earlier and asked one of the sales clerks to send over the Pattern Log Book, from which he might obtain the number of pairs sold on any pattern, by account. When the book arrived by messenger, he dropped the cost cards and got to work on the pairage sales.

At quitting time, he went to Davidoff’s office and tried deciphering the charts and graphs, fumbling with the slide rule. He left the factory at midnight, said good-by to the watchman, and went home, no closer to a cost and price estimate than he’d been when he started.

On Friday morning, Marge called in to say she’d be in the try-on room with Naked Flesh all that day, and I love you. He told her he loved her, and then he got to work on the pairage again, working on it all that day. He went to Davidoff’s office after hours and tried again to work through the maze of charts, giving up at eleven. He took his cost cards home with him, jotting down the cost without profit, the cost with profit, the selling price, tallying them on long sheets beneath the pairage sold by account, the information he’d got from the Pattern Log Book. There were thousands and thousands of cards for him to wade through.

He called Marge on Saturday and told her he wouldn’t see her that week end, and then admitted the reason only after constant questioning from her. She was at his apartment within the hour, taking off her gloves and efficiently beginning to transcribe the figures he had jotted down.

They worked steadily over the week end, stopping only for an occasional meal or an occasional kiss. By Monday morning the cost cards were almost finished. The costing and pricing of the lucite heel pattern hadn’t even been started.

On Monday morning Aaron magically appeared at the office, freed from the nebulous Chrysler Building duties. Marge, as was expected, was yanked out of the office and transported to another modeling of Naked Flesh, an intrigue she suffered reluctantly now that she knew what was in the wind. Aaron, blithely unaware of the stress, sat at his desk and rattled on about the lucite heel shoe.

“A beauty, a real beauty, you’ve got to hand it to our Fashion people. Like walking on air, Griff. The sun strikes that shoe right, and you’d never guess there was a heel on it.”

“Yes,” Griff said, thinking, Tomorrow’s Tuesday. Just what do I tell Stiegman when he calls for the prices?

“Glockamorra,” Aaron said, “a honey even when we built it on the 429 last. But with this improved last, and with the lucite heel… say, do you remember Glockamorra?”

“Yes.”

“There was a shoe,” Aaron said proudly. “But picture it with the lucite heel! That’s the difference, my friend. You stick the lucite heel on it, and you’ve got that honey of a black suede and then this clear plastic. Oh, brother, you’ve got a shoe then!”

“Yes,” Griff said.

“They’re calling it Spindrift,” Aaron said. “From Glockamorra to Spindrift. What does spindrift mean?”

“I don’t know,” Griff said.

“But it clicks anyway, doesn’t it? Sort of a drifty, spinny feel to it, like walking on air. Glockamorra on air. Glockamorra with a lucite heel.”

“What?” Griff said.

“Huh?”

“What did you say?”

“I said… how should I know… why don’t you pay attention?”

Griff was on his feet. “Did you say Glockamorra with a lucite heel? Is that what you said?”

“Yes. Yes, I guess so. Hey, what’s…?”

“You mean this lucite heel pattern is just Glockamorra? It’s just that black suede pump with a lucite heel substitute? Is that all?”