The Spiked Heel

He had told Stiegman just what he could do with the shoe, had told him not to bother them about that shoe ever again or he would come down personally and handle the proctological ceremonies himself. He had told Stiegman that he and Aaron had had nothing but tsoris with that goddam shoe from the second they’d received the specifications, and they had already costed it six times, and this was the last time they were running it through the factory, and it was a lousy shoe anyway and only a slight variation from last year’s cocktail pump and it had no place in the line to begin with, so why the hell didn’t Stiegman do just what Griff had suggested, getting the model to help him if he needed any help, and he could do it right in Macy’s window for all Griff cared, and good-by!

He had slammed down the receiver and shouted, “That goddam idiot! If he calls one more time, so help me—”

“Temper, temper,” Marge said.

“Where’s Aaron?” Griff exploded. “Dammit, this always happens when you pass a job on to someone else. He does the job, but you get all the beefs. Why should I have—”

“He’s with Hengman. Hengman said—”

“Hengman said, Manelli said, Stiegman said, everybody saying, but nobody doing. This company is beginning to resemble a big Rube Goldberg invention. If a little thing like Guild Week can—”

“Guild Week is important,” Marge said.

“Sure, sit there and type away, and offer platitudes. You’ve got nothing to do with Guild Week, so you don’t know what a big pain in the—”

“Ah, but you’re wrong.”

“What?”

“I’ve got a lot to do with Guild Week.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m modeling, Griff.”

“Sure. And I’m climbing the steeple of the Chrysler Building.”

“No, seriously.”

“You mean modeling a shoe? Since when?”

“McQuade fixed it for me,” she said.

“Are you kidding?”

“Nope. Why do you think I’ve been out of the office so much lately? I’ve been trying on shoes, Griff. Why, I won’t be in at all on Monday. Rehearsal. And Wednesday afternoon, and all day Thursday.” She saw his face. “Oh, that’s no way to receive my news.”

“Am I supposed to rejoice? I’m busy enough without having my typist stolen.” He paused. “What do you mean, McQuade fixed it? What have you got to do with McQuade?”

“Nothing. I mentioned I’d like to model, and he fixed it.”

“Which shoe?”

“Naked Flesh.”

“That’s an appropriate title,” Griff said nastily, immediately sorry afterward.

Marge flushed. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” she said stiffly.

“No? Well, figure it out. McQuade gives nothing for nothing.”

“You’re wrong,” she said hesitantly. “He’s only doing me a favor.”

“If you want a piece of advice, Marge, stay away from McQuade. Stay as far away from him as possible. McQuade is poison. I’m talking to you like a father.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Marge said. “I don’t need any advice.”

“Well…” He paused, feeling foolish as hell.

“Well what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me.”

“Nothing. Go model your Naked Flesh. Have a good time. Enjoy yourself.”

“I will,” Marge said.

“I know you will, so go ahead.”

“I can’t see what difference it makes to you, anyway.”

“It doesn’t,” Griff snapped. He was suddenly angry with himself for having assumed the role of her protector. But, at the same time, he felt Marge should understand, and he wasn’t at all sure that she did. He made an attempt to clarify his position, but the words came out clouded and confused. “Just don’t come running to me for help when you find out…”

“I won’t come running to anyone for help. And I’m not going to find out anything either. I told McQuade I wanted to model, and he was sensible enough to recognize a good pair of legs when he saw them, and so he fixed it for me. If there’s anything wrong with that, I’d like to know just what it is.”

“The only thing wrong is McQuade,” Griff said. “With McQuade in the picture…”

“You certainly don’t think much of me, do you?” Marge said angrily.

“That has nothing to do with it. Look, Marge, I’ve been to these Guild Week festivities before, and I’ve seen a lot of things happen after a few drinks, and McQuade is the kind of guy who—”

“You’ve made yourself quite clear,” she said.

“I just don’t like to see a nice kid taken by a son of a bitch like McQuade, that’s all,” he said lamely.

“Thanks.” She paused. “I can take care of myself.”

“I hope so.”

“I can.”

“All right, take dare of yourself.”

They were both silent for several moments.

“I appreciate your concern, Griff,” she said at last.

“Sure.”

“I do. Really.”

“Then please be careful.”

Marge smiled. “You’ll be there anyway, won’t you? You can protect me from any lustful advances.”

“Sure, sure.”

She turned away from him. He did not see the flush on her face. He did not know that she could still feel the vise-like strength of McQuade’s fingers on her thigh, or that the discolored bruise marks had still not vanished. He did not know that his awkward warnings had struck very close to the core of her panic and had only served to heighten it.

“Where the hell is Aaron?” he asked. “I’m going down, Marge. If he comes back, tell him I’m looking high and low for him, will you?”