The Spiked Heel

by Ed McBain

  “And I just want to fix my bra,” she answered.

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t ever let anyone tell you a big bust is an asset,” the blonde said thickly. “It ain’t, my friend, it damn well ain’t.”

  “Well,” Aaron smiled. “Tell you the truth, I never had the problem myself.”

  “You’re lucky,” she said. He could see now that she was quite looped. She wobbled unsteadily, her hands behind her back as she struggled with the strap of her brassiere. He went to the bed and tried to locate his coat.

  “Could you help me?” she asked.

  He turned. “What?”

  “Could you give me a hand here? I’d ask one of the girls, but I’m afraid I’ll pop out if I take another step.”

  “Well, well sure,” Aaron said.

  “I just want you to pull the strap up higher on my back, tha’s all,” the blonde said.

  “Sure,” Aaron replied, walking over to her.

  The blonde turned. The zipper at the back of her dress was opened in a wide V.

  “Did you make these shoes?” she asked.

  “He glanced down at the black suede cocktail pump. “Yes,” he said.

  “They pinch my feet,” the blonde said. “Pull up the strap, will you?” She paused. “Mister, I feel like Atlas with a double burden.”

  McQuade held out the martini glass, smiling. Marge took it and then shook her head. “This is my third,” she said.

  “Martinis are good for you,” McQuade said. “They make your legs strong.”

  “My legs are strong enough,” she said. There was a high flush on her face, a flush of mixed excitement and triumph. She had never known she could be so happy. The buyers had actually applauded when she’d flattened her skirt against her legs to show the shell pump. She knew they were applauding the shoe, but she couldn’t help feeling they were also applauding her legs just a little bit. Oh, it had been a marvelous feeling, truly marvelous. And now this party, it was all so wonderful, like really being a part of things, like really being a part of the company, and not just another cog stuck away someplace.

  And she was not as frightened any more. A little bit, yes, but she was sure now that McQuade was nothing to be afraid of, well, almost sure, anyway, and besides there were a lot of people here, and how could anything happen with all these people around?

  “Drink up,” McQuade said.

  She sipped at the drink. It was very smooth, and she enjoyed the sting of it against her tongue, a smooth sting, like a kiss from a cobra. My God! Where did that come from, I must be getting a little high.

  “So how did you like it?” McQuade asked. He was sitting on the arm of her chair now, his own arm resting across the back.

  “The modeling?” Marge leaned her head back. “It was wonderful.”

  “And are you happy?”

  “I’m very happy.”

  “Then drink up. Marge, you’ve got to learn how to celebrate. You’ve achieved something today, Marge. A small milestone, perhaps, but a very happy occasion. People don’t know how to appreciate happiness, Marge. That’s the sadness of our time. People don’t really know they’re happy unless they’re told they’re happy.”

  “And are you the man in charge of telling people they’re happy?” she asked. Across the room, she could see one of the buyers looking at her crossed legs.

  “I am the man in charge of happiness,” McQuade said. “Drink up. I will not see a happy occasion washed down the drain without celebration.”

  He was right, she supposed. Wasn’t it a happy occasion? And hadn’t she begun to feel a little happier about it all since she’d begun drinking the martinis Mac brought to her? Mac, that was a much nicer name than McQuade. Mac.

  “Mac,” she said, rolling the name on her tongue.

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing. Just testing.” She smiled and sipped at her drink. The sting was gone now. Only the smoothness remained.

  “Hello, Cara,” Griff said.

  Cara looked up. “Oh, Griff. How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I didn’t expect to be here. Mr. Manelli’s idea. He’s treating his little secretary to a day away from the mill.”

  “Well, that sounds like the first good idea Joe has had in a long time.”

  “Thank you,” Cara said.

  “You look very pretty.”

  “Thank you again.”

  “It seems funny talking to you without a trombone blasting at my back,” he said, smiling.

  “Or without feeling like a sardine in—” She cut herself short, smiling awkwardly.

  “It was pretty damned awful, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’ve been meaning to … well, you know, I felt pretty bad about the way it all turned out. I was thinking maybe we could try it again. When the weather is in our favor.”

  “I’d like to,” she said.

  “Maybe next week?” Griff said. “How about Saturday night?”

  “Ask me on Monday,” Cara answered.

  “Why not now?”

  “You’ve been drinking a little. I never take advantage of anyone when they’re under the affluence of incohol.”

  “You’re not only pretty,” he said. “You’re honorable.”

  “The most honorable Cara Knowles,” she said.

  “All right, I’ll ask you on Monday. Now, then, what do we talk about now?”

  “Did you like the showing?”

  “Loved it.”

  “Wasn’t that girl …?”

  “Marge? My typist. She made quite a hit, didn’t she?” He remembered Marge and looked around the room for her, a little displeased when he saw she was sitting with McQuade. “Come on,” he said on impulse, “let’s go over and chat.”

  Cara looked at him curiously. “All right,” she said.

  “If you’re looking for olives,” Stiegman said, “I’ve got a full glass of them right here.”

  The redheaded model looked at Stiegman disinterestedly. Her glance dropped from his face to the martini glass in his hand. True enough, the glass was full of small green olives.

  “How kind of you,” she said frostily.

  “I noticed you were chiseling olives. I said to myself, a pretty girl like that shouldn’t have to go begging. A pretty girl like that should have a bushelful of olives if she wants them. That’s what I said to myself.”

  “And what did yourself answer?” the redhead said.

  “What?”

  “Are you connected with Kahn, too, or are you a buyer?”

  “I’m with Kahn,” Stiegman replied, offering the olives once more.

  “I was hoping you’d be a buyer,” the girl said.

  Stiegman looked at her curiously. “You know, I don’t recall seeing you modeling any of our shoes this afternoon. You are one of …?”

  “I’m a model,” the girl said flatly.

  “But …”

  “Listen, are we going to argue, or are we going to be friends?”

  “I’d much rather be friends,” Stiegman said.

  “That’s what I’m here for, honey,” the girl answered. “But I still wish you were a buyer.”

  “So,” Hengman said, “after all is said end done, it’s still ah nize deal, ain’t it? Aver’body has a hell of a nize time, end ull d’eggrivation is forgotten, no? We hev the showing, end den we anjoy oursalves, end det’s the way it should be, am I right?”

  “You’re right, Boris,” Ed Posnansky said.

  “What’s the sanse killink oursalves? We got more dan one life to live, maybe? Only once are we here on this earth, Ad, remamber dat. So, anjoy oursalves, that’s my motto.”

  “You’re ab’slutely right, Boris,” Posnansky said drunkenly. “Boris, they’re people who call you a stupid sunfabi’, but I alwys say’re wrong, Boris. You got tochis, Boris.” Posnansky tapped his temple. “Tochis, Boris, ’n’ ’ass what counts in this grdmn merground. Tochis.”
>
  “Who culls me ‘stupit’?” Hengman asked.

  “Do they look all right?” the blonde asked, pulling up the bodice of her dress.

  “Honey,” Aaron said, “they couldn’t look better, believe me. They couldn’t look better if you were trying.”

  “Bust fetishes,” the blonde said disgustedly. “Goddam bra companies are building a country of bust worshipers. Mister, I wish I lived on Bali or someplace. I’d run around with the goddam things swinging down near my knees, without this harness all the time. You know, I could get a job with any bra company in the country, modeling? But I don’t. I model shoes instead, and you know why? ’Cause I’ve got a 4-B foot, and how the hell does that tie in with a 38-C bust? Impossible. You’re a good listener, you know?”

  “Thanks,” Aaron said.

  “Besides, I don’t like to parade around in my underwear in front of buyers. I once worked in the garment district and even that was a pain, with these slobs grabbing your legs every time they looked at the hem of a skirt. Shoes are safe, believe me. And what I do on my own time is my own business, am I right?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” Aaron said.

  “You’re cute, too. You look like a lost puppy dog.”

  “Thank you,” Aaron said.

  “You want to go out there with all those slobs?” she asked.

  “Well …”

  “Half the girls out there I never saw before today. You can’t tell me they were all modeling shoes.”

  “Maybe they weren’t all,” Aaron said secretly.

  The blonde pulled a face. “Not a decent bust in the lot of them. Let’s stay here. Go steal a bottle and we’ll get quietly drunk.”

  “Don’t you have to get home?”

  “Sure, I do,” the blonde said. “What’s that got to do with enjoying a drink with a friend?” She tugged at the bodice of her dress, the globes of her breast shaking with the movement. “I was once offered a job with Rand-McNally, too,” she said.

  “Well, look who’s here!” McQuade said, “Griff, how are you, boy?”

  “Fine, thanks,” Griff said stiffly. “You know Cara Knowles, don’t you?”

  “Joe’s fairest,” McQuade said, bowing from the waist. “Good having you here, Cara.”

  “Thank you,” Cara said.

  “Marge, Cara,” Griff said. “Cara, Marge.”

  “We’ve seen each other around the building,” Cara said, smiling.

  “Well, how does it feel?” Griff asked Marge.

  “Nice,” she said, pulling up her shoulders and hugging her arms to her chest as if she were squeezing a teddy bear. “Nice, nice.” A little bit of her drink spilled over the edge of her glass. She put the glass to her lips quickly and lowered its contents.

  “You looked very good up there, Marge,” Griff said.

  “He’s underestimating you,” Cara said. “I thought you were the best model in the showing.”

  “Well,” Marge said brightly. “Thank you. I love you, dear girl. I take you to my bosom.”

  “How’re the martinis holding up?” Griff asked lightly.

  “Number four,” McQuade said, smiling, “and it hasn’t so much as distorted her vision. She’s a strong girl, our little Marge.”

  “Better go easy,” Griff said, his voice lowering.

  “Oh, I’m so happy, Griff!” Marge said. “Now don’t be a stinkpot and spoil it all. Get a drink for Griff, Mac. Griff, you don’t know how deliriously happy I am.”

  “You’ve reason to be happy,” Cara said.

  McQuade put his arm around Cara and said, “You are a very rare creature, Miss Knowles. A woman who acknowledges another woman’s triumph, without malice, without enmity. A very rare creature.”

  “I’m malicious as all getout,” Cara said, smiling. “It’s not fair for any woman to have legs like that.”

  “Ah!” McQuade said, extending a forefinger. “Ah, now, don’t spoil it! And don’t diminish the loveliness of your own legs, Cara. Never belittle your own assets, that’s a chief rule of survival. And never underestimate the enemy.”

  “You’ve got good legs,” Marge said thickly.

  “Why don’t we go out for a little air, Marge?” Griff said.

  “Air? What do I need air for?”

  “Air is, bad stuff, Griff,” McQuade said. He seemed very excited, tensed almost to a fever pitch. “Air is for balloons, not people. What do you think, Marge?”

  “I think I’m getting looped. But I don’t feel like crying. I undersht—understand people get crying jags when they drink. I feel very happy, very very happy.”

  “Not all people cry,” McQuade said, “and you’ve got a damned good reason for being happy. I’ll get you another drink.” He took his arm from Cara’s shoulder. “Don’t go away,” he said.

  “Are you all right, Marge?”

  “We overestimated the enemy, Mr. Griffin,” Marge said stiffly. “We overestimated the enemy forces. There is no need for fear. Feel free from frear. Fear. I’m all right.”

  A record player started somewhere on the other side of the room. The strains of “Stardust” flooded the suite, fled to the rooms with couches and tables and chairs and glass shoecases and red posters with white disks and black silhouetted shoes.…

  “Ah, music,” Marge said. “Come on, Griff, dance with me.”

  He looked at Cara quickly, and Marge said, “Please, may I? I won’t show my legs. I promise.”

  “Go right ahead,” Cara said. “I’ll chance it.”

  Marge rose unsteadily, and then went into Griff’s arms. He put his arm around her and steered her onto the floor. The buyers and salesmen and models and other girls were already flowing to the floor. Off on one side of the room, Hengman and Posnansky struggled to complete rolling back the rug.

  “She’s pretty,” Marge said.

  “Is she?”

  “Mmmm. My legs are better, Griff, but she’s pretty. Even Mac thought so.”

  “He giving you any trouble?”

  “Perfect gentle-man. No trouble at all.”

  “You ought to stop drinking, Marge.”

  “Why? I’m having fun. You know something? I’ve never been looped in all my life, you know that? Twenty-four years old, and never potted. Shame. Today’s my day of glory. Model. Marge Gannon, model. Prob’ly nothing ever come of it, but I’ve at least had today, Griff, do you understand? Today’s all I need. You’re a good dancer.”

  “Thanks. Look, if you should need any help …”

  “I won’t. He’s all right. Overestimated him, that’s all.”

  From the corner of his eye, Griff saw McQuade take Cara into his arms and lead her onto the floor.

  “Ull right,” Hengman said, “I ’preciate your kindness, Ad, end I like these tings you are saying abott me behint my beck. I always did say you were ah right guy, Ad, b’lieve me. But there’s one ting I want t’know, end dat is who culled me stupit? Hah? Who?”

  “Who call you stupid, Borish?” Posnansky roared. “I’ll knock’m flat’n his ash. Jush show me to’m, Borish, ’n I shwearra God I’ll knock’m so cole he’sh think he … who, Borish? Who?”

  “Dot, my frand, is what I would like t’know,” Hengman said, wagging his head.

  “You know how many different words there are for breasts?” the blonde asked Aaron.

  “How many?”

  “Plenty, I’ll bet. What is that, Canadian Club?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hand me a glass, will you? That’s an indication of how far this damned bust fetish has gone in this country. Why, I bet I can think of a dozen words all by myself. Now, what’s so special about breasts when you ask yourself the question? Fatty tissue, that’s all.”

  “Titty fassue,” Aaron corrected.

  “See, there’s one expression already. And how about bubbles?”

  “Or bubbies?”

  “Or balloons?”

  “Or coconuts?”

  “Well,” Manelli said, “you got to understand F
rench at the end of this one, which is the only reason I asked. Anyway, this soldier’s in one of those pissoirs, you know, they got in Paris, and taps his pockets and finds out he hasn’t got a match, so he turns to the Frenchman standing alongside him there, and he says, ‘Say, Bo,’ and the Frenchman doesn’t answer.”

  “I heard this one,” the tall brunette said, slipping out of her shoes.

  “Better put those on,” Canotti said. “Any of our buyers see that …”

  “You hear this one, Mike?” Manelli asked.

  “No,” Canotti said, watching the brunette struggle into the shoes.

  “Okay. Okay. So the soldier keeps looking for a match, and he turns again and says, ‘Say, Bo,’ and again the Frenchman doesn’t answer, he just keeps right on staring …”

  “Or mammaries?”

  “Or headlights?”

  “Or grapefruits?”

  “Or bazooms?”

  “Or balloons?”

  “We said that one.”

  “All right, how about knockers?”

  Griff was gone, but she couldn’t seem to remember when he’d left, or whether she’d danced with him once or twice or three times, or whether it was really only once and had seemed like a long time on a merry-go-round of “Stardust,” he was a good dancer, a nice boy, Griff, a very nice boy, I’m plastered.

  “Here’s another,” McQuade said.

  She shook her head. “N’more,” she murmured.

  “Come on. One more won’t hurt you, Marge. This is your hour of triumph. Unfurl the banners, Marge. Let yourself go.”

  Relax and let yourself, relax, the band is banners, banners, red field and white disk and black silhouette, and banners, banners …

  “No. N’more. Had ’nough.”

  He put the glass to her lips. She felt the rim there, and then the glass was tilting, and she felt the liquid in her mouth, a strangely tasteless liquid, flowing, flowing, down her throat, into her stomach, lower, burning lower, bruise marks on her thigh, thigh, she was dizzy, very dizzy, air is for balloons, banners, overestimate the enemy, mac, Mac …

  “Mac,” she said weakly.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “I really shound have ’nymore.”

  “This is only your third, Marge,” he said softly, so softly, nice soft soothing voice, handsome man, Mac, only three? is that all? only three, such a sissy, only three drinks, whoosh I’m loaded, low-ded, all right, all right …