The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

“What’s bothering you? Have you priced a few pairs today under the old setup?”

  “I’ve priced three thousand pairs, but that has nothing to do with this damned stupid scheme, Joe! Now, Joe, for Christ’s sake, listen to reason.”

  “Forget those pairs,” Manelli said genially. “If they’re what’s bothering you, forget them. Use the new system from now on, okay?”

  “Joe—”

  “I’ve got to rush, Griff. Stop in some time tomorrow, all right? We’ll talk over the pairage then, and you can tell me how we inveigled Chrysler in the past, eh?” He turned to his secretary. “Cara, I’ll be out for … oh, two hours at the most.”

  “Yes, sir,” Cara Knowles said.

  “Come on, Griff, snap out of it,” Manelli said, smiling with his weak immature mouth. “Cheer up.” He patted Griff on the shoulder and walked out of the office.

  “That stupid son of a—” Griff started. He remembered the girl abruptly. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “It’ll work out,” Cara answered.

  “Yeah,” Griff said dully.

  “No, really, Mr. Griffin. You’d be surprised how quickly people get accustomed to new ideas.”

  Griff nodded sourly. “That’s what Ilse Koch said when she began making lampshades.”

  He ran into Danny Quinn after lunch that day.

  Danny came limping through the Credit doorway as Griff hurried past, still burning with the memory of his encounter with Manelli.

  “Hey,” he said, “what’s the hurry?”

  “Oh, hi, Danny,” Griff said. Danny’s presence somehow always helped dissipate his anger. Danny had a narrow smiling face with bright blue eyes and unruly brown hair. Griff had helped him get the job in Credit more than a year ago, using his influence with Magruder, the head of the department. He had known Danny for a long time, had known him since before the Korean fracas, when Danny could walk without a limp.

  Their friendship had been a curious one in that Danny was some six years younger than Griff, and six years can make a hell of a lot of difference in early childhood. Griff was twelve when Danny moved into the teeming Puerto Rican-Irish slum that was 138th Street and Bruckner Boulevard, in the Bronx. They discovered almost instantly that they had one thing in common, a split Welsh-Irish ancestry. Griff’s father was Welsh, his mother Irish. The reverse applied to Danny’s parents. The ancestral bond somehow destroyed the barrier of years. Griff would sit on the front stoop of his tenement for hours on end, telling his mother’s stories of the old country, stories about goblins and leprechauns and good fairies, while Danny listened in wide-eyed wonder. Having no brothers or sisters of his own, Griff adopted the skinny kid with the blue eyes, protecting him in street fights, insisting that he be allowed to play with the older boys. Danny was a grateful kid, even if he was out of his league. Valiantly, he tried to keep up with Griff in the neighborhood games of Ring-a-leavio, Johnny-on-a-pony, Kick the Can, I Declare War. When a stickball game was started in one of the side streets off 138th, Danny was always a participant, usually in the least desired position of catcher. But he was always there, out of breath, true, and Griff watched over him like a patron saint.

  When Griff and the older boys discovered sex, Danny was left behind somewhat. There was a sixteen-year-old Puerto Rican girl in the neighborhood, and her name was Ida, and she was well known. Griff, together with the other boys who were approaching adulthood, discovered Ida, and they discovered that Ida had sisters who were not related to her by blood. The sisters were not all Puerto Rican. Some of the sisters were Irish, and there was somehow something more honorable about lifting the skirts of an Irish lass, even though Griff had been painfully aware of his mother’s ancestry that first time with Mary Murphy. He learned the way of the gutter, and he learned it well, but he was always conscious of the undesirability of his environment, wondering why he had to live where he lived, surrounded by poverty and squalor, unable to reconcile the charming handsome ways of his father with the man’s curious inability to earn more money than he was earning.

  He read a lot, partly to escape the dull reality of the tenements, partly in an attempt to better himself, somehow raise himself above what was around him. His grades in school were good. His teachers considered him a well-mannered, studious boy. His mother often talked of his becoming a priest. Her brother had been a priest in the old country, and she considered service to God the worthiest profession. Griff, however, was not a particularly religious child. He had received his First Communion at the age of seven, when he’d barely understood the mystery of the Mass or the meaning of sin. He had been confirmed at ten, his Uncle Roger serving as his godfather, and presenting him later with a Mickey Mouse watch. The confirmation had been disappointing. Griff had heard tall stories about the slap the priest gave you when he confirmed you. The slap was supposed to be a mighty thing, a thing that nearly knocked you off your feet, a test of manhood. Contrary to what he’d heard in the streets, the priest practically stroked his cheek when he gave Griff his middle name. The test was disappointing. He’d been hit harder when the fellows were just clowning around on the front stoop.

  Later, when he had known Ida, and Mary, and a redheaded spirited buxom kid of fifteen named Betty, when he had known real sin, he could never again listen to his mother talk about “the call” with any amount of seriousness. He had learned about life in the gutter; he could not for a moment believe the celebrated, celibate fortress of the priest was a reality. He knew reality. He did not plan on entering the priesthood. He planned, instead, on going on to college. Meredith Griffin died when Griff was sixteen. He had never been a good money-maker, but he had been a fine man, and Griff was honestly broken up by his father’s death. His mother, religious as she was, realized that a breadwinner was a more desirable asset at this stage of the game than a man of God would be. When Griff came to her with his first working papers, she dutifully signed them.

  He started his career at Julien Kahn, the first place he worked, the only place he ever worked.

  In 1944, when he was eighteen, the Army called him. Danny Quinn was twelve at the time, rapidly learning the secrets of the hallways from the younger sisters in the sorority of the Idas, the Marys, and the Bettys. Danny gave Griff a silver identification bracelet when he went away, a bracelet which Griff lost later in France, or which—more accurately—was stolen from his wrist as he lay fighting the chills and fever of dysentery in a field hospital outside Cherbourg. He survived the dysentery, and he survived the lesser dangers of the march through France, the exploding hand grenades and mortar shells, the strafing aircraft, the frightening experience of a line of heavy tanks advancing and firing. All these, he survived.

  He was recalled from France when his mother died in October of 1944. The Army flew him to New York, and he buried his mother on a cold, rainswept day.

  He was not sent back overseas. The Army sent him to Dix, where he spent the duration as a small-arms instructor. When he was discharged in 1946, he went back to Julien Kahn and asked for his old job. He was immediately rehired. He did not know why he didn’t go to college now. His mother was dead, and he had no further financial responsibilities. The G.I. Bill would have paid for his education. But somehow, college seemed like a frivolous thing now. He could not visualize himself being hazed or wearing a beanie. He was twenty years old, only twenty, but, like so many others of his generation, he felt much older. He dedicated himself to his job. He was a good worker. He liked Julien Kahn, and the company liked him. Occasionally, while watching a football game, he was attacked with a deep nostalgia for the alma mater he had never known, but the nostalgia passed, replaced by a contentment with the work he was doing.

  He still read, and he still occasionally thought back to his childhood on 138th Street, pleased that he had risen above it, if only in a small way.

  He went back to the old neighborhood when Danny was called into the Army. He had thought that his war would be the last war, and he was surprised and shocked with the flare-up in Korea. He bou
ght Danny a silver identification bracelet, and then he went to the party in the now-heated tenement. He felt nothing for the old neighborhood, oh, perhaps a passing wistfulness, but nothing that lingered. He had gone to see off an old friend, and he met other old friends there, but there was nothing deader than a dead friendship.

  He should have told Danny about picking up souvenirs. There had been a lot of souvenirs lying around in France, but he’d never touched any of them.

  Danny, on the other hand, wanted something to bring back to the old neighborhood. He had stooped to pick up a souvenir Tokarev in Korea, and the pistol had set off a land mine, giving him a bigger souvenir than he’d bargained for. The souvenir was still lodged in his left leg, and Danny had discovered upon his discharge from the Army that not many prospective employers backed up the respect they mouthed for the symbol of the Ruptured Duck when the duck was in reality ruptured. He’d worn out a good many pairs of shoes, limping despondently from one unresponsive office to the next, until Griff had finally located him with Julien Kahn. The job had done wonders for Danny, restoring his badly demolished confidence. He’d married Ellen, a girl from the old neighborhood, and they were now expecting their first child.

  “I was just coming in to show you this,” Danny said, extending a memo sheet toward Griff. Griff read it quickly.

  EFFECTIVE MARCH 1. SINCE FIRE REGULATIONS PERTAINING TO SMOKING IN THE FACTORY PART OF THIS BUILDING WHERE HIGHLY INFLAMMABLE CHEMICLES ARE USED DO NOT EXTEND TO COVER SMOKING IN THE NINTH FLOOR OFFICES, I CAN SEE NO REASON FOR FURTHER PROHIBITION IN THOSE OFFICES. IT WILL NO LONGER BE NECESSARY TO VISIT THE REST ROOMS WHENEVER A CIGARETTE IS DESIRED. EMPLOYEES MAY FEEL FREE TO SMOKE AT THEIR DESKS, NOR WILL AN OCCASIONAL CUP OF COFFEE THERE BE FROWNED UPON, EITHER. A RELAXED ATMOSPHERE SHOULD MEAN A HIGHER RATE OF PRODUCTION, AND THAT’S WHAT WE ARE SHOOTING FOR.

  SIGNED:

  J. MANELLI, COMPTROLLER

  “That pompous ass,” Griff said. “It will no longer be necessary to visit the rest rooms,” he mimicked. “This is Joe’s way of saying too many people have been goofing off on company time.”

  “I thought you and Joe were buddy-buddy,” Danny said. “What happened? He giving you some static?”

  “A little,” Griff said.

  “Well, he’s stepping into a big job,” Danny said. “This smoking business suits me fine, though. I never did like the smell of urine with my cigarettes.” He shrugged. “What’s this other garbage, though?”

  “I don’t follow,” Griff said.

  “This ‘summary’ business. Did you see that one?”

  “Oh, yes. That was McQuade’s idea.”

  “The Georgia peach?” Danny asked.

  “He’s not a bad guy,” Griff said. “He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

  “And what shoulders!” Danny said. “Man, he’s built like a goddam ox. What’s he doing, tightening the screws?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Griff said. “He just wants to acquaint himself with what everyone does, that’s all.”

  “Mmm,” Danny said. “He’s here for good then? Or will this just be a short visit?”

  “I don’t know,” Griff said. “I’m glad you mentioned that. I think I’ll give the Hengman a buzz later and find out what the scoop is.”

  “Let me know when you get it, will you?” Danny said. “Say, have you got a minute?”

  “Sure.”

  “Come in here, will you? This you gotta see.”

  “What is it?”

  “Come, on, come on.” He limped into the Credit Department and over to where Magruder stood by the window. Griff followed him, mystified.

  “We’ve got the tallest building in the area,” Danny said, smiling, “so we can see all the other rooftops. Well, every day now, for the past week, at one o’clock on the dot, just like clockwork, it happens.”

  “What happens?”

  “Hot Pants Harry,” Danny said.

  “Who?”

  “He must be on his lunch hour, or maybe his company gives him a half-hour break at this time. Go ahead, take a look.”

  Griff looked through the window. “I don’t see anything.”

  “No, you’re not looking in the right place. Over there, the toy factory, do you see it?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, on the roof. Up against the skylight. Do you see Hot Pants and his girl?”

  “Oh, yes, yes,” Griff said. “I see him but …” He stepped closer to the window. “What’s he doing?”

  “What the hell do you think he’s doing? He’s doing what makes the world go round.”

  “Oh, come on,” Griff said.

  “I swear to God,” Danny said. “So help me, I should get struck dead right this minute if it’s not so. Am I snowing him, Magruder?”

  Magruder shook his shaggy head. “This is the truth, Griff. Every day now for the past week. She’s not a bad looker, either, seems from here.”

  “You mean … right there on the skylight?” Griff asked incredulously.

  “They’ve got a set pattern,” Danny explained. “They come up at one o’clock, both of them together. They lean on the roof railing for a while, watching the sights. Then he puts his arm around her, and she moves away and he goes after her. They run around the roof a little, and she always leads him straight to that skylight, and bingo! up go the skirts.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Griff said.

  “It’s fantastic, isn’t it?” Danny said. “That poor son of a bitch probably thinks he’s putting something over on the world. But I was down on the seventh floor yesterday, checking something with O’Neill, and would you believe it, the whole damned floor was lined up by the windows watching old Hot Pants. Some of the guys had binoculars, Griff, I swear to God. That bastard is responsible for more production loss than if we had a fire in the building. We ought to charge him up to the cost of a shoe.”

  Griff kept staring at the roof of the toy factory. “I feel like peeping Tom,” he said. “My God, you know, I believe he is!”

  “Well, of course, he is!” Danny said. “But every goddam day, that’s what gets me! In broad daylight, with sixteen hundred pairs of eyes on him. Oh, if that poor son of a bitch only knew.”

  “She’s got good legs,” Magruder said, his face serious. “When she lifts her skirt, you can see she’s got good legs. I’m going to bring my own binoculars in tomorrow.”

  “We ought to get a camera with a telescopic lens,” Danny said, smiling, “and then send the developed print over to Hot Pants, whoever he is.”

  “With a round-robin letter from every worker in the factory,” Griff supplied. “How does that sound?”

  “And a special pair of Julien Kahn’s Roundheel Pumps for the young lady with the legs,” Danny said, laughing.

  “You’re just a bunch of horny bastards,” Griff said. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “So has Hot Pants,” Danny said, still laughing.

  He left the Credit Department, chuckling to himself, happy he had put the Manelli skirmish out of his mind. When he went into Cost, Marge was standing at the windows looking out. He stopped in the doorway. She had not heard him, and she continued looking through the windows, and he wanted to laugh aloud. He cleared his throat.

  She whirled from the windows quickly, her hand going to her throat.

  “Working on that report?” he asked happily.

  “I … I …” A flush started on her neck and worked its way up into her face. Griff smiled and walked to his desk.

  “Amazing how word spreads around, isn’t it?” he said.

  Marge walked to her desk, her shoulders erect, her head high. Griff glanced over his shoulder, through the windows. The couple were still there. He could not erase the smile from his face. He got to work on the order blanks, humming happily. “La-da-dee-dah, dee, dah, dah.”

  “You are a smug idiot!” Marge said from her desk, enunciating each word clearly.

  “Hmm?” he asked, looking up impishly.

&n
bsp; “I was curious,” she said. “Is there any law against that?”

  “Perish the thought,” Griff said. “Magruder’s bringing binoculars tomorrow. Why don’t we pack a picnic lunch and all—”

  “Oh, shut up,” Marge said, angry. She tapped her foot viciously. “Really, Griff, sometimes … oh, the hell with it!”

  “What, doll?” he said.

  “Nothing. Just shut up, that’s all.” She sat fuming at her desk for several moments, and then her anger seemed to vanish completely. She rose, walked over to Griff’s desk, and sat on the edge. “But how can they stand it at this time of the year?” she asked innocently. “Don’t they just freeeeze up there?”

  He called Hengman at three-thirty, when he was almost finished with the order blanks. Hengman’s secretary answered the phone and then connected Griff with Boris himself.

  “Hello Boris,” Griff said, “how goes every little thing today?”

  “Dun’t esk,” Hengman said. “What’s on your mind, Griffie?”

  “This McQuade fellow,” Griff said. “He seems like a nice guy.”

  “He’s ah hetchet men,” Hengman said.

  “Where’d you get that?” Griff asked.

  “From Chrysler. Dave Stiegman tuld me. He’s opp to no good, this McQued. You be careful ov him, Griffie.”

  “He seems okay,” Griff said defensively.

  “Seems, shmeems, I’m talling you. End you’re gung to be in conteck with him most, him being stock opp there in your office. So watch ott, I’m talling you.”

  “How long will he be here?” Griff asked.

  “In’dafnite,” Hengman said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “Jost what is says. In’dafnite. He’ll be here a lung time.”

  “Well, he still seems to be a nice guy.”

  “Sure, but I’m talling you what Dave Stiegman tuld me, that’s ull. I’m a reputter, that’s ull. Look, you got nothing else what to do but cull me? I’m a busy men.”

  “Okay, Boris,” Griff said, laughing. “You know what I think, don’t you?”

  “What’s det?”

  “I think McQuade is after your job, Boris.”