The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  “Do it,” McQuade said. He paused, thinking a moment. “There’s one other thing.”

  “What’s that?” Neggler asked apprehensively.

  “We’ve been giving a two and a half per cent discount to the retailers, that discount to be used for local advertisement, am I right?”

  “Yes. We’ve found that we can absorb that loss by the increased volume of—”

  “We’ll boost the discount to five per cent,” McQuade said.

  “Fi—that’s a … that’s a big chunk for local advertising.”

  “It’s not a big chunk,” McQuade corrected. “Not if we can sell this shoe. I want this shoe to hit women in the eye wherever they look. Do they read the Ladies’ Home Journal? All right, I want an ad there. Do they read the Oshkosh Despatch-Courier? Fine! The local retailer will be advertising in the paper, with cuts supplied by us, with monies supplied by our five per cent discount. If this shoe catches on, we may even take car cards in trains and buses. I’m bucking for a landslide sale, can you understand that? I want everyone to know that Julien Kahn is on its feet, and that Julien Kahn is going to push forward from now on. I want Naked Flesh to be the biggest-selling shoe we’ve ever made. I want Naked Flesh to lure those women into the shops, pull them, seduce them into the shops. I want them to buy that shoe, and I want them to ogle the rest of our line, and the rest of our line will take care of itself! Get started, Andy. They’re a lot of people I’ve got to see yet!”

  Dave Stiegman sat opposite McQuade, watching him. He felt uncomfortable in McQuade’s presence. No man had a right to be so big or so handsome. No man had a right to be such a powerhouse. A man like McQuade should have had the antitrust law clamped down on him.

  “I want you to get copy out to your salesmen,” McQuade said. “I want you to get copy out to them every day.”

  “Every day?”

  “From now until our ads break in July. I want them goosed every day, Dave, a different way each day. I want Naked Flesh burned into their minds, do you understand? I want them impressed with the fact that this is going to be a big shoe, a shoe they must push. And in order to do that, I want enthusiasm, genuine enthusiasm!”

  “Well, Mac, we can’t generate enthusiasm where there is none, you realize that.”

  “But there is enthusiasm for this shoe. You saw that at the Guild Week showings.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” Stiegman conceded.

  “All right, I want that enthusiasm kept red hot. I want these men to pour into the retail shops with the purpose of selling one shoe and one shoe alone: Naked Flesh.”

  “What about the rest of our line?” Stiegman asked dubiously.

  “They’ll sell that, too, of course,” McQuade said irritably.

  “It just sounded as if you—”

  “Never mind what it sounded like. I want them to sell this shoe. I want you to get sales notices out to them every day—every day—Dave! By the time our ads break, I want the salesmen and the retailers to be red hot! In short, Dave, I want to see those orders pouring in soon. Damned soon.”

  “We’ve got orders already,” Stiegman said, “without any pressure.”

  “I don’t call those orders,” McQuade said.

  “Why, we got a five-hundred-pair order just the other day from a retail chain. Six stores in the chain, Mac, and that’s a nice order.”

  “By the time our ads break,” McQuade said, “I want that chain to have ordered five thousand pairs.”

  Stiegman smiled. “That would be nice, sure.”

  “Dave, I don’t think you understand me,” McQuade said. “I’m not dreaming. I’m not hoping this shoe will bring in five-thousand-pair orders from a six-store chain. I’m banking on it. It better do what I expect it to do!”

  Stiegman considered this for a moment. “Well, okay,” he said, “whatever you say. If you’re expecting this to be such a big thing, though, perhaps you’d best check it with Boris. If we take orders, we’ve got to meet delivery dates, you know. Boris’ll know what the production setup is.” Stiegman paused. “Although Sales usually checked this with Griff. He was a sort of go-between for us, knowing the factory the way—”

  “I’ve already told Boris I want to see him,” McQuade interrupted.

  “We can only make de shoe so fast,” Hengman said. “I dun’t care, Mec, if this is my Nekkid Gran’mudder, we can still only make it so fest.”

  “How fast, Boris?”

  “How fest?” Hengman shrugged. “It depends on how many woods we got in de shop.”

  “Woods? Oh, lasts. Well, how many do we have?”

  “Jost a minute, which lest are we using alraddy on det shoe?” Hengman snapped his fingers impatiently. “Griffie knows. I’ll cull Griffie.”

  “Never mind Griff,” McQuade said. “You know the last. Think.”

  Hengman thought. “Twelve eighty-four, I think,” he said. “Nekkid Flash? Mmmm, yas, twelve eighty-four.”

  “And how many pairs do we have?”

  “Twelve eighty-four, det’s d’one. Now you want t’know how many woods we got, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You wait a sacond, end I’ll check in the uffice reputt.” He went to his desk and rummaged through the papers on it, coming up with a dittoed sheet. “Here,” he said. He glanced down the list of figures on the sheet. “Twelve eighty-four, here it is. We got fifteen t’ousand two hundert fifty woods.”

  “Those are pairs, am I right?”

  “Yas, certainly.”

  “That’s fine,” McQuade said, grinning. “We’re turning out three thousand pair of shoes a day now. With a five-day week, that means we can turn out fifteen thousand pair of Naked Flesh each week. And, luckily, we’ve got more than enough lasts.” He kept grinning. Hengman looked at him curiously.

  “You kidding me, Mec?” he asked at last.

  “Kidding? Why, no.” McQuade frowned. “What makes you think I’m kidding?”

  “Wull … I mean, you know we got udder shoes t’make, too, you know det, dun’t you?”

  “Of course I know that.”

  “So if we turnin’ out tree t’ousand pair a day, det dun’t mean we turnin’ out tree t’ousand pair of Nekkid Flash.”

  “Oh.” McQuade’s frown deepened. “Yes, of course. Silly of me.”

  “Ulso, we got fifteen t’ousand two hunert fifty pair of the twelve eighty-four lest, but we ain’t makin’ Nekkid Flash alone on dis lest. Mebbe we makin’ twenty udder shoes, too, on it.”

  “I see.”

  “So we’re lucky d’fect’ry can turn out mebbe two t’ousand pair dis shoe each wik.”

  “Unless, of course,” McQuade said, “we begin juggling our lasts around.”

  “Mebbe it can be made on anudder lest, mebbe not. In any case, dis’s an expansive muhterial we workin’ wit. D’cutter can only cut so fest. Mistakes can be custly. We like they should take their time wit’ expansive goods.”

  “I see,” McQuade said.

  “R’member, Mec. It takes six wiks to run a shoe t’rough dis fect’ry. Six wiks. No metter which lest we use. Six wiks.”

  “We’ll take the orders,” McQuade said suddenly. “We’ll take the orders and, by Christ, we’ll fill them.”

  “We batter fill dem,” Hengman said. “You twenty, thirty days late on a delivery, it can mean d’retailuh’s season is over. You know what he can do wit’ his shoes den, dun’t you?”

  “What?” McQuade asked.

  “The same ting he’ll tell us t’do wit’ dem.”

  “We’ll meet delivery dates, don’t worry,” McQuade said.

  “One udder ting I’m warned abott,” Hengman said. “I tink you should warry abott it, too, when you takin’ your orders.”

  “What’s that?” McQuade asked.

  “D’whole demn fect’ry goes on vacetion July futh.”

  Peter Magistro was the leather buyer for Julien Kahn.

  Peter Magistro was the man who had purchased the alligator lizard skins for Naked Flesh.r />
  “We’re going to get swamp orders on this shoe,” McQuade told him. “I want you to get out there and buy all the alligator lizard you can get your hands on.”

  “I’ll do my best, naturally,” Magistro said, “but—”

  “I know you’ll do your best,” McQuade told him.

  “But—”

  “We’ve got to have the material to meet orders on this shoe. I don’t want any bottlenecks resulting from a shortage of material. I don’t want cutters sitting around waiting for skins.”

  “Mr. McQuade,” Magistro said patiently, “I can appreciate the urgent demand, but generally I’m given a little more advance warning. If Sales or Cost expect a shoe to be a big item, they generally—”

  “Sales expects this shoe to be a big item,” McQuade said.

  “Yes, I understand that. So why didn’t Griff come to me sooner and tell me what we’d be needing—”

  “Griff is now working as tracer,” McQuade said. “This matter is not in Griff’s hands.”

  “Well, someone should have come to me sooner,” Magistro said.

  “I’m coming to you now,” McQuade answered.

  Magistro sighed. “Mr. MacQuade, this isn’t a piece of crap leather we’re dealing with. This is alligator lizard, expensive stuff. It’s costing me about twenty-seven cents an inch, and there’s probably between twenty-eight and thirty inches of the stuff in a shoe. It doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “I didn’t imagine it did.”

  “Okay, then you can appreciate my problem. I’ve got to pick out skins that are good, you know. The grain is very important on a reptile. I can’t shop for these the way I’d shop for junk.”

  “The skins you’ve purchased so far are excellent.”

  “Sure, I know that. What I’m trying to say, you’re not giving me very much time. You expect orders to begin piling up before July first. Okay, so you give me a couple of weeks to pick out a batch of quality skins at a reasonable price. That may not be so easy. You got to remember that a selling price has already been established on this shoe. We can take a beating if those skins cost us too much.”

  “The selling price is the Sales Division’s headache,” McQuade said. “We’re operating on a cost-plus basis here in Factory.”

  “Mr. McQuade,” Magistro said, “you’ll excuse me, won’t you, but if Sales takes a beating, Julien Kahn takes a beating. Besides, we’re operating on average cost now, aren’t we?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure,” Magistro said. “So if these skins go up in price, this single shoe can jack up the average cost a great deal. And then Factory will be in a hole, too. You got to remember, Mr. MacQuade, that Griff worked out a selling price for this shoe on the basis of a normal run. If we get caught in a squeeze, if those skin prices zoom up—”

  “Never mind Griff,” McQuade said. “You just go buy your goddam skins!”

  There was a baby.

  The baby had been conceived somewhere in the mind of a besandaled and besmocked designer when the sperm of imagination sparklingly united with the egg of foresight. The baby was squeezed into life on a drawing board, slapped by the factory obstetricians until it let out an alligator lizard sample yell, and then was held up for everyone to see. There was a party, and the baby was exhibited to all the out-of-towners who had come especially for the occasion. The baby’s relatives passed out cigars and drinks, and the relatives all commented on the baby’s style and grace, and the out-of-towners agreed that this was some baby, that this was a baby built for beauty, comfort, and durability.

  The baby was named Naked Flesh.

  And somewhere along the line, it had been taken out of the hands of its parents and relatives and adopted by the man from Titanic, adopted by Jefferson McQuade, who promptly pumped the tyke full of vitamins and minerals, taught it to gurgle and then to talk, taught it to walk and then to run, all before the little dear was two months old.

  By June 15 the baby had come into its own.

  By June 15 the orders began pouring into the Chrysler Building.

  18

  Because Griff was back at his old job of tracer, because this job took him to every corner of the factory, he had the opportunity to observe what was happening with Naked Flesh—the way a doctor observes the fever of an epidemic while making his weary rounds.

  And because Cost would have kept a close watch on the production of a shoe, because problems would automatically have been brought to Cost, because Griff knew the factory, because Griff was a friend—everyone came to him now with their troubles. Even those who had turned on him, even those now turned to him in their desperation.

  “He’s canceled all vacations!” Manelli said. “Griff, he has cancelled all vacations!”

  “He can’t do that,” Griff said. “The union’ll jump on his back so hard he’ll—”

  “I told him that. I told him our contract calls for a two-week vacation for all factory personnel. He said the contract does not specify when this vacation shall be granted. He says we’ll never meet orders oh Naked Flesh if the factory lays off for two weeks.”

  “He’s right. The retailers are snapping up that shoe as if it were—”

  “Sure, but what am I supposed to tell the workers? Griff, they’ve been planning on this vacation all year! They’ve made reservations! Don’t you think this’ll upset schedules? Griff, what can I do?”

  “I don’t know,” Griff said helplessly.

  “I knew this would happen, Griff,” Magistro said. “His orders are pouring in, and we’re short on skins. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

  “I don’t understand,” Griff said. “What’s the trouble?”

  “I’m the leather buyer for this goddam firm. I’m supposed to make the purchases. All right, you Cost fellows always gave me enough time to do what I had to do. Now he’s got this damn Naked Flesh sweeping the country and it’ll be worse when our ads break next week. He’s got the retailers hot, and next week he’ll have the consumers hot, and I’m supposed to have enough skins to meet these tremendous orders that are coming in. Okay, okay, I can buy the skins.”

  “Then what’s the problem, Pete?”

  “They’re crap! That’s the problem. They’re crap, and I’ve got to pay thirty-five cents an inch for them!”

  “Thirty-five cents!” Griff said. “Pete, that’ll knock our selling price way out of line!”

  “Tell that to the dealers, Griff. They know they’ve got me over a barrel, they know I must have those skins. Before this started, I was getting good stuff for twenty-seven cents. Now they want thirty-five cents for crap! And I’ve got to take it. What happens when the cutters get this stuff? How the hell are they going to make a quality shoe out of garbage?”

  “I’ll talk to Sven,” Griff said. “I’ll see what he …”

  “Sure, and I’ll buy the skins,” Magistro said. “McQuade’s the boss, and he said buy whatever I can get my hands on. So I’ll buy. But don’t ask me what the hell this is going to do to the cost and the quality of the shoe! Damn it, Griff, I wish there was something we could do. I just wish there was something we could do!”

  In the Cutting Room, Sven Jored lifted a piece of alligator lizard from one of the benches and held it out so that Griff could see it.

  Griff studied the skin. He shook his head wearily.

  “Even if the men were on straight time, they wouldn’t be careful with skins like these.”

  “What do you mean? Has McQuade …?”

  “He’s put my cutters on piecework! Piecework with reptiles! He says he wants faster production and can’t afford a bottleneck in the Cutting Room! He says orders are piling up, says we have to meet delivery dates. So look at the way they’re cutting! They’re breaking their asses to get that money. Reptiles! On piecework! Griff, can’t we do something about this? Is he trying to ruin the company?”

  In the Pattern Room, Stan Zibinsky took Griff aside and said, “Sweetheart, your Georgia cracker is driving me nuts.”r />
  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. Except he ain’t going to meet delivery dates on this Naked bitch.”

  “Why not?”

  “We ain’t got enough lasts. We’re using the 1284’s, but we’re making about ten other shoes on that thing besides the Naked bitch. We can turn out about two thousand pairs of that shoe a week. He’s getting orders for at least five thousand. That means he needs more lasts. We can’t free more than about three hundred woods a day for his goddam shoe. He wants more. So he’s got me nuts shifting lasts around.”

  “Which lasts?” Griff asked.

  “He switched three shoes to the 1701. Another two shoes to the 1470. Griff, I tell you the truth, I don’t know if we can make those shoes properly on substitute lasts. What the hell happens when our shoes reach the consumer?”

  “I hate to think,” Griff said.

  “And the worst part,” Zibinsky said, “even after we’re done shifting these other shoes, we still ain’t got enough lasts! If that bastard meets delivery dates, it’ll be a miracle. I told Hengman. I told him just what the story is. Hell, Griff, I don’t want to lose my job because this stupid bastard is ruining our shoes!”

  “Griffie!” Hengman said. “Where the hull you been? What’s so ’mportant in d’fect’ry, you can’t stey here in d’uffice?”

  “I’ve been checking production on—”

  “Listen to what your frand McQued wants!” Hengman said. “He wants I should order anudder five t’ousand pair of the 1284 woods. He wants I should hev dem made opp.”

  “Another five thousand pair. Jesus Christ, does he know what that’ll cost us? Five thousand pair’ll run at least—”

  “He knows, he knows. He says dis’s ah big shoe. He says we got t’hev more lests. Griffie, what’ll we do wit all dem woods if d’shoe is ah flop? Griffie, what I’m gung to do?”

  “Well … I don’t know, Boris.”

  “I ordered dem. I ordered five t’ousand woods made opp. He said so, didn’t he? He’s d’boss, ain’t he? All right, so he’s d’boss. So let him have de enswers!”