The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  And one worker was even happy enough and bold enough to scribble that on the big red and white and black sign with the silhouette of a Kahn shoe that hung in the new eighth-floor toilet.

  Long Live Titanic!

  And all this while, Griff worked like ten men.

  It would have been impossible to count the number of calls that came from Chrysler the week before Guild Week. The phone seemed to ring every ten seconds. While he was taking one call, another would be waiting on the extension. While he answered the one on the extension, Marge would be taking down the name of a caller he had to phone back. He tried to think about McQuade clearly, but there was too much to be done. He worked like an automaton, getting the information for Chrysler, collating it with the facts Aaron had, running from department to department, trying to see that Cost did its share in the preparations for Guild Week.

  The preparations were enormous. It was as if the company were planning an all-out offensive. He had to admit that the fall line was something spectacular, and he silently congratulated the designers Titanic had brought in, and he also congratulated the men at Chrysler who were in charge of thinking up names for some of the concoctions that flowed from the drawing boards. At the same time, he did not discount the part he and Aaron played in the scheme of things. He had had tussles with designers before, but never so many as he had in that week preceding Guild Week. He had spotted many of the designs as being unfeasible from the moment Chrysler showed him the specifications. From a cost angle, it did not pay to make a shoe which would be prohibitive in price to the retailer. But try to tell that to a designer! Try to say, “Honey, this shoe will cost us sixty bucks to make. Forget it!” Try to tell that to a woman with a pencil stuck behind one ear, a woman who wore thong sandals and a wide blue smock, a woman who gave birth to shoes whenever her pencil touched drawing board. Try to tell her that the impossible twistings of different-colored leathers on a sandal she’d designed was out of the question, that the men and women in Fitting would take fits if they had to figure out her labyrinthine design. Try to tell her that her happy embryo would cause a delightful bottleneck in both Prefitting and Fitting. Try to tell her that on the phone, and then listen to her rave about her fetus, about wanting that shoe in the showing, about simply having to have that shoe in the showing, about killing herself if they could not make a sample of that shoe.

  Or try to straighten out the mess that came from a faulty listing of the type of leather on one of the style sheets. Try to straighten out that goddamned mess, with the publicity director yelling he had it listed as bronze calf, and the Production Department yelling the shoe was listed as brown kid, and the people in charge of Programing yelling they’d already written it up as bronze calf and how could they show a brown kid shoe in its place, and the people in charge of Costumes and Models yelling that the whole damned costume setup was geared for a bronze calf shoe, and how could it possibly, ever possibly, blend well with a brown kid?

  Or try to explain to some egghead from Chrysler that Morrison had been taken off the Colorado-Iowa-etc. territory and that invitations for his accounts had been erroneously sent to him in Alabama-Arkansas-etc. and that new invitations would have to be sent in a hurry, and then listen to all the screaming about there being only so many invitations and how in hell could they possibly, ever possibly, have made such an error? Quentin, where the hell is Quentin? Quentin, get in here right this minute and talk to this blathering idiot from the factory!

  Or try to explain how a 3½-B last had accidentally been pulled for a 4-B sample, and how the shoe had somehow miraculously gone through the factory and come out an unholy mess, and how the model had screamed and fretted when the shoe was put onto her foot, and how the shoe had pinched in eighteen places, and how the whole damned sample had to be made all over again, and all before Guild Week, all before that big monster of a competitive ax descended on their heads.

  And try to explain Cost, just to explain Cost, when Hengman was yelling that his whole “guddem fec’try” was being put in an “oproar” because of a few lousy samples. “Dun’t I got orders to warry abott? What’s so ’mportant abott Gild Wikk, anyhow?” What’s so important, indeed? But try to tell that to Chrysler, and try to tell it to everyone concerned with the gala event, just try to tell them when they all behaved as if it were a dozen Coronation Balls.

  Said the queen!

  She told him about it on the Friday before Guild Week. He had just had a terrific fight with Stiegman at Chrysler, a fight involving the fact that one of the samples still did not fit the model well, and it would look like hell on the foot, and who was going to buy a shoe that looked like hell on a model’s foot, no less?

  He had told Stiegman just what he could do with the shoe, had told him not to bother them about that shoe ever again or he would come down personally and handle the proctological ceremonies himself. He had told Stiegman that he and Aaron had had nothing but tsoris with that goddam shoe from the second they’d received the specifications, and they had already costed it six times, and this was the last time they were running it through the factory, and it was a lousy shoe anyway and only a slight variation from last year’s cocktail pump and it had no place in the line to begin with, so why the hell didn’t Stiegman do just what Griff had suggested, getting the model to help him if he needed any help, and he could do it right in Macy’s window for all Griff cared, and good-by!

  He had slammed down the receiver and shouted, “That goddam idiot! If he calls one more time, so help me—”

  “Temper, temper,” Marge said.

  “Where’s Aaron?” Griff exploded. “Dammit, this always happens when you pass a job on to someone else. He does the job, but you get all the beefs. Why should I have—”

  “He’s with Hengman. Hengman said—”

  “Hengman said, Manelli said, Stiegman said, everybody saying, but nobody doing. This company is beginning to resemble a big Rube Goldberg invention. If a little thing like Guild Week can—”

  “Guild Week is important,” Marge said.

  “Sure, sit there and type away, and offer platitudes. You’ve got nothing to do with Guild Week, so you don’t know what a big pain in the—”

  “Ah, but you’re wrong.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve got a lot to do with Guild Week.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m modeling, Griff.”

  “Sure. And I’m climbing the steeple of the Chrysler Building.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “You mean modeling a shoe? Since when?”

  “McQuade fixed it for me,” she said.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Nope. Why do you think I’ve been out of the office so much lately? I’ve been trying on shoes, Griff. Why, I won’t be in at all on Monday. Rehearsal. And Wednesday afternoon, and all day Thursday.” She saw his face. “Oh, that’s no way to receive my news.”

  “Am I supposed to rejoice? I’m busy enough without having my typist stolen.” He paused. “What do you mean, McQuade fixed it? What have you got to do with McQuade?”

  “Nothing. I mentioned I’d like to model, and he fixed it.”

  “Which shoe?”

  “Naked Flesh.”

  “That’s an appropriate title,” Griff said nastily, immediately sorry afterward.

  Marge flushed. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said stiffly.

  “No? Well, figure it out. McQuade gives nothing for nothing.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said hesitantly. “He’s only doing me a favor.”

  “If you want a piece of advice, Marge, stay away from McQuade. Stay as far away from him as possible. McQuade is poison. I’m talking to you like a father.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” Marge said. “I don’t need any advice.”

  “Well …” He paused, feeling foolish as hell.

  “Well what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Nothing. Go model your
Naked Flesh. Have a good time. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I will,” Marge said.

  “I know you will, so go ahead.”

  “I can’t see what difference it makes to you, anyway.”

  “It doesn’t,” Griff snapped. He was suddenly angry with himself for having assumed the role of her protector. But, at the same time, he felt Marge should understand, and he wasn’t at all sure that she did. He made an attempt to clarify his position, but the words came out clouded and confused. “Just don’t come running to me for help when you find out …”

  “I won’t come running to anyone for help. And I’m not going to find out anything either. I told McQuade I wanted to model, and he was sensible enough to recognize a good pair of legs when he saw them, and so he fixed it for me. If there’s anything wrong with that, I’d like to know just what it is.”

  “The only thing wrong is McQuade,” Griff said. “With McQuade in the picture …”

  “You certainly don’t think much of me, do you?” Marge said angrily.

  “That has nothing to do with it. Look, Marge, I’ve been to these Guild Week festivities before, and I’ve seen a lot of things happen after a few drinks, and McQuade is the kind of guy who—”

  “You’ve made yourself quite clear,” she said.

  “I just don’t like to see a nice kid taken by a son of a bitch like McQuade, that’s all,” he said lamely.

  “Thanks.” She paused. “I can take care of myself.”

  “I hope so.”

  “I can.”

  “All right, take dare of yourself.”

  They were both silent for several moments.

  “I appreciate your concern, Griff,” she said at last.

  “Sure.”

  “I do. Really.”

  “Then please be careful.”

  Marge smiled. “You’ll be there anyway, won’t you? You can protect me from any lustful advances.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  She turned away from him. He did not see the flush on her face. He did not know that she could still feel the vise-like strength of McQuade’s fingers on her thigh, or that the discolored bruise marks had still not vanished. He did not know that his awkward warnings had struck very close to the core of her panic and had only served to heighten it.

  “Where the hell is Aaron?” he asked. “I’m going down, Marge. If he comes back, tell him I’m looking high and low for him, will you?”

  “All right.” She hesitated. “Griff?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  He turned and left the office.

  10

  The buyer from Texas was feeling damned good. The buyer from Texas had been wined and dined all week long, and now it was Julien Kahn’s turn to pick up the tab, and he’d seen nothing but wonderful shoes since he’d come to this wonderful town (not to be compared with San Antone), nothing but wonderful legs, he had to hand it to these big fashion houses, they knew how to entertain a man. And it was Julien Kahn’s turn, and he’d just witnessed their showing, and damn if they didn’t have a wonderful fall line, and moderately priced too, new blood was what any setup really needed. The models had been just as pretty as any he’d seen all week long, with that faintly aloof air about them, and with wonderful legs (but not like Texas gals’ legs!), and the shoes had looked damned good on their feet, and, oh, the liquor these Kahn people served was mighty stimulating stuff, mighty stimulating.

  He wandered around the suite of rooms with a martini glass in his hand. Everybody was in a nice friendly warm glow of friendly warm happiness, everybody all dressed up and chatting with models now that the showing was over, and everybody ready to fill that old glass of his whenever it got empty, and all these nice shining clean young faces, nice bunch of fellers these Kahn people employed, and nice round little backsides on the models, wouldn’t Louise take a fit if she could see him now, here in New York, surrounded by all this?

  Oh, this was going to be a humdinger of a party, better even than the one yesterday had been, had to admit these Kahns had a mighty nice line, lots of business this fall, yessir, with all these snazzy new numbers the industry was turning out, oh, this was going to be a humdinger of a party!

  “If you want my advice, Mr. Silverstein,” Murphy said, “I’d put in my order right now. It’s really only common sense when you figure it out. That base sold well for you last fall, and we’ve given it a lot more class in this fall’s line. So it stands to reason you can’t miss with it.”

  “It was a good seller,” Silverstein said.

  “Don’t take too many, if that’s what’s bothering you. Take thirty pair, split them up fifteen in the blue suede and fifteen in the black. If they go, you can always reorder. But I’d be prepared, Mr. Silverstein, that’s my honest opinion.”

  “… medium heel,” Morrison said. “If you find the high heel isn’t clicking, you’ve always got the medium heel to fall back on. And you’ve got to admit, Mr. Canning, that our line this season is something to knock your eye out, isn’t it?”

  “One of the prettiest I’ve seen,” Canning said.

  “About the sling pump, we can give it to you with or without the rhinestones, that’s the beauty of that particular number. And picture that in your window, Mr. Canning. Together with the alligator lizard number, the one we call Naked Flesh, now, that was a beautiful shoe, wasn’t it? But order now so that we can plan ahead, do you understand? The factory’s going to be cutting soon, and …”

  “… if you want it with a platform, we’ll stick a platform on it. My advice is that you’d ruin the line of the shoe that way.”

  “I get a lot of calls for platforms.”

  “Then order from the platforms we showed you. Why spoil the silhouette of another shoe by sticking a platform on it? I’m talking to you like my brother, Sam, believe me. I’d give you the platform, but that isn’t going to help the shoe, believe me.”

  “We’ve really got something this year,” Canotti was saying to Stiegman. “I’ve been on the road for a good many years now, Dave, but this line is going to sell itself, do you know what I mean? I can sense it when a line’s got that … that zing it needs to push itself over, and this line has got it, I’m telling you.”

  “Yes, I know,” Stiegman said. He watched the redheaded model as she walked around the room, popping olives from martini glasses into her mouth, making a game of seeing how many olives she could chisel from the drinkers. She was something, that redhead. She was something, all right.

  “And what’s more, the buyers like it. The buyers are nuts about what we showed them. Why, that Naked Flesh number alone is enough to put over the line. Give me a suitcase full of that pump, and I’ll sell whatever else you dump into the bag with it.”

  The model had stopped to talk with Manelli. She said something, and then Manelli giggled, and then the redhead reached into his glass and pulled out the olive, like Little Jack Horner, and then she popped it between her lips, and Manelli chuckled again and said something to the brunette who was with him. Who was the brunette anyway? Someone from the factory? Why’d Manelli drag her along?

  “And will the broads go for this line?” Canotti asked. “Will the broads go for it? Dave, they’ll wiggle in positive ecstasy over this line. They will leap for joy.”

  Stiegman smiled. Where’d that redhead go to? Ah …

  “… can build a window around a shoe like that. Mr. Griffin, I don’t know how much you know about the retail end. But window dressing is a very important part of our business. I wouldn’t trade one good window dresser for half a dozen equally good salesmen; now, what do you think of that?”

  “I see what you mean,” Griff said. He looked over to where the redheaded model had just left Manelli and Cara. He had not expected to see Cara at the showings, but he supposed Manelli added a little more self-importance to his comptroller title by lugging along his secretary. He was not disappointed to find her there. He was, in fact, somewhat happy about it. He had not mustered the
courage to ask her out a second time, and this chance meeting at a social gathering was just what he needed to help him over the hurdle. And she looked rather nice, he admitted, much better than she had that night he’d taken her out. She was wearing a low-cut green thing, and he realized abruptly that she owned a very good figure, and he was somewhat startled by the realization. She was also wearing a Julien Kahn sling number, with a rhinestone buckle. Well, hell, there wasn’t a woman in sight who wasn’t wearing a pair of Kahn shoes.

  “… dress the window just right, the good numbers in a prominent spot. Sometimes, we can use a fantastic number, something we know won’t sell too hot, but something that will attract customers to the window. Like that seal-strip job you folks put out last year, that was a good eye-catcher, even if it didn’t sell so hot, do you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” Griff said. “Say.…” He feigned surprise. “Oh, excuse me, I just saw someone I haven’t seen in ages. I wonder if you’d mind …”

  “Not at all, Mr. Griffin, not at all. You fellows turn out a good Scotch and soda, you know? Say, there’s a name for a shoe, huh? Think I’ll get a refill. Go ahead, don’t let …”

  The model was a tall blonde with a monumental pair of breasts. Aaron had come into the room to get the extra package of cigarettes in his coat pocket, expecting the room to be empty, surprised when he found the model there. She turned when he came in, and then she said, “Hi.”

  “Hi,” he said. He looked at her quizzically. “Is it all right to come in?”

  “Sure,” she said. She was wearing a black cocktail dress, and her breasts damn near spilled out the front of it.

  “I just want a package of cigarettes,” he said.