The Longer the Thread

by Emma Lathen

  Again Zimmerman froze briefly. “Sometimes we air-freight runs up,” he said. “If you miss the right season, you’ve lost most of your sales.”

  The conversation proceeded politely until Zimmerman rose to leave. It had a curiously lopsided quality. Olmsted’s leading remarks about Slax’s model plant in Puerto Rico, like Thatcher’s few civil questions, simply prompted Harry Zimmerman to move the discussion into different channels.

  “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” said Thatcher, once Olmsted returned from escorting his client to the elevator. “He seems curiously reluctant to talk about Puerto Rico, doesn’t he, Pete?”

  Olmsted was obviously puzzled. “Harry didn’t sound like himself. The other day—hell, you couldn’t shut him up about what they’re doing down there.”

  Thatcher saw with some amusement that Pete Olmsted had forgotten the contest about territorial imperatives. He was back in the garment trade with a vengeance. A good thing, too, Thatcher thought. Zimmerman was a hardheaded businessman. Any successful manufacturer of ladies’ slacks had to be rooted in reality—in wages and output, in price lines and advertising budgets.

  What would make that kind of man turn evasive about his modern facility in Puerto Rico?

  “It might be worth the Sloan’s time,” Thatcher suggested, “to find out.”

  Chapter 2.

  Following a Pattern

  Ten miles outside San Juan, there were three men who could have explained Harry Zimmerman’s reluctance to talk about Puerto Rico. They were sitting in the Bayamón office of Slax Unlimited staring gloomily at a table on which lay a rumpled pair of white slacks.

  “Harry airmailed them down so we could see for ourselves,” David Lippert explained unnecessarily. He sighed before adding, “I guess there isn’t any doubt about it.”

  “None at all.” With fastidious distaste Cesar Romero used a pencil to prod the exhibit away from his end of the table. “How many pairs did you say have been returned?”

  “Four thousand, so far,” Lippert muttered.

  “Christ!” Eric Marten was a vociferous, exuberant man, in good times and in bad. “That’s just in the last ten days, too. We may end up with the whole run back on our hands.”

  David Lippert was about to protest, but he was cut off by Romero.

  “That, I should say, is inevitable. I still don’t know what went wrong. But the entire run was handled the same way. So all the slacks must have been affected.” As production manager for Slax he spoke with authority.

  “Well, we’d better find out what the trouble was—and fast.” Marten paused to scrape a kitchen match savagely and light a long black cigar. “I suppose that’s what Harry’s howling for.”

  Lippert shifted slightly as the other two men turned to him. “Yes. But Harry wants Norma sitting in on this. She should be here any minute.”

  “Of course,” Romero murmured with instant courtesy.

  “Fine, fine!” Marten said too heartily.

  David Lippert silently cursed. He was younger than the other men and, in theory at least, their superior. Usually the situation created no problems. Romero was busy with the production line. Eric Marten, Slax’s commercial manager, was almost always in motion, overseeing the arrival of raw materials, conferring with government officials, expediting the flow of finished goods to New York. When they met in conference each had his own area of expertise, and Lippert could forget that he was general manager because he was the husband of Norma Zimmerman Lippert. That is, he could until Harry regarded affairs as critical enough to require the participation of Norma herself. These occasions were an agony to David. Over the past year, his malaise had infected the other two.

  “I suppose she knows what’s happened?” Romero prompted.

  “Harry’s explained it to her in general. God knows,” Lippert burst out, “it’s not all that complicated. We did a big run for the cruise season. White nautical bell bottoms, with navy-blue accent stitching. Harry gave it a big promotion, with spreads in all the Sunday supplements and the magazines. The ads pushed the easy care of these slacks. You know—machine-washable, tumble-dry, no-iron.” He ended with a groan.

  “And now,” Romero concluded for him, “it has developed that the navy-blue thread was not dye-fast. The first time the slacks are washed, the color runs and they are ruined.”

  Eric Marten mashed his cigar out and flicked it into a wastebasket. “Great!” he summarized.

  Just then they were interrupted. Norma Lippert arrived with a rush.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said breathlessly. “But traffic from Isla Verde is getting worse and worse.”

  As she spoke, she brushed a lock of sleek auburn hair from her face. Tall and slender, with elegant wrists and ankles, Norma looked more like a model for Slax than its part owner. Not that this status absorbed much of her attention. She was far more interested in raising her two young children and making a happy home.

  For Norma was the optimist of the Lippert family. Unlike her husband, she had never doubted for a moment that he was ready to take charge of Slax’s new plant here in Bayamón. She had known that she would enjoy living in Puerto Rico. She expected David Lippert to be a great success.

  Nevertheless, she brought a certain forthrightness to everything she did. She wasted no time on preliminaries. Before the men reseated themselves she was saying, “Harry told me all about the returns. How big was our run?”

  “Nine thousand,” her husband replied tersely.

  “My God! How did it happen?”

  “That’s what we’re going to find out.” Lippert turned to his production manager. “Cesar, this is your territory. I don’t mean it’s your fault, but you must have some idea how the bobbins could have been loaded with the wrong thread.”

  “They weren’t.”

  “What?” Lippert stared.

  Cesar Romero remained composed. It was very rare that he was anything else. An assured man with classic Latin features, he moved through the daily maelstrom of the production floor always calm, always correct, always slightly reserved.

  “The only navy-blue thread we should have had in sufficient quantity was exactly the thread we ordered for this run. We can check the inventory records, if you wish. But you’ll come to the same conclusion. There can’t have been any mistake about loading the bobbins.”

  The frown cleared from Lippert’s face as if by magic.

  “But that’s wonderful, Cesar!” he said enthusiastically. “That means it wasn’t our fault. The supplier must have sent us the wrong thread. Don’t you see? Harry can get our lawyers after Crockers. We can sue them if they sent us non-colorfast thread.”

  Romero was strangely unresponsive. It was left to Norma to sound a warning note.

  “But that can’t be right, David,” she said in bewilderment. “Crockers doesn’t make any thread that isn’t dye-fast. They haven’t for over twenty years.”

  Lippert subsided. For a moment he failed to see the alarming implications of her statement. He was trying to suppress his irritation. It was somehow unfair that Norma, with her very casual interest in Slax, should know more about the garment trade than he did. But Norma’s father had talked about women’s ready-to-wear at the dinner table. David’s father was a dentist.

  Eric Marten was not deflected by side issues. “I’d like to get this clear. Cesar says the junk thread can’t have been loaded by mistake at the plant. Now Norma says it can’t have been supplied by mistake because there isn’t any at the supplier’s. Where in hell did it come from?”

  “You mean there wasn’t any mistake at all?” Lippert was following the argument, almost reluctantly. “You mean it was done deliberately?”

  “Let us go a little more slowly,” Romero suggested. “I said there wasn’t any other navy-blue thread in the shop. Is there any possibility there is some at the warehouse, Eric? I don’t know what you’ve advance-ordered for the spring line. I confess I don’t see how they could get substituted, but it is worth considering.�
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  Eric Marten was apologetic as he shook his head. “No. I don’t blame you for wanting to cross out all possibilities, Cesar. But it won’t work. There isn’t any navy thread at the docks. This was no accident.”

  “All right, then let’s face it.” David Lippert sounded grim. “You’re saying this was a piece of spite work. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out who has a grudge against us. First we’ll get a list of everyone on the payroll who might have access to the bobbins. Then we’ll run through their records with the foremen. Then, if necessary, we can have them on the carpet, one by one. We’ll get the guy who did this.”

  There was an awkward lull following David’s forceful statement. Norma looked impressed by his decisiveness, as she always did. But, for Eric and Cesar, David’s words touched another sore point at Slax. David did not speak Spanish. This meant that he was severely limited in his dealings with Slax personnel. Some of the staff spoke English, but most did not. In order to communicate with the women who worked the sewing machines or the men in the cutting room, David Lippert had to rely on interpreters.

  Cesar Romero did not point out that what David proposed, somebody else would have to implement. Instead he said, “No, I am afraid we cannot do that.”

  “Why not?” David shot back.

  “At the moment,” said Romero, “we have to walk very softly.”

  Eric Marten intervened. “Cesar’s talking about the plebiscite,” he said bluntly. “Until it’s over, we all have to be very careful about how we deal with the line. And the foremen.”

  Lippert was impatient. “What the hell does a lousy plebiscite have to do with somebody sneaking junk thread onto our bobbins?”

  There was another awkward silence. Most people who had arrived in Puerto Rico a week ago, let alone two years ago, knew the answer to that question.

  “The plebiscite,” Eric Marten said overpatiently, “has something to do with everything that happens in Puerto Rico these days.”

  His tone made Lippert flush, but Norma was eager to understand.

  “I’m not sure that I follow you, Eric,” she said. “According to the papers, there isn’t much doubt that people are going to vote overwhelmingly to keep commonwealth status for Puerto Rico. They say the statehood party doesn’t really have much of a chance. And neither do the people who want independence.”

  “That is probably correct,” Romero agreed.

  But Marten was not inclined to gloss over the subject. “Every day things get more complicated, Norma,” he said. “Both the independents and the statehood boys are putting on a big campaign.”

  “Oh, I know, I know,” she said quickly. “All that advertising—”

  “They’re crazy,” said David Lippert sourly. “They don’t know when they’ve got a good thing.”

  Marten again took up the cudgels. “It really is complicated, David. The independence and statehood parties don’t expect to win. They’re building support for the next elections.”

  “Cheap politicians,” David said resentfully. “Everybody with any sense wants to keep Puerto Rico a commonwealth.”

  “The business community, yes,” said Romero. “But there are others. And not only cheap politicians.”

  “Well, we’re not here to talk politics,” said Eric Marten. “But what Cesar is not saying is that feelings are running high. Probably it will pass, but right now there is some anti-Americanism. Of course, it’s mostly radical students. You have seen what people are scrawling on walls? ‘Yanquis go home! Culebra for the Culebrans—not the U.S. Navy!’ And the paint thrown at all the street signs in English? Well, American businesses could be a target, too. Now is no time for strong-arm tactics with workers in an American-run factory.”

  Lippert was stung. “Strong-arm tactics!” he snarled. “We have a model plant with model social benefits. We have full air conditioning! We have a cafeteria where we’re serving three-course hot lunches for thirty cents a day—and you know how much that’s costing us! What are you talking about?”

  Cesar Romero smiled wryly. “Student radicals do not talk about such things, David. They talk about rich Americans coming down to Puerto Rico—because the labor is so cheap. It can be made to sound like exploitation.”

  Before her husband could reply, Norma intervened. “Anyway, Cesar and Eric have a point. Before we do anything, David, don’t you think we should see how Harry feels? He’s already steamed up. If we’re running any risk of political trouble, he ought to know.”

  Both Romero and Marten were too wise to utter a word. They let the specter of Harry do its own work.

  “Oh, all right,” Lippert grumbled. “Though how you can expect Harry to have any ideas about the situation down here, I don’t know. After all, we’re the ones on the ground. But I suppose we ought to tell him about it.”

  Cautious as a cat, Romero rose. “You’ll want to talk to him alone. And I want to check the daily total so far. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

  He was ably seconded by Marten. “I’ll come with you, Cesar. I want to show you some of those invoices.”

  They made it to the hall without being recalled.

  “Don’t worry, Cesar,” Marten chuckled. “Norma will see that Harry gets the message. That girl has her head screwed on right.”

  “Thank God,” Romero replied. “I realize that David has had a lot thrown at him this week. But I don’t like to think of the turmoil we could create by not handling things delicately.”

  Eric Marten, in spite of his Danish forbearers and his slight Scandinavian accent, was as much a permanent resident of Puerto Rico as Cesar Romero. He had married into a Puerto Rican family with commercial interests, and the coming plebiscite was important in his life.

  “I agree with you, but I don’t like it,” he said, stiff-arming the heavy swing door that separated the offices from the production line. Automatically he raised his voice to adjust to the new noise level. “You can say what you like, but nobody switched threads on us because of politics. Basically David is right. This was a spite job. I don’t go for being blackmailed into appeasement.”

  Romero was mentally conning the roster of employees. “Actually we don’t have many troublemakers. Assuming, of course, that this wasn’t some eighteen-year-old running wild and impressing the girls.”

  “When our eighteen-year-olds are on a Saturday-night spree, the last place they come is back to the plant,” Marten rejoined. “And you don’t have to have a lot of troublemakers. One will do. And he’s coming right this way.”

  Romero duly noted the approach of his most troublesome foreman, Benito Domínguez. But he was far too experienced to frown. His face revealed nothing when the foreman hailed him.

  “The morning totals are on your desk, Señor Romero.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I hear that something went wrong on that run of whites with the blue stitching.”

  “Yes.” Romero knew it was impossible to keep this sort of news a secret. “The thread wasn’t dye-fast.”

  Domínguez regarded him speculatively. “I suppose they’ll try to blame the line,” he suggested.

  “I don’t see how anyone could do that,” Romero said mildly.

  “Because they blame everything on us.”

  Domínguez was standing in the middle of the corridor, legs spread, in a posture of challenge.

  “Then this is one time they haven’t.” Romero’s voice was a masterpiece of indifference.

  For a moment Domínguez debated tactics. “Times have changed,” he finally announced. “Puerto Rican workers are not afraid any more. They will not pay the penalty when Americans make the mistake.”

  “But who has asked them to?” Romero asked smoothly.

  Domínguez simply ignored the question. “You have to expect things to go wrong when outsiders give the orders. They don’t know how we do things here, they don’t know what we want.”

  But he had made an error. Romero would listen to him espousing the rights of the workers, but when Domín
guez strayed out of his jurisdiction Romero did not feel he had to be patient.

  “That’s enough, Domínguez,” he said crisply. “If management has made a mistake, they will pay for it. It isn’t any of your business if the line isn’t being criticized.”

  “If Señor Lippert is taking any blame, it must be the first time!” said Domínguez venomously.

  “As you yourself pointed out, times have changed,” Romero replied with unabated civility.

  Domínguez glared. It was not the first time he had been baffled by Romero’s refusal to respond to his baiting. Finally, with bad grace, he shrugged and stepped aside. As they passed him, he was deep in laborious thought.

  Eric Marten waited until they were in Romero’s office before commenting. “You handled him well, Cesar. I think he was caught off base.”

  Now, Romero let himself frown. “Yes, he was surprised, I think. I don’t like it, Eric.”

  Marten understood. “So you got the same impression?”

  “Domínguez was disappointed, I am positive of it. He was hoping for just the kind of measures David was suggesting.”

  “I’d go further than that,” Marten said. “I’d say he was trying to egg you on to tackle the workers about sabotage.”

  Romero nodded somberly. “I thought this was simply a piece of spite. I would not have been surprised to discover that Domínguez did this himself to cause a financial loss—and a loss of face, too—for Slax. I was wrong.”

  “You don’t mean to say you’ve changed your mind about Domínguez, do you?” Eric Marten was incredulous. “His attitude spoke for itself.”

  “His attitude wasn’t what I expected. He should have had that sly smile of his, he should have been openly jubilant about the discomfort he caused. I think I’d be happier if he had been like that.”

  Marten snorted. “What difference does that make? I still think he did it.”

  “So do I. But for a different motive entirely. He wanted to spark political trouble here at Slax.”

  “Selling nine thousand lemons is selling nine thousand lemons, no matter what the motive. It makes me burn to see Domínguez get away with it.”