The Spiked Heel

But squiring a batch of shapely virginal high-school girls through the building (amid whistling and catcalls from the men working the machines) was a little different from showing around a Georgian representative of Titanic Shoe Corporation of America. He realized abruptly that he knew very little about Titanic, and he suddenly wondered why they were sending up a man, and so fast on the heels of G.K.’s department. He knew the Georgians had infested the Chrysler Building suite, but somehow he had not expected them to bother with the factory. He realized this was faulty reasoning, because he knew the heart of any company was the manufacturing end, but he had deluded himself up to now, and he felt a strange sort of panic while awaiting the Georgian.

He wrangled with his thoughts and decided he was making a mountain out of a molehill. This would probably be, as Hengman had suggested, a short inspection tour, after which Jefferson McQuade would sneak back down to the land of the Dixie Cup.

He calmed himself, and then his panic instantly returned when he heard footsteps down the hallway. He began straightening his desk, and Marge glanced at him curiously, and he wished Aaron were in the office, where the hell was Aaron, and then Benny Pollack walked in.

“Oh,” he said, sighing, “hello, Benny.”

“Hello, handsome,” Benny answered. Benny was foreman of the Lasting Department, a job which required infinite patience and skill. He came into the office wearing his shop apron now, smelling of the compo cement which smothered the atmosphere in his end of the building. Benny, even though his last name was Pollack, was called Benny Compo by everyone in the factory.

“So what’s on your mind?” Griff asked, glancing at the door.

“Nothing. I stopped next door to pick up my pay envelope, and I thought I’d drop in to say hello. What’s the matter, you antisocial?”

Griff smiled. Foremen, unlike the workers who were paid right on the factory floor where their envelopes were distributed by a policeman-accompanied young lady, came directly to the cage in Payroll for their weekly salaries. He had grown used to Benny Compo’s visits, but now, expecting the Georgian, he looked at Benny uneasily, and then he glanced again at the open doorway.

Benny caught the glance. “You expecting someone?” he asked.

“Well, yes.”

“Someone important?”

“From Georgia,” Griff said, nodding.

“Titanic?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” Benny thought this over a moment. “Well, I’ll take off then, huh, Griff? Titanic, huh?”

“Yop.”

“Mmm. Well, I’ll see you, Griff.”

He smiled and waved, backing out of the office and almost colliding with the man who stood in the doorway. Benny mumbled something hastily, and then fled down the corridor. The man in the door frame smiled and then looked into the office inquisitively.

He was certainly the most impressive-looking man Griff had ever seen. He filled the door frame with his body, making Griff feel short, somehow, even though he knew he stood at an even six feet. The man was at least six-four, magnificently built, wearing an oxford-gray suit that seemed inadequate across the breadth of his shoulders. He was the kind of man Griff automatically pictured in dungarees and T-shirt, hauling in sail on a yacht, laughing at the sun, his muscles rippling with sinuous grace. He had straight blond hair, bleached brighter by the sun at the left-hand part, combed simply to the right with no attempt to conceal its straightness, no bid for a frivolous pompadour or fingermade wave. His face was lean and tanned, with high bronzed cheekbones and a narrow mouth, a straight nose rushing up to meet blond eyebrows and steel-gray eyes. A white button down shirt went with the gray suit, and a silk gold-and-black striped tie was pinned to the shirt with a small gold fleur-de-lis clasp.

Griff had never given much consideration to his own looks. He knew he was not handsome in the movie-star tradition, and there were mornings — when a thick beard came between him and his mirrored reflection — when he considered himself downright ugly. He knew he had black hair and brown eyes, and he knew that his nose was straight, and he sensed that his mouth was fairly decent as mouths went, with perhaps too thin an upper lip. He weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and he’d have liked to weigh a hundred and ninety or so, but he’d always felt comfortable in his body, and he’d never been really unhappy with his face.

The man standing in the door frame, though, made him feel suddenly inadequate. The man standing there was a toothpaste ad, and a body-building ad, and a well-dressed man ad. The man standing there looked as if he’d be equally at home with an elephant gun or a martini glass in his hands. He blotted out the door frame, and he blotted out the corridor beyond the door, and he damn near overpowered the office with sheer physical strength.

“Mr. Griffin?” he asked.