The Spiked Heel

“How? By checking the actual figures with Sal and Morris. They’ve got figures which show what every pair of shoes that ever went through this factory really cost us. No guesswork there, Mr. McQuade, none at all. They know what we paid for material, and they know how much material went into each shoe, and they know what the man got for working on that shoe. Why, how do you think we check our estimates?” Against those figures, and we adjust our price accordingly.”

“In that case, we could base our budget on the actual cost for last year,” McQuade said, spreading his hands at the simplicity of the idea.

“But the actual cost for last year won’t be the actual cost for this year,” Griff said wearily. “Not in a fashion house, can’t you see that? That’s why we have a Cost Department. Look, take this Far Eastern brocade we’re working on now. Do you know what that stuff costs? Forty dollars a yard! All right, we’re now figuring our budgets on a four-month basis. Suppose the next four months is going to be loaded with this brocade, and alligators, and lizards, and Sapphire silks. We get those silks from Spain, you know. Do you honestly think your average cost, estimated or actual, will be the same for those four months as it was for the preceding four months? That’s plain lunacy. I never heard of a budget based on—”

“Titanic does it,” McQuade insisted.

“With your goddam men’s shoes and casuals,” Griff exploded. “This is a fashion house! Your Cost Department is the only department that can keep an eye on trends and adjust the budget accordingly. Your budget must be based on what is actually happening. You can’t possibly base it on a crazy figure you took from last year’s books.”

McQuade smiled for the first time, as if he were happy the conversation had swung back to the books again. “Prove it to me,” he said.

Griff sighed. “And if I don’t?”

McQuade shrugged. “My recommendation is already in.”

“I see.” He paused. “You’ll send my figures to Titanic? You’ll let them judge on the basis of those figures?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll get the figures for you.”

“In a hurry, I hope.”

“I’ll need at least two weeks. Even with Marge and Aaron helping, it’ll take at least two weeks. There’s other work to be done every day, too, you know.”

“Oh yes, I know,” McQuade said, his smiling expanding. “But two weeks sounds fair enough. If your figures prove valid, I’m sure Titanic will veto my recommendation. If not…” He gestured limply with one hand.

“What do you consider ‘valid’?” Griff asked.

“A sizable difference between estimated costs over the past three years. And for last year a sizable difference between average estimated cost and average actual cost.”

“And what do you consider a ‘sizable difference’?” “What do you consider a sizable difference, Griff?”

“I’d say anything over ten cents a pair would be a large enough difference to knock your budget all to hell. But I won’t quibble. I’ll give you twenty cents on a pair.”

“That sounds fair enough, Griff. You know, of course, that I’ll have the figures thoroughly checked before sending them down to Georgia.”

“Of course,” Griff said sourly. He raised his eyes, meeting McQuade’s levelly. “And you know, of course, that I’m not talking through my hat, don’t you? You know these figures are going to prove you wrong.”

McQuade smiled. “We’ll see,” he said. “I suggest you get started as soon as possible.”

“I will,” Griff said.

“Well,” Manelli said, sighing and smiling. “Well, now.”

Griff rose. There seemed no need for further conversation. He nodded his head briefly and walked out of the office. He probably would have gone directly past Cara’s desk had he not noticed her face. He stopped abruptly, staring at her.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

Cara looked up from her desk. Her eyes were wide, and brown… and dead. They were lusterless and dull, emotionless… dead.

“What’s the matter?” he asked again. “Is something wrong?”

“No. No, nothing,” she said.

“You look…”

“I’m leaving Julien Kahn, Griff,” she said. “I’ve already given notice.”

“You are?” he said. “Why?”

She was silent for a long while. Then she said, “I have to.”

“Has Joe been giving you…?”

“No, no, he’s fine. It’s… for myself, Griff. I think… I think this is a dead end; do you know what I mean?”

He watched her eyes. There was no life in her eyes. She seemed to be an empty shell with nothing inside. And then suddenly her eyes clouded, and then they were wet, and he stared at her surprised, wondering what had caused the tears.

“Hey, look,” he said, “what’s the matt—”

“Griff,” she said, “be careful. Please, please be careful.”

“Of what? Hey, come on now. You don’t have to—”

“Of McQuade,” she said, and there was timbre in her voice now, and her eyes sparked momentarily.

“I am careful of him,” Griff said honestly.

“You’re a good guy,” she said, “one of the good guys. Don’t let him destroy you, Griff. He… he can destroy you, you know.”

“Is he the reason…?”

“Promise, Griff,” she said. “Promise you’ll watch yourself.”