The Spiked Heel

“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.