by Ed McBain
“Charlie,” he said.
Charlie did not answer. He kept his eyes on the swinging mallet in Steve Maiches’ hand.
“You going to fight, you yellow bastard?” Steve shouted. He advanced a step and Charlie yelled, “Keep away from me, Maiches!”
“Charlie,” Griff said, “listen to me.”
Charlie did not turn his head.
“It’s me, Charlie. Griff. Now listen to me, will you? Put down that knife and—”
“Keep out of this, Griff,” Charlie said tightly. “Keep out of it.” He wet his lips and stepped forward on the balls of his feet. Steve backed away from him, eying the crescent blade. Charlie stabbed at the air.
Steve suddenly stamped the floor with his foot. “Yo!” he shouted, bringing back the mallet. Charlie jumped back, startled, and the workers began laughing, and then the laughter changed from something honest to something slimy. The laughter became mocking laughter, an insult to Charlie’s courage, and he flushed with embarrassment, and then the embarrassment fled before resolve, and he set his jaw tighter and moved forward a few inches, gripping the knife more tightly.
“Charlie, don’t let them talk you into this,” Griff said. “You’re being stupid, Charlie. Put down the knife and—”
“Shut up,” Charlie snarled without turning his head. “Keep your goddam mouth shut!”
“Hey, brave boy, let’s see some action!” one of the men shouted.
“Come on, handsome!” a woman yelled, “cut him up good.”
“It’s no use,” Jored said. “Griff, they’re both crazy. What the hell are we gonna do?”
“Did you call Hengman?”
“Before I come up to get you. What’s Hengman gonna do? He gonna step in there and take their weapons away? What the hell is anyone gonna do?”
“Maybe it’ll peter out,” Griff said. “If neither of them makes the first move, maybe it’ll just fizzle.”
“Come on, Charlie boy,” Steve taunted. “Come on, yellow. Come an inch closer and I’ll crack your rotten skull open. Come on, Charlie.”
“Go get him, Charlie,” a woman yelled.
“Don’t let him talk to you like that, Charlie!”
Charlie rushed forward with the knife high, and Steve leaped up onto one of the benches and then dropped into the neighboring aisle. He laughed uproariously and, when Charlie leaped up onto the bench, he swung the mallet in a murderous arc, its base colliding with the bench and leaving a dent in the wooden surface, missing Charlie by inches. Charlie leaped to the floor and Steve ran up the aisle, and a shout went up from the workers. Two women began dancing on the fringe of the circle, in burlesque of the fighters. Charlie lunged with the cutting knife, and its crescent blade caught one of Steve’s rolled-up sleeves, snagged there for an instant, and then pulled away with a rasping tear. The smile left Steve Maiches’ face. He glanced briefly at the torn sleeve, and then his lips skinned back again, and the crowd went suddenly silent.
He ducked behind a bench piled high with brassbound patterns, and Charlie wiped the bench clean with a sweep of his left hand, sending the patterns clattering to the floor. Steve lashed out with the mallet, and Charlie pulled back his hand as the heavy piece smashed into wood once more. Griff shoved his way around the fringe of spectators.
“Charlie!” he shouted, “for Christ’s sake—”
“Leave me alone!” Charlie yelled, and then he took another sideward swipe with the knife, and Steve sucked in his stomach and yelled, “Leave the son of a bitch alone! Let him fight this out. Let him get his rotten head bashed in.”
“That’s the way, Steve!” someone bellowed.
“Go give it to him!”
“Break his arm, buddy, break it off!”
The fighters faced each other warily now, as if they had just become acquainted with the destructive power of their respective weapons. There was no more taunting from the crowd. The two men faced each other breathing raggedly, one holding a cutting knife, the other a mallet. Their weapons seemed to lower a little, as if, realizing what damage they could do to each other, they had also realized the stupidity of their fight. The hatred, too, seemed to have fled their eyes. They were tired now, and it showed in the heaving of their chests and the heaviness of their feet.
“Come on, fellas,” Griff said, “let’s break it up, huh?”
They did not tell him to shut up this time. They seemed to be listening this time, and they seemed to be weighing Griff’s advice. The crowd, too, had had enough. They had expected quick blood, but there had been none, and now they were weary of the proceedings. There was work to be done, and tickets to be clipped and they sure as hell weren’t making any money standing around watching these two boobs who still hadn’t come anywhere near to drawing blood. Griff sensed this changed atmosphere, and he knew the fight was nearing an end.
“Come on,” he said gently, “let’s put down those murderous clubs and daggers, huh?”
He saw a somewhat embarrassed smile mushroom onto Steve’s face, and then Charlie’s hand lowered a little, as if he would drop the cutting knife, and then Hengman’s voice burst onto the floor like a mortar explosion.
Griff saw Charlie’s knife hand come up again, tensed, ready. He turned abruptly as Hengman shoved his way through the throng of workers. Behind Hengman, he could see McQuade, his head towering above those around him, his wide shoulders cutting a swath through the crowd.
“All right, all right,” Hengman said, “what’s ull dis abott, hah? What’s gung on here?”
“The Hengman,” someone yelled, and then the whispers fled over the floor, “The Hengman, hengman, hmmmm.…”
“Gat beck to your banches!” Hengman shouted. He was a short bald man with a black Hitler mustache. He waved his fists in the air like a windmill and kept shouting, “Gat beck to your banches!” No one moved. “Come on,” he shouted, “you dint hear me, maybe? Gat beck, already!” He shoved his way through the crowd, stopping alongside Griff. “What kind nonsanse you allowing, Griffie? What the hell …”
He didn’t wait for Griff’s answer. He looked past Griff to where Steve and Charlie had become suddenly alert again.
“You two! What you stending around like a bunch monkeys for, hah? Gat the hell off the floor and beck to work!”
A new element had intruded itself into the picture. This had been a friendly sort of heart-slashing, head-bashing duel between brothers of toil up to now. This had been a strictly Labor fight, but now Management had stepped into the picture, and Management had no right in it.
“Agh, shut up, Hengman,” someone shouted, and Hengman whirled quickly, trying to locate the voice, but another voice joined it too rapidly, from the other side of the ring.
“Leave them alone, Hengman.”
And then another. “Back to your hole, Hengman!”
And another, and another. “Shut up, Hengman.” “Drop dead, Hengman,” and suddenly the blood lust was back, and the voices were no longer cheering two fighters, they were cheering two people who were opposing Management.
“Come on, Charlie, stick the son of a bitch!”
“Go at him, Steve! Go get him, boy.”
And the “Go, go, go, go,” chant rose again, higher in its fury this time, higher in its disrespect for the Management Hengman represented.
“How’d this happen?” McQuade asked Griff.
Griff didn’t answer. He turned to Hengman instead. “Boris, do me a favor, will you?” he said. “Get the hell off the floor. I can handle this. Please, will you?”
Hengman stared at him for a moment. He nodded his head then, and began shoving his way toward the stairwell.
“What do you propose doing, Griff?” McQuade asked.
Griff watched the fighters. They were unaware of Hengman’s departure. They heard only the cries for blood again, and the cries attacked their own blood, and they circled menacingly now, caution thrown aside, eager to do battle.
“Griff, what do you—” McQuade started.
Grif
f ignored him. “Charlie,” he called, “Steve! Look, Hengman is gone. Can’t you see there’s no sense to—”
He was surprised to hear the voice beside him. He was surprised because that voice had been soft and gentle whenever he’d heard it before. It was not soft and gentle now. It was strong and powerful and it blasted out above the hum of the workers.
“Get back to your benches, men, or you’ll be out in the street tomorrow!” The voice was McQuade’s.
Griff turned anxiously. “Mac,” he said, “that’s not the right app—”
McQuade shoved him aside. He walked out to the center of the floor, keeping a good distance between himself and the armed men, but going close nonetheless. He was taller than both of them, and his blond hair caught the rays of the sun, giving him a fiery-crowned appearance.
“Put down those tools!” he roared. “Get back to your work!”
Charlie glanced over his shoulder at the godlike figure behind him. The floor had gone dead all at once. The workers knew this was the man from Titanic, and they respected his power, and they were also in awe of his physical appearance, a giant of a man who was standing on the floor now, and who they were sure would disarm both men if provoked far enough.
“Put ’em down!” he bellowed.
“Go ahead, chicken,” Steve said. “Do what the man says!”
Charlie turned his head quickly and then lashed out with the cutting knife, reaching for Steve’s chest.
“I’m warning you!” McQuade shouted ominously, his voice echoing over the quiet floor.
“Go to hell, prettyboy!” Steve yelled.
McQuade turned abruptly, leaving the floor and shoving his way through the crowd. He did not talk to Griff, nor did he even look at him. He barged his way past, his shoulders working like bulldozers, pushing workers aside, rushing toward the door at the end of the floor.
“Charlie,” Griff said gently. “Look, boy, be sensible. You’re gonna lose your job because of this, unless you—”
“We lost them already!” Steve shouted.
“No, look, I’ll talk to Hengman. Put down those tools and I’ll square things with him, okay? Look, what’s the sense of knocking yourselves out? You’ve got good jobs, haven’t you? Kahn’s a good outfit to work for, isn’t it? Now come on, what the hell’s the sense in throwing all that down the drain? You’re behaving like a bunch of kids. You’re behaving just like—”
He heard the commotion behind him, but he didn’t stop talking.
“—a bunch of kids. Come on now, put down the artillery, huh? Charlie, have I ever steered you wrong? I said I’ll square it with Hengman, and I will. He knows you’re both good men, and I’m sure he doesn’t want to lose you. Now, come on, what do you say? Don’t force him to be a bastard. Come on, fellas, let’s get back to work, huh?”
He saw the cutting knife go lax, and then he saw Steve lower the mallet, and he thanked God it was all over, and then he heard McQuade’s voice behind him again, and this time the voice yelled, “All right, turn it on.”
Turn what on? he thought, and he swung around just as McQuade pushed through the circle. He saw the fire hose in McQuade’s hands then, the nozzle long and brassy, the hose itself winding back through the crowd like a deflated white snake. And suddenly the snake was no longer deflated. It puffed out like a cobra, and power surged along its length, and rushed out of the nozzle in a foaming white plume of water. McQuade held the nozzle tightly, pushing himself into the ring of spectators, shoving the rushing surge of water ahead of him, playing the stream on Charlie and Steve. The power of the stream knocked Charlie from his feet. The cutting knife left his hands, clattering to the floor, spinning dizzily as the water lashed at it. Steve brought his arm up to cover his face, dropping the mallet as McQuade kept the stream on his body. The water knocked him down too, then, and he fell to the floor sputtering as McQuade drowned them both in water and more water, moving closer, the stream seeming to grow in power, lashing at the two men, flailing them like a live white whip. He kept the stream on them until both men were crying, the tears flowing freely and mingling with the wetness already on their faces.
“All right,” he shouted, “turn it off.”
Miraculously, the stream of water ended. It clung to the air for a moment, and then the source was cut off at the nozzle, and the water in the air splashed to the floor in a whitish spray, and then there was only a trickle from the nozzle and McQuade roared, “Get up!”
“Mac,” Griff said, “there was no need for—”
“Get up and get the hell out of here! You can pick up your time on Friday, and then stay the hell away from this factory, is that clear?”
Charlie and Steve got to their feet, dazed and shaken, still weeping. They moved through the crowd, and then suddenly the crowd began to disperse. There was no sound now, except for the shuffling of feet across the factory floor.
“He’s ruined my shantung,” Jored whispered to Griff. “Christ, he’s ruined thousands of dollars’ worth of fabric.”
They could hear the machines starting up again. No one was speaking. There was only the whir of the sewing machines now, as the girls in Prefitting got back to work. The cutters stood around aimlessly, their feet soggy in the water underfoot, staring disconsolately at the ruined, soaked fabrics on their benches.
McQuade dropped the hose. It clattered to the floor at his feet. “Who’s the foreman here?” he asked, turning.
“I am,” Jored said.
“Get your men to work. Get whatever material you need from the Leather Room. Call downstairs, if you have to. And get some men from Maintenance to mop up this mess.”
“Yes, sir,” Jored said.
Griff was suddenly trembling. “You … you shouldn’t have done that, Mac,” he said quietly.
“Titanic doesn’t go for any of this nonsense, Griff,” McQuade said, smiling now. “If you allow two of them to step out of line, the whole damned factory will act up. We’re interested in production, aren’t we?”
“Yes, but there’s such a thing as—”
“So we lost some fabric, what the hell? Matter of fact, we may be able to dry it out enough to use. I’ll have to ask Collins in the main Leather Room about that possibility. In the meantime, everyone on this floor knows we’re not going to stand for any nonsense when shoes are supposed to be made. And you’ll be surprised how fast that’ll spread through the factory.”
Griff could not stop trembling. “I … I had the fight under control,” he said. “There was no need for the hose.”
“Are you sore at me?” McQuade asked, grinning.
“There was no need for the hose,” Griff repeated dully.
“Come on,” McQuade said, “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
McQuade was smiling, and Griff told himself he could not kick someone in the teeth while he was smiling.
“All right,” he said, and abruptly his trembling stopped.
He went downstairs with McQuade, but he was troubled.
Maria Theresa Diaz worked in the Packing Department. Her job was to take the finished shoes, insert sticks into them to preserve their shape, put them into a Julien Kahn box together with tissue paper, and then close the box and put it onto a rack with other similar boxes, a rack which would then be wheeled by a runner to the chute leading down to the Stock Room below. Maria was a good girl, and she averaged something like forty-five dollars a week before taxes. She knew that Julien Kahn shoes were very very expensive. She knew she could never hope to afford a pair, and in her shyness, and because she did not speak English very well, she had never applied for the discount available on a damaged pair of shoes.
She had often dreamed of dancing in Julian Kahn pumps. The red ones were especially pretty, and once she had tried on a pair and her feet had felt very good in them, and she had lifted the hem of her working smock and looked at her legs, and even her legs had seemed fuller and more feminine in them. She had taken the shoes off hastily before the foreman saw her, but she had never
forgotten how they’d looked.
She had been packing “Flare” all morning. She had grown used to the feel of the Swisscraft straw under her fingers, had grown used to the bright gay scarlet of the shoe. Her fingers had itched with the desire to try on a pair. All day long, she had packed the shoes, putting them on the rack, waiting for the runner to wheel the rack away, and then beginning on a new empty rack. A half-full rack stood alongside her bench now. She could see the boxes, row upon row, standing on the shelves of the rack. She could plainly see the one marked 7A. She wanted desperately to pull that box from the rack and try the shoes on. Her chance came sooner than she had hoped for.
There had been some sort of commotion up on the eighth floor, and now everyone was talking about it, something about a fire hose being turned onto two of the workers, and some talk about calling in the Union, talk like that, but everyone was saying it, so it must have been true. Mr. Gardiner, her immediate superior, was all excited about it. He was a shop steward, and he did not like Management to treat Labor this way, and he was sore anyway about this cut in overtime, and he went storming off the floor, and it took her several moments to realize he was gone.
The girl next to her was busy at the stamping machine, putting the sizes and all those other numbers on the boxes. Maria looked at her quickly, and then turned to see if any of the runners were in sight. Hastily, she pulled the 7A box from the rack and opened the lid. She slipped off her own shoes, a pair of house slippers which she wore at the factory because she had to stand all day. She did not know where to put her own shoes. She certainly didn’t want to leave them on the floor where they could be seen. Quickly, she took the red Swisscraft straw pumps from the box and slipped her house slippers into the tissue paper in their place. She put on the red shoes, and then she lifted her skirt and looked at her legs and her feet, and she felt this great expansion inside her breast, this femaleness that suddenly spread within her like a warm draught of wine.
“… not going to get away with this, you can bet on that!” the voice said, and she looked up quickly and saw Mr. Gardiner was back on the floor and walking toward her. She reached down to take off the pumps, but then she realized Mr. Gardiner would surely see her, and she didn’t know what to do for a moment. She stood petrified, and then she reached for the lid of the box putting it on quickly, hiding the telltale house slippers from sight, hoping Mr. Gardiner would not look at her feet. Mr. Gardiner walked over to her.