But squiring a batch of shapely virginal high-school girls through the building (amid whistling and catcalls from the men working the machines) was a little different from showing around a Georgian representative of Titanic Shoe Corporation of America. He realized abruptly that he knew very little about Titanic, and he suddenly wondered why they were sending up a man, and so fast on the heels of G.K.’s department. He knew the Georgians had infested the Chrysler Building suite, but somehow he had not expected them to bother with the factory. He realized this was faulty reasoning, because he knew the heart of any company was the manufacturing end, but he had deluded himself up to now, and he felt a strange sort of panic while awaiting the Georgian.
He wrangled with his thoughts and decided he was making a mountain out of a molehill. This would probably be, as Hengman had suggested, a short inspection tour, after which Jefferson McQuade would sneak back down to the land of the Dixie Cup.
He calmed himself, and then his panic instantly returned when he heard footsteps down the hallway. He began straightening his desk, and Marge glanced at him curiously, and he wished Aaron were in the office, where the hell was Aaron, and then Benny Pollack walked in.
“Oh,” he said, sighing, “hello, Benny.”
“Hello, handsome,” Benny answered. Benny was foreman of the Lasting Department, a job which required infinite patience and skill. He came into the office wearing his shop apron now, smelling of the compo cement which smothered the atmosphere in his end of the building. Benny, even though his last name was Pollack, was called Benny Compo by everyone in the factory.
“So what’s on your mind?” Griff asked, glancing at the door.
“Nothing. I stopped next door to pick up my pay envelope, and I thought I’d drop in to say hello. What’s the matter, you antisocial?”
Griff smiled. Foremen, unlike the workers who were paid right on the factory floor where their envelopes were distributed by a policeman-accompanied young lady, came directly to the cage in Payroll for their weekly salaries. He had grown used to Benny Compo’s visits, but now, expecting the Georgian, he looked at Benny uneasily, and then he glanced again at the open doorway.
Benny caught the glance. “You expecting someone?” he asked.
“Well, yes.”
“Someone important?”
“From Georgia,” Griff said, nodding.
“Titanic?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” Benny thought this over a moment. “Well, I’ll take off then, huh, Griff? Titanic, huh?”
“Yop.”
“Mmm. Well, I’ll see you, Griff.”
He smiled and waved, backing out of the office and almost colliding with the man who stood in the doorway. Benny mumbled something hastily, and then fled down the corridor. The man in the door frame smiled and then looked into the office inquisitively.
He was certainly the most impressive-looking man Griff had ever seen. He filled the door frame with his body, making Griff feel short, somehow, even though he knew he stood at an even six feet. The man was at least six-four, magnificently built, wearing an oxford-gray suit that seemed inadequate across the breadth of his shoulders. He was the kind of man Griff automatically pictured in dungarees and T-shirt, hauling in sail on a yacht, laughing at the sun, his muscles rippling with sinuous grace. He had straight blond hair, bleached brighter by the sun at the left-hand part, combed simply to the right with no attempt to conceal its straightness, no bid for a frivolous pompadour or fingermade wave. His face was lean and tanned, with high bronzed cheekbones and a narrow mouth, a straight nose rushing up to meet blond eyebrows and steel-gray eyes. A white button down shirt went with the gray suit, and a silk gold-and-black striped tie was pinned to the shirt with a small gold fleur-de-lis clasp.
Griff had never given much consideration to his own looks. He knew he was not handsome in the movie-star tradition, and there were mornings — when a thick beard came between him and his mirrored reflection — when he considered himself downright ugly. He knew he had black hair and brown eyes, and he knew that his nose was straight, and he sensed that his mouth was fairly decent as mouths went, with perhaps too thin an upper lip. He weighed a hundred and eighty pounds, and he’d have liked to weigh a hundred and ninety or so, but he’d always felt comfortable in his body, and he’d never been really unhappy with his face.
The man standing in the door frame, though, made him feel suddenly inadequate. The man standing there was a toothpaste ad, and a body-building ad, and a well-dressed man ad. The man standing there looked as if he’d be equally at home with an elephant gun or a martini glass in his hands. He blotted out the door frame, and he blotted out the corridor beyond the door, and he damn near overpowered the office with sheer physical strength.
“Mr. Griffin?” he asked.
There was just the faintest trace of a Southern accent in his voice, not a distortion of speech at all, simply a mellowing of tone, a softening of delivery.
“Yes,” Griff said, rising, wanting suddenly to make himself taller. “I’m—”
“Jefferson McQuade, sir,” the man said, smiling and stepping into the room. He walked to Griff’s desk, taking the long graceful strides Griff had always associated with baseball players. He extended his hand, taking Griff’s hand in a firm, warm grip. “I’m very happy to know you, sir,” he said.
“How do you do?” Griff said pleasantly. Marge had looked up inquisitively from her typewriter, and she kept staring at McQuade now, her lips slightly parted, as if Apollo had magically appeared in a burst of sunlight. Griff wondered about the protocol of the situation. Did you introduce a typist to the Titanic representative? He worried his lip for a moment and then said, “Marge, this is Mr. McQuade. From Titanic Shoe in Georgia. Mr. McQuade, Marge Gannon.”
“How do you do?” Marge said, still overwhelmed by his presence.
McQuade smiled graciously. “Happy to know you, Miss Gannon,” he said. ‘He made a very slight bow from the waist, which somehow did not look silly on him. He straightened up then and said, “I certainly hope I’m not interrupting any important work. I know what a nuisance visitors are, and I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“No, not at all,” Griff said. He was beginning to feel a little more at ease. McQuade generated an easygoing warmth and politeness which was infectious and thoroughly pleasing.
“Well, that’s awfully good of you, Mr. Griffin. You lie very graciously.” He smiled again, his lips pulling back over dazzling white teeth. Griff returned the smile, suddenly liking McQuade. “I wouldn’t have troubled you, really, but Hengman tells me that you probably know the factory better than he does, and I certainly appreciate your willingness to make me feel at home. Everyone in Mr. Hengman’s office was very kind to me.”
“Well…” Griff said, not knowing what else to say, wondering why McQuade played the role of the poor relation. Didn’t he know he was the man from Titanic? Didn’t he know every courtesy would most naturally be extended to him?
“I rather imagine,” McQuade said, as if he were reading Griff’s mind, “that there’s been a good deal of anticipation here since the merger. We prefer to think of it as a merger, Mr. Griffin, a consolidation, rather than a… an invasion, so to speak.” He smiled, as if talking about this were painful and embarrassing. “Titanic Shoe is… well… something like a bridegroom, and this merger with Julien Kahn is a little like taking home a bride, do you see?”
“Yes,” Griff said, smiling.
“So,” McQuade said, spreading his tanned hands, “to make a long story longer, there really should be no anxiety here in the factory. We all work for Titanic now, you and I, everyone, and I can assure you it’s a wonderful outfit. For the most part, things will go on running here just the way they’ve been running. As a matter of fact, there’s quite a bit we’ll have to learn from you people who are actually running the factory. After all, this is our first venture into the fashion world. Up to now, we’ve done mostly men’s shoes and casuals. We’ve done our job well, but this is a totally new experience for us.” He paused, smiling. “End of commercial.”