The Spiked Heel

“Bust fetishes,” the blonde said disgustedly. “Goddam bra companies are building a country of bust worshipers. Mister, I wish I lived on Bali or someplace. I’d run around with the goddam things swinging down near my knees, without this harness all the time. You know, I could get a job with any bra company in the country, modeling? But I don’t. I model shoes instead, and you know why? ’Cause I’ve got a 4-B foot, and how the hell does that tie in with a 38-C bust? Impossible. You’re a good listener, you know?”

“Thanks,” Aaron said.

“Besides, I don’t like to parade around in my underwear in front of buyers. I once worked in the garment district and even that was a pain, with these slobs grabbing your legs every time they looked at the hem of a skirt. Shoes are safe, believe me. And what I do on my own time is my own business, am I right?”

“You’re absolutely right,” Aaron said.

“You’re cute, too. You look like a lost puppy dog.”

“Thank you,” Aaron said.

“You want to go out there with all those slobs?” she asked.

“Well…”

“Half the girls out there I never saw before today. You can’t tell me they were all modeling shoes.”

“Maybe they weren’t all,” Aaron said secretly.

The blonde pulled a face. “Not a decent bust in the lot of them. Let’s stay here. Go steal a bottle and we’ll get quietly drunk.”

“Don’t you have to get home?”

“Sure, I do,” the blonde said. “What’s that got to do with enjoying a drink with a friend?” She tugged at the bodice of her dress, the globes of her breast shaking with the movement. “I was once offered a job with Rand-McNally, too,” she said.

“Well, look who’s here!” McQuade said, “Griff, how are you, boy?”

“Fine, thanks,” Griff said stiffly. “You know Cara Knowles, don’t you?”

“Joe’s fairest,” McQuade said, bowing from the waist. “Good having you here, Cara.”

“Thank you,” Cara said.

“Marge, Cara,” Griff said. “Cara, Marge.”

“We’ve seen each other around the building,” Cara said, smiling.

“Well, how does it feel?” Griff asked Marge.

“Nice,” she said, pulling up her shoulders and hugging her arms to her chest as if she were squeezing a teddy bear. “Nice, nice.” A little bit of her drink spilled over the edge of her glass. She put the glass to her lips quickly and lowered its contents.

“You looked very good up there, Marge,” Griff said.

“He’s underestimating you,” Cara said. “I thought you were the best model in the showing.”

“Well,” Marge said brightly. “Thank you. I love you, dear girl. I take you to my bosom.”

“How’re the martinis holding up?” Griff asked lightly.

“Number four,” McQuade said, smiling, “and it hasn’t so much as distorted her vision. She’s a strong girl, our little Marge.”

“Better go easy,” Griff said, his voice lowering.

“Oh, I’m so happy, Griff!” Marge said. “Now don’t be a stinkpot and spoil it all. Get a drink for Griff, Mac. Griff, you don’t know how deliriously happy I am.”

“You’ve reason to be happy,” Cara said.

McQuade put his arm around Cara and said, “You are a very rare creature, Miss Knowles. A woman who acknowledges another woman’s triumph, without malice, without enmity. A very rare creature.”

“I’m malicious as all getout,” Cara said, smiling. “It’s not fair for any woman to have legs like that.”

“Ah!” McQuade said, extending a forefinger. “Ah, now, don’t spoil it! And don’t diminish the loveliness of your own legs, Cara. Never belittle your own assets, that’s a chief rule of survival. And never underestimate the enemy.”

“You’ve got good legs,” Marge said thickly.

“Why don’t we go out for a little air, Marge?” Griff said.

“Air? What do I need air for?”

“Air is, bad stuff, Griff,” McQuade said. He seemed very excited, tensed almost to a fever pitch. “Air is for balloons, not people. What do you think, Marge?”

“I think I’m getting looped. But I don’t feel like crying. I undersht — understand people get crying jags when they drink. I feel very happy, very very happy.”

“Not all people cry,” McQuade said, “and you’ve got a damned good reason for being happy. I’ll get you another drink.” He took his arm from Cara’s shoulder. “Don’t go away,” he said.

“Are you all right, Marge?”

“We overestimated the enemy, Mr. Griffin,” Marge said stiffly. “We overestimated the enemy forces. There is no need for fear. Feel free from frear. Fear. I’m all right.”

A record player started somewhere on the other side of the room. The strains of “Stardust” flooded the suite, fled to the rooms with couches and tables and chairs and glass shoecases and red posters with white disks and black silhouetted shoes…

“Ah, music,” Marge said. “Come on, Griff, dance with me.”

He looked at Cara quickly, and Marge said, “Please, may I? I won’t show my legs. I promise.”

“Go right ahead,” Cara said. “I’ll chance it.”

Marge rose unsteadily, and then went into Griff’s arms. He put his arm around her and steered her onto the floor. The buyers and salesmen and models and other girls were already flowing to the floor. Off on one side of the room, Hengman and Posnansky struggled to complete rolling back the rug.

“She’s pretty,” Marge said.

“Is she?”