The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  Not a lack of knowledge, not a lack of recognition.

  Fear!

  The fear he had tried to explain to Marge when the fear itself was not inside him at the time. But the fear was inside him now, and now he could explain it to her, oh, now he could, now afraid would have meaning, now he could explain this fear that seemed to breed itself automatically whenever McQuade appeared.

  “I hope you don’t mind my waiting for you,” McQuade said.

  He stared at McQuade and said nothing, and his mind went back to what Harley Ford had said in Manelli’s office.

  “When I think what could have happened in this fact’ry if Mistuh Griffin hadn’t had the courage to …”

  He had interrupted Ford even then because the word “courage” had sounded false to his ears. He knew now that he was not courageous, that some animal instinct for survival had taken him down to Georgia, that he was as much afraid of McQuade as he’d ever been. It was, after all, Harley Ford who had put an end to McQuade. Griff had simply run to the protective skirts of Mother, and Mother had handled the problems of the block bully. Well, the bully was back.

  That night on Marge’s fire escape McQuade had become a symbol. But McQuade was not a symbol now. McQuade was a man, and that man stood before him now, and Griff was still afraid, and the fear was a slimy, crawling thing that made him want to vomit.

  It was growing darker rapidly. They were alone in the parking lot, and he wondered why McQuade had waited for him, and he found himself beginning to tremble again. They were alone, and darkness was coming on, and it seemed he had been waiting months for this very moment, this terrible moment when McQuade would crush him once and for all.

  “I didn’t want to leave without saying good-by,” McQuade said.

  “Didn’t you?” He could hear the waver in his voice. He wanted to be inside the car, safe. He wanted to drive away from McQuade and all the evil McQuade represented. He-started to walk toward the driver’s side of the car. McQuade followed close behind him.

  “Now that Kahn and I are through,” he said, “now that even Titanic and I are through, I wanted to say good-by. Properly.”

  The word properly pierced Griff’s mind. He wet his lips and searched McQuade’s face. He could see the darkness spreading itself in long thin fingers around him. For a desperate moment he longed for the reassuring hum of the factory’s machinery behind him, longed for the hot glow of sunlight.

  “I imagine you don’t much give a damn what I think, Griff,” McQuade said, “but remember that I was only trying to do a job, will you? And I did it the only way I knew how. Maybe I made mistakes, but everybody makes mistakes, Griff. You can’t condemn a man for making mistakes, can you?” He paused. Griff unlocked the door and stepped into the car. Quickly McQuade moved around the door, standing so that Griff could not close it.

  “What difference does it make now?” McQuade asked. “You did what you felt you had to do, and now I’m out. But I bear no enmity, believe me. I’m big enough to realize a man can’t bear enmity and go on living with himself, Griff.”

  In the gathering gloom Griff studied McQuade’s face. He wanted to close the car door, lock it, speed away from the lot.

  “Well, I just wanted you to know, Griff,” McQuade said. “And … and I’m glad I waited for you, because good-byes are sometimes all a man has left, do you understand? I know you’re responsible for my being out, but that doesn’t matter. Harley Ford is a good man, and Titanic is a good company, and anything I did … and anything you did … that’s all over now, that’s all water under the bridge, believe me. I didn’t try to hurt anyone deliberately, Griff, no I didn’t. Not even you. And I know you weren’t trying to hurt me. That’s why I can stand here with no malice in my heart and wish you all the luck in the world. I just did the job the way I thought it should be done, that’s all. I hope … well …” He grinned awkwardly. “I hope … well … I hope there are no hard feelings.”

  “What?” Griff asked, a little dazed. “What did you say?”

  He could see McQuade’s smile in the darkness, a dazzling smile now. And then he saw McQuade’s hand reach out, slowly, tentatively, extended for a final handshake.

  “No … hard feelings?” McQuade asked humbly.

  He looked into McQuade’s eyes, and he saw no mockery there. For a moment he was puzzled again and then surprised by the eagerness with which he reached out to take McQuade’s hand.

  McQuade’s fingers closed on his own lightly. “Thanks, Griff,” he said, still smiling.

  And then his eyes tightened, and Griff saw all the filth of Jefferson McQuade in those eyes an instant before his grip tightened on Griff’s hand. The eyes gleamed with naked hatred and frustrated power, and as McQuade’s fingers closed, Griff thought with sick panic, I’ve been fooled again. I’ve learned nothing, nothing.

  And then a new realization came to him, and he knew why he had taken McQuade’s hand. Not because he’d been fooled.

  Only because he’d been afraid.

  Only because he and McQuade were alone in a dark, deserted lot, and only because he was afraid of what McQuade might do to him. He had taken the hand eagerly, wanting to dispense with McQuade once and for all, but now he knew the fear was still within him, and he knew he would never be rid of McQuade until he was rid of the fear.

  He remembered the Guild Week party, and the pressure of McQuade’s hand then, and he remembered he had wanted to cry out something then, not knowing what to cry.

  He tried to pull his hand back now, but McQuade’s grip was firm, and he felt his knuckles yield to the pressure and suddenly he knew what he wanted to shout. He wanted to shout, “Don’t be afraid! God damn it, don’t be afraid!” and when the words came to him, he tried to put them on his tongue.

  They rolled into his mouth, but only a single word escaped his lips, and that word was “Don’t!”

  McQuade seemed not to hear him. He saw the horrible look on the Southerner’s face, and in that same instant he felt himself being pulled from the car, his body powerless to stop the pulling force of McQuade’s grip.

  McQuade gave a sudden yank, and he toppled from the driver’s seat and onto the pavement, trying to break his fall with his suddenly released hand. The full weight of his body landed on his right hand, and for a second he thought the hand was broken. Dizzily, he got to his knees, and that was when McQuade kicked him.

  The foot seemed to materialize out of the darkness, speeding for Griff’s face. He gasped when he saw the foot, and then he tried to bring up his hands to stop the kick, but it was too late. He felt the excruciating agony of the blow, and he fell back against the side of the car, feeling the blood spurt hotly from his nose.

  McQuade hovered over him, his fists clenched.

  “Get up, you bastard!” he roared.

  Griff shook his head, trying to clear it. He saw McQuade stoop, and then McQuade’s fist tightened in his shirt front, lifting, pulling, dragging him to his feet. McQuade struck him, and Griff’s arms flailed back as he slammed into the car again. Again McQuade hit him, and again and again. He felt McQuade’s heavy blows, felt the terrible power of his fists, and curiously he thought, This is it, now it will be all over. He felt as if he were falling for a very long time from someplace very high up, and then his back hit the hard, unyielding substance of the lot, and he lay there breathing heavily, his shirt torn, his nose bleeding, his eyes puffed and swollen.

  And then McQuade shouted something different: “Get up, frat boy!”

  He did not understand McQuade’s words. He lay on the concrete, watching the Southerner. Strangely, he felt very calm. Strangely, behind his battered face, his mind was functioning quite calmly, and his mind was echoing his own words, and the words said, “We allowed him to grind one man, and once he’d done that, he’d ground us all.”

  He sat up slowly. His face ached, and his hand ached, but he sat up slowly, and he looked at McQuade, and he said very softly, “What’s the worst you can do, McQuade? Kill me?”
<
br />   McQuade grinned. “I like spunky little bastards,” he said, and he reached down for Griff and yanked him to his feet. He swung, and his fist ripped flesh from Griff’s cheekbone, and Griff staggered back a few paces and then stood his ground, planting his feet, clenching his fists.

  “That’s what you’re gonna have to do,” he said. “You’re gonna have to kill me, McQuade, do you hear? Come on, McQuadel Come on!” he shouted. “Kill me! Come kill me, you dirty son of a bitch! I’m not afraid of you any more. Can you hear me?”

  McQuade charged, swinging wildly, infuriated by Griff’s sudden show of defiance. Griff swung at McQuade’s middle, catching him solidly. McQuade grunted and then doubled over, his arms circling his abdomen. Griff brought his fist up from the ground in a powerful swinging uppercut that caught McQuade on the jaw and opened him up like a jackknife.

  The blow hurt. McQuade whirled with a shocked, pained look on his face, and then the shock fled because Griff was swinging again. McQuade saw the punch coming, and his eyes opened wide, and then the fist collided with his mouth, and he backed off and said, “Hey!” involuntarily, and suddenly he was spitting blood, and just as suddenly Griff was hitting him again.

  “Hey!” he said again, and Griff pounded at his face, and McQuade shook his head. “Don’t!” he shouted, but Griff would not let up. He had seen something in McQuade’s eyes the moment McQuade had whirled, and he knew what that something had been. He knew because he had recognized it.

  Fear.

  And so he punched out at McQuade’s face until McQuade brought up his hands in surrender, and then he seized McQuade’s jacket front and began shaking the Southerner, shaking him until his head wobbled back and forth on his shoulders, shaking him as if he would shake the very soul out of him, shaking him with a deadly cold, contained fury until his wrists and his arms ached. And then he pushed McQuade away from him.

  “Get out of here,” he said hoarsely. “Get out.”

  McQuade wiped the blood from his mouth. He stared at Griff for a moment, and Griff shouted, “Get out!” and then McQuade turned and started off across the lot.

  Griff watched. He was suddenly trembling again, but not with fear this time. With sudden clarity he realized that there’d never been anything to fear, and the knowledge amused him. He began laughing, an uncontrolled laughter that was a mixture of relief and happiness and amazement and triumph. But most of all, it was a laugh of self-respect because it was the laugh of a healthy man.

  And when his laughter died, he went to his car and backed it around so that it was pointed toward the opening in the gate. His headlights swept the empty lot.

  McQuade was gone.

  The sky behind the JULIEN KAHN, Fashion Shoes, sign was studded with stars. He looked at the sign, and the stars, and he threw a fast salute as he drove out of the lot.

  About the Author

  Ed McBain is one of the many pen names of legendary author Evan Hunter (1926–2005). Named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America, Hunter is best known for creating the long-running 87th Precinct series, which followed an ensemble cast of police officers in the fictional city of Isola. A pioneer of the police procedural, he remains one of the best-loved mystery novelists of the twentieth century. Hunter also wrote under the pseudonyms Richard Marsten, Hunt Collins, John Abbott, Ezra Hannon, Curt Cannon, and others.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1959 by Ed McBain

  Cover design by Jason Gabbert

  ISBN: 978-1-5040-3924-6

  This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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