by Ed McBain
“Yes.”
“Oh, I love the taste of those words. Darling, those words are like honey to me. I want to open the windows and yell it to the streets. I love you, I love you, I love you. Have we known all along, Griff?”
“Maybe. It’s hard to say, Marge. I guess so, yes. Otherwise …”
“Oh, all the time we’ve wasted. Oh, all the time gone down the drain. Griff, please kiss me.”
He kissed her tenderly, his left arm tightening across her back. She pulled away from him gently, her mouth leaving his reluctantly.
“What I said about your being a clam …”
“I know.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“And you have a wonderful sense of humor. I laugh at everything you say, Griff … not everything, I mean not when you’re serious … but whenever you’re being funny in the office … Griff, sometimes I have to turn my face so you won’t see I’m laughing, so you won’t think I’m a silly little … but now I won’t have to turn my face any more, will I? Oh Griff, isn’t that wonderful? Now I can love you, and laugh with you, and Griff, hold me tight, hold me tight, take your hand out of that silly pot of water.”
He held her, and then he said, “My hand is wet. It—”
“I don’t care, darling.”
“Your blouse—”
“Hold me, Griff.”
He held her close, and she felt a oneness she had never felt in her life, a complete happiness that covered her like a warm canopy. The smile blossomed on her face, ripe with her love, ripe with the warmth that spread through her.
“I used to think modeling shoes was the most important thing in the world. I used to think that would be complete happiness. So this afternoon I modeled shoes, and tonight you’re in love with me, and you haven’t even mentioned my legs or looked at them once, and I don’t give a damn. I’m so happy I could burst wide open. I’m so happy, I could—”
“Your legs are wonderful,” he said.
“Don’t say that, Griff. McQuade used those words. He—”
“They are wonderful. McQuade is a bastard, but he was right.”
“It sounds different when you say it, anyway.”
“Marge?”
“Yes.”
“I love you.”
“Mmmm.” She buried her head in his shoulder. “I’m giddy and silly, darling. I feel as if I’m being born. Do you feel that way?”
“Yes.”
“Does your hand hurt?” she asked suddenly, sitting up.
“I haven’t even thought about it.”
“Put it back in the water.”
“No.”
“Griff! Now you put—”
“I want to hold you.”
She smiled contentedly. “All right. The hell with your hand. Oh, Griff, I didn’t mean that! I meant—”
“I know what you meant.”
He kissed her again, a long, tender kiss.
“Griff, are you worried about your job?”
“A little.”
“Will it mean much to you, if you’re fired?”
“I like the job, Marge. It’s part of me.”
“I know.”
“You’re a part of me, too. You’ve already become a part of me. I can sit here and talk to you about the job, and I feel as if somebody else in the world cares, do you know? As if I’m not alone any more. It’s a good feeling, Marge.”
“Oh, why did we waste so much time, why, why?”
“Things have to grow, Marge. It’s better this way. Now I’ve got you, and …”
“And I’ve got you, and just let anyone—” She sat up abruptly. She pursed her lips together. “What’s between you and Cara?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?”
“You have green eyes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. They’re the greenest green I’ve ever—”
“About Cara, I mean.”
“Nothing.”
“Did you ever take her out?”
“Once.”
“And you never asked me! I could hate you, Griff, only I love you so much.”
“We’ve got a lot of time, Marge,” he said softly.
“I know. I feel secure, Griff. I feel so safe in your arms.”
“You’re nice to hold.”
“I love you,” she said. She pecked his cheek. “I love you.” She pecked the tip of his nose. “I love you.”
“You know,” he said, “your message is beginning to reach me.”
She burst out laughing, and then she hugged herself to him, smiling happily, holding him very close and thinking, “I love you, I love you,” but not saying it again, saying it only in her heart, saying it only where it really counted.
12
Titanic is for the workers, McQuade had said (hastily adding, Ah, but only if the workers are for Titanic). And to add conviction to his statement, to show that Titanic meant what it said, he had promised the workers a raise, and he had promised them there would be no further firings in the factory.
He had given them the raise, and the workers were delighted with it. But there were still people who cocked an anxious ear toward the foreman’s cage whenever the telephone rang, people who were certain more heads would roll, people who were just waiting for Titanic to back down on its word.
McQuade undoubtedly knew of these people. He also knew that Raymond Griffin was not a mere file clerk whose disappearance would go unnoticed. The factory knew Raymond Griffin and, worse, the factory liked him. If Raymond Griffin were fired, the factory would damn well learn about it, and what would happen was anyone’s guess. And despite anything McQuade had said about moving the plant to Georgia or closing it down completely, there was a goodly chunk of cold cash invested in Julien Kahn, Inc., and—as John Grant had so ably pointed out—nobody, not even Titanic, buys factories to close them down. The Kahn factory was a closed shop and whereas Griff, as a part of Management, was not a union member, McQuade had heard of protest strikes, and the firing of Griffin might very well provoke something of that sort, especially after Titanic’s promises. Titanic was for the workers, but only if the workers were for Titanic, and McQuade—no matter how you sliced it—worked for Titanic. A protest strike would not look very good down South. A protest strike might, in fact, look pretty damn crumby. But there still remained this rusty, protesting cog named Raymond Griffin in an otherwise well-oiled machine.
McQuade was a good mechanic, and a handy man with an oil can.
Griff, absorbed in the hundreds of orders that began pouring in after Guild Week, absorbed in watching Marge and toasting his heart at the newly found fire of their love, was totally unaware of the commotion that might ensue if he were abruptly fired. He fully expected to be fired on Monday morning. When he was not, he was surprised. He was not surprised to find that McQuade had moved his desk down the hall to Manelli’s office.
Tuesday passed, and then Wednesday, and then Thursday, and Griff’s surprise gave way to a sort of puzzled mystification. Was it possible that McQuade would not wield the ax? Through force of habit, he automatically told himself that maybe McQuade wasn’t such a bad guy after all, maybe he’d figured him all wrong, maybe—
He called an abrupt halt to that line of reasoning. McQuade was a bastard, and more so because he automatically engendered this sympathetic doubt, even when you knew he was a bastard.
On Friday, April 23, Manelli called Griff and asked him to come down to the office a moment, would he? Griff replaced the phone on its cradle and then walked over to Marge.
“Manelli,” he said.
“Did he say anything?”
“Only that he wants to see me.”
A troubled look crossed Marge’s face. She chased the look and tried a weak smile. “Maybe it’s a bonus.”
“Maybe,” Griff said. He squeezed her hand, and then left the office. When he reached Manelli’s office, he remembered Cara Knowles, and he remembered the vague
ly tentative date they’d talked about. He was suddenly embarrassed. He didn’t want to tell Cara about Marge, and at the same time he couldn’t very well just let the thing ride. He walked to her desk, wrestling with the problem, deciding to make a clean breast of it.
“Hi,” he said. “Busy?”
“Loafing, as usual,” Cara said. “I’ll tell Mr. Manelli you’re here.”
“Sure, in a second.” He paused. “Cara, about that date …”
“Griff—” she started.
“I thought—”
“I’m awfully sorry,” she said, “but I’ve already made a date for this Saturday and—”
“You did?” he asked, hoping his relief didn’t show.
“Well, you disappeared suddenly and Mac was so very nice to me.” She paused awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Griff.”
Griff smiled. “Oh, that’s all right,” he said. He could not bring himself to tell her that he’d wanted to back out. There was something dishonorable about stealing her thunder. “Do you want to buzz Joe?” he asked.
“You’re not angry?”
“No, have a good time,” he said. It bothered him that her date was with McQuade, but he certainly had no right to tell her what company she should keep. She buzzed Manelli, and Manelli asked her to send Griff in. He smiled, walked to the door, squared his shoulders, and entered.
“Hello, Griff,” Manelli said pleasantly. “Come on in, boy.”
He was momentarily taken aback by Manelli’s genial attitude. If a man was going to fire you, he certainly didn’t conceal the dagger behind a smiling face, did he?
“Sit down, Griff,” Manelli said. “Cigar?”
“No. Thanks, Joe.” He sat in the easy chair alongside Manelli’s desk.
“Well, now,” Manelli said, “let me see. Oh yes, the, cost cards.”
An immense feeling of relief swept over Griff. He knew he was not going to be fired, and the news affected him like a reprieve from the governor.
“What about the cost cards?” he asked.
“Nothing serious,” Manelli assured him. “I’ve just been feeling a little guilty. Guess we all feel a little guilty every now and then, eh? Here I am comptroller of Julien Kahn, and, by God, it’s time I started earning my keep, don’t you think?”
Griff shrugged and smiled.
“So, here’s what I’d like. Before you establish a selling price on any shoe, I’d like to approve the cost cards. Now, I’m not checking up on you or anything, but I’m trying to anticipate any possible beefs from Chrysler, and—”
“Well, I usually work pretty closely with Chrysler, anyway,” Griff said. “I mean … well, Joe, they’ve got to sell the damned shoes, so price is pretty important to them, too.”
“Naturally, naturally, but—as I say—I don’t want any beefs from them.”
“Well, we haven’t had any so far,” Griff said. His relief was giving way before a nagging sort of annoyance. The Cost Department ran very smoothly, and it would sure as hell not run as smoothly if every cost card had to go to Manelli for approval before any action could be taken.
“No, but you never know when a beef will come, do you?” Manelli asked. “So, I’d like to approve all those cards before you do any pricing. I’m sure that won’t upset your routine too much.”
“Well, Joe, to tell the truth—”
“I hate to rush you out like this, Griff, but I’ve got to run down and discuss a few things with Boris. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Joe—”
“Might be a good idea to let me see the cost cards whenever any are ready, eh? I imagine you’ll have some for me on the intermediate line soon, won’t you?”
“I’m working on those now,” Griff said.
“Good. Let me see ’em, eh?” He rose and patted Griff’s shoulder affectionately. “Now scram so I can see the Hengman.” He chuckled and then practically shoved Griff out of the office.
Griff mulled over Manelli’s request on his way down the corridor. A cost card was a fairly complicated document. It was a necessary bit of drudgery that accompanied every pattern the factory ever made or would make. Actually, the cost card was the basis of all pricing, pricing generally being the simple process of adding a fair margin of profit to the cost of the shoe. Griff, in cooperation with Morris Davidoff—the company’s wizard material surveyor—was in charge of listing the material costs. Sal Valdero, when Griff was finished with the card, itemized the labor costs. When the card reached Griff again, he was able to establish a tentative selling price for the shoe, a price he then discussed with Sales, if discussion were called for.
Everything was on that cost card. The itemized costs of sock lining, leather lining, faille lining, backstay, drill and fleece, tufsta and underlay, piping and stripping, elastic gore, tape, thread, nailheads, cement, box toes, platform covers, leather shanks, steel shanks, welting, heels, toplifts, embossing, laces and ribbons, cleaning chemicals, boxes, buckles and ornaments, finishing supplies, hell, everything and anything that went into the final package the retailer received.
What on earth did Manelli know about any of this? If Griff and Davidoff had to muster their combined factory knowledge, experience, graphs, charts, and figures to come up with a decent estimate, how could Manelli—fresh out of Accounting—hope to approve or disapprove their estimates with any measure of efficiency?
How could Manelli possibly dispute, say, seventeen cents/two mills as the cost of an insole cover? How could he possibly know? Davidoff knew how much leather the insole cover would take. Griff knew the cost of that leather. Together, they could work it out. What was there for Manelli to approve or disapprove?
The entire idea was fantastic, and, when Griff’s relief over not having been fired had evaporated, there remained only this request, and the stupidity of it, and the delay it would cause. Suppose Manelli didn’t get to the cards the moment they were delivered? What was supposed to happen then? Costing would delay pricing and pricing would delay production! Damn, this was simply foolish.
When Marge saw his face, she went to him instantly.
“What is it, Griff?” she asked.
“Not what we thought. Manelli wants to approve all my cost cards before prices are established.”
Marge sighed heavily. “Oh, thank God.”
Aaron looked up from his desk suspiciously. “Hey,” he said, “what is it with you two? Ever since Monday, you’ve been—”
“You just hush,” Marge said. “Are you annoyed, Griff?”
“Sure, I am. What the hell does that idiot know about costing?”
“He wants to check all the cost cards?” Aaron asked.
“Yes.”
Aaron cocked his head. “That’s peculiar.”
“Peculiar? It’s moronic.”
“Well,” Marge said, “go along with it. It probably won’t last very long.”
Griff sighed, still troubled. “There’s not much else I can do,” he said.
So he went along with Manelli’s request, and at the close of that Friday, he brought his cost cards to Manelli’s office, still thinking the request both peculiar and moronic, but never once considering it the opening gun in a suddenly declared war.
On Monday the distant rumble of artillery came a little closer.
Ed Posnansky called from the Chrysler Building at ten o’clock. Marge answered the phone, and then informed Aaron the call was for him. Aaron promptly picked up his extension, exchanged the customary cordial greeting, and then got down to listening, interjecting an occasional “Uhhuh,” or “Yes, I see.” He ended the call with an “All right, Ed, I’ll see you tomorrow,” and then he hung up.
“What was that?” Griff asked.
“Big to do at Chrysler,” Aaron explained. “Seems one of the other houses was showing a pump with a lucite heel during Guild Week, and everybody at Chrysler thinks they’ve stolen a march on us. Posnansky thinks we can make a similar pump, provided we can get the heels. He wants to discuss getting a sample up. Hengman’ll be
there, and our heel man, and some people from Fashion. He wants Cost in on it, too.”
“Oh,” Griff said.
“Say,” Aaron said, “why didn’t he ask you to come along, too?”
“I don’t know,” Griff said slowly.
“I’ll buzz him back,” Aaron said. “He’s in such a dither, he probably …” He let the sentence trail, lifted his receiver, and asked the operator for Chrysler. When he got Posnansky, he said, “Say, Ed, this meeting tomorrow … no, I can make it all right … but shouldn’t Griff …?” He paused. “Yes, Griff …” He paused again. “Oh, I see … well … no, that’s not it. I just thought …” Aaron’s brow creased. “Sure, but if the shoe is going into our line … but Griff is head of the department, he should … oh, I see … well, sure … sure … all right, Ed, I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up and stared at Griff. Marge looked up from her typewriter.
“He said he doesn’t want to pull you away from anything important, Griff,” Aaron said, puzzled.
“Well,” Griff said, “I am pretty busy.”
“Yeah, but …” Aaron shrugged. “He doesn’t usually call these meetings without you. I mean … gee, I don’t know what to make of it.”
Griff smiled and tried to pass it off jokingly. “He knows this factory would collapse if I left it for even a moment,” he said.
“Indubitably,” Aaron replied, smiling. “But still.”
“Forget it,” Griff said. “I hate those damn meetings anyway.”
He went back to his work, but he could not hide the fact that he was troubled and hurt. He was, after all, head of the department, and it was not like Ed to purposely exclude him from anything important. A new shoe in the line was important. Ed should have … He put it out of his mind. Until the next day.
The next day, the heavy tanks came rumbling up.
The heavy tanks came rumbling up in the freight elevator. The heavy tanks were disguised as long rolls of carpet, and the carpet was a pleasant teal blue, and the carpet was laid in every office on the ninth floor while the women squealed in ecstasy and the men nodded in appreciation. The shining new desks followed the carpet, wheeled off the freight elevator on dollies, firmly implanted themselves in the thick carpeting on the floor of each office.