The Spiked Heel

“I’ll be aroun’ for a few weeks, just seein’ that things are runnin’ smoothly again. I’m not goin’ to interfere with anythin’ that’s going on. I’m simply goin’ t’watch and then I’m goin’ to turn in a report. We got the brains an’ the talent right here to run this plant in tip-top condition. I’m sure you-all don’ need any advice from us Rebels.” Ford smiled. “Unless it’s to put in air-conditionin’. Man, are all the offices as hot as this one?”

“It’s a little warm in here,” Manelli admitted, smiling feebly.

“Well, Mistuh Griffin,” Ford said, “I know you’ll be wantin’ to get that Cost Department of yours back into shape, so I won’t keep you any longer.” He shook hands with Griff. “There’s a few more things I’d like to get straight with Mistuh Manell-ih, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Griff nodded and left the office.

Idly, he wondered how much longer Manelli would last. He did not suppose it would be very long. Manelli was not the man Titanic wanted for comptroller, even though they were giving him a fair chance at the job, now that McQuade was gone. He headed down the hallway toward the old Cost Department, passing Payroll, and then Credit, recalling Harley Ford’s personal assurance that Danny would be back soon.

He saw the COST sign over the open doorway at the end of the hall, and he was momentarily surprised until he realized someone had probably replaced the sign, either Marge or Aaron. To the right of the doorway, he saw familiar placards:

R. GRIFFIN

A. REIS

He smiled and went into the dapartment. He saw the new blue carpet and the new desks, and the Welcome Back, Griff sign, and then he saw Marge and Aaron standing near the windows, grinning like two positive idiots. Marge came across the room to him, and he lifted her from the floor and kissed her resoundingly on the mouth, while Aaron stood by, smiling foolishly. It was good to be home again.

Aaron left at five for a dental appointment, and Marge left at six to have her hair set and her nails done, exacting a promise from Griff to pick her up at eight on the button. Alone, Griff worked in the silence of the office, happy to be getting his department in shape again. He was filled with a tremendous sense of well-being, a certain knowledge that now everything would be all right.

At seven he glanced at his watch, finished the task he was on, and hastily left the office. The factory was unusually still, the hot lingering days of August having discouraged overtime. He buzzed for the elevator and Bill the watchman came up for him and took him down to the ornate lobby and then let him out of the building. He started for the parking lot, spotting his car at the far end of the field, lonely and forlorn-looking now that all the other cars were gone.

There was a purple wash in the sky to the west, the first shaded beginnings of dusk. The day’s heat still clung to the air, but there was promise of a cool Septemberlike evening, and a lazy sort of atmosphere hung over the parking lot. He walked through the lot gingerly, hearing the steady cadence of his heels on the concrete. He did not see the man near his automobile until he was almost upon him.

The man leaned against the front right fender, his arms folded across his chest, the last rays of the dying sun catching his hair in a red-gold web. For a moment Griff didn’t recognize him, and then he realized it was Jefferson McQuade.

But… but hadn’t he left already? What…?

“Hello, Griff,” McQuade said softly.

“Hello,” Griff said grudgingly, annoyed by the sudden panic that fluttered in his stomach. The same sort of panic he’d felt a long time ago when he’d been waiting for the then-unknown visitor from Georgia. The same panic he’d felt when he thought McQuade had seen the note he’d left for Aaron. The panic that had stabbed at him after his telephone conversation with Hengman, when he’d looked up to find McQuade standing there. The same panic, he realized, that had attacked him after the Cutting Room hosing, that had left him weak after the inquisition of the Puerto Rican girl. The fear he’d felt that night of the Guild Week party, when he thought there would be trouble with McQuade. The fear, later of losing his job. Fear.

Not a lack of knowledge, not a lack of recognition.

Fear!

The fear he had tried to explain to Marge when the fear itself was not inside him at the time. But the fear was inside him now, and now he could explain it to her, oh, now he could, now afraid would have meaning, now he could explain this fear that seemed to breed itself automatically whenever McQuade appeared.

“I hope you don’t mind my waiting for you,” McQuade said.

He stared at McQuade and said nothing, and his mind went back to what Harley Ford had said in Manelli’s office.

“When I think what could have happened in this fact’ry if Mistuh Griffin hadn’t had the courage to…”