“Well,” Griff said, “I’m sure you’ll find it—”
“In other words,” McQuade interrupted gently, “I’ll try to get underfoot as little as possible. Mr. Hengman said you might give me office space, and anything you can dig up will suit me fine. One of these desks, perhaps.” He looked around the office, and then pointed. “Is that one occupied?”
“Oh, that’s Aaron’s,” Griff said.
“Aaron?”
“Aaron Reis, my assistant. He’s out of the office right now.”
“I see,” McQuade said. “Well, any desk will do.” He smiled genially. “I see there are only three desks, though. I feel something like an unexpected guest for dinner.”
“I think we can get one in from another department,” Griff said. “Marge, do you think that could be arranged?”
“Yes, certainly,” she said. “I’ll do that right now.”
“Well, there’s no great rush,” McQuade said.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Marge answered. She swung her legs out from under the desk and then started to say, “Oh da—” cutting herself off before she finished the phrase, but not cutting off the quick motion of her hand which pulled her skirt back over her knees. She studied the sleek smoothness of her nylons, and then smiled up at Griff. “Just lucky,” she said. “Thought sure I had a run.”
McQuade glanced at her legs cursorily, and then turned away in seeming disinterest, as if good legs were flashed at him all the time. “You might try some scotch tape on the kneehole of the desk,” he suggested pleasantly. “Around the edges. It covers splinters.”
“Why, thank you,” Marge said, smiling at him. She left her skirt up over her knees for a moment, and then shoved it down and stood up, trotting past McQuade and out of the office, her high heels clicking. Griff noticed the exaggerated swing of her backside, and he was momentarily surprised. He had not, before this, attributed any particular amount of sexuality to Marge. He knew, of course, that she was a woman, and he knew about her legs, but he and Aaron — like a pair of Roman senators with the Venus de Milo in their garden — had more or less grown accustomed to the splendor. On the other hand, he had never seen Marge wiggle her bottom with such determination, and he mentally stacked up his own attributes against those of Jefferson McQuade, forced finally to admit that Marge hadn’t had any real incentive for buttock jiggling before this. He lessened the shock of comparison by telling himself that Marge was a smart girl who knew how to butter a slice of bread. McQuade was a most nutritious slice, no denying it, but he was also a representative of Titanic Shoe. Titanic was now boss. If there was the slightest possibility of someone being able to put in a good word for Marge’s gams, Marge wasn’t going to let that possibility pass by without having exhibited her ankle and calf and knee, and perhaps a little bit of her shapely thigh.
“Well, if you want to take a look at the factory,” he said, “why don’t we get started right now?”
“If you’ve nothing important—” McQuade began.
“No, nothing at all,” Griff lied, thinking of the orders covering six thousand pairs of shoes on his desk, orders waiting for pricing, unable to go into production until he priced them. “I just want to leave a note for Aaron, though, so he won’t think I’ve absconded with the company’s funds.”
McQuade smiled. “Surely.”
Griff took a memo slip from his desk. The memo carried an inscription which the stationery buyer undoubtedly felt would humorously spur on the staff to greater productive efforts. It read: ALWAYS SAY KAHN. NEVER SAY KAHN’T. Beneath the inscription, he scrawled: “A man from Titanic is here. Showing him factory now. En garde! Griff.”
He put the note under the inkwell on Aaron’s desk, and then said, “All right, let’s go.”
“Fine,” McQuade said. “I really appreciate this.”
They walked to the elevators, and after Griff had pressed the DOWN button he said, “Two elevators here, passenger and freight. We use both in the morning when the factory people are all arriving, and at night when they go home, to handle the rush.”
“I see,” McQuade said.
“Otherwise, the freight elevator handles the racks that are constantly moving from floor to floor. We’re on the ninth floor now, and all our offices are up here, except Mr. Hengman’s. His is down on the fourth floor, as you know.”
“Yes,” McQuade said.
“The actual factory begins on the eighth floor, and that’s where our operation begins, too, working its way down to the ground floor and the shipping platform. Well, you’ll see as we work our way through.”
“Slow elevator,” McQuade said, almost to himself.
“What?”
“The elevator,” McQuade said. “Does it generally take so long for…?”
“Oh,” Griff said. “Oh, no, not usually.” He stabbed impatiently at the DOWN button. “No, this is very unusual. There must be a holdup on one of the floors.”
“I see,” McQuade said, and then he smiled disarmingly.
“I’ll show you the Cutting Room first, because that’s where the shoe is started. Understand, of course, that these are not actually ‘rooms’ in the generally accepted sense of the word. That is, there are no walls enclosing any one operation — except for the Leather Room and the Repair Department.”
“Yes,” McQuade said thoughtfully. “I’ve… ah… been in factories before.” He grinned boyishly. “Titanic owns quite a few of them.”
“Oh. Well, I didn’t know how much you knew about… here’s the elevator now.”
The doors opened, and they stepped inside.
“Eight, Max,” he said, and Max nodded and looked at McQuade quickly, and then closed the doors just as quickly.
“No uniforms?” McQuade asked.
“Sir?”
“Uniforms. On the elevator operators,” McQuade said, his eyes looking surprised.
“Oh, no,” Griff answered. “The elevators are all run by the Maintenance Department, Mr. McQuade. We… well, this is a factory. I mean… did you mean uniforms? Gold braid and such?”
“I suppose it is a somewhat stereotyped idea,” McQuade said, smiling at his own foolishness.
“Well,” Griff said, liking McQuade more and more, “There’s really no need for such pomp here, you know. The Sales Offices are a different thing.”
“Yes,” McQuade said, nodding.
Max threw open the doors and said, “Eight, Mr. Griffin,” and Griff looked at him peculiarly, but Max did not crack a smile. McQuade stepped out onto the floor, and Griff followed.
There was suddenly activity everywhere around them. There had been a quiet buzz in the elevator, the pulse beat of the factory, but that buzz became a rush of sound as they stepped onto the floor. Stretching across the floor as far as they could see were sewing machines, and behind each machine was a girl working quickly and busily. The sounds on the floor mingled, the hum of machinery and the hum of voices, the hum of activity and rush. Racks on wheels, looking like mobilized bookcases, stood alongside each machine, stood near the elevators, stood haphazardly scattered across the floor,’ forming barriers at some spots, impassible dead ends, long narrow corridors elsewhere. Each rack carried stacks and stacks of cut leather and fabric, rubber-banded together and tagged with white or pink slips.
“This is Prefitting,” Griff explained. “I want to show you the Leather Room first, and then the Cutting Room. We’ll come back to this later. Want to follow me?”