The Spiked Heel

“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.”