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    The Spiked Heel
    The Spiked Heel
    The Spiked Heel
    Ebook374 pages6 hours

    The Spiked Heel

    By Ed McBain

    ()

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    About this ebook

    A struggle for control of a shoe company becomes a battle between good and evil in this corporate thriller by the author of the 87th Precinct series.
     
    For three generations, footwear company Julian Kahn has been synonymous with high fashion. And for Raymond “Griff” Griffin, head of Kahn’s cost department, it would be a perfect place to work were it not for Mr. Kurz. A petty tyrant installed by the bank when ownership’s grip on the company began to slip, Kurz has made the life hell for every one of his employees. When he’s fired, Griff and the other executives rejoice, unaware that things are about to get a whole lot worse.
     
    The Kahns are selling the company to multinational conglomerate Titanic Shoe, and to oversee the transition, Titanic sends the devil in the form of Jefferson McQuade. A brute of the boardroom whose specialty is psychological warfare, McQuade hasn’t come to oversee a merger, but to break the company’s soul. His first target is Griff, but this exec has never been one to back down. In the battle for Julian Kahn, the stakes are far higher than the cost of a simple shoe factory: Griff will have to fight for his life.
     
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMysteriousPress.com Open Road
    Release dateOct 25, 2016
    ISBN9781504039246
    The Spiked Heel
    Author

    Ed McBain

    Ed McBain, a recipient of the Mystery Writers of America's coveted Grand Master Award, was also the first American to receive the Diamond Dagger, the British Crime Writers Association's highest award. His books have sold more than one hundred million copies, ranging from the more than fifty titles in the 87th Precinct series (including the Edgar Award–nominated Money, Money, Money) to the bestselling novels written under his own name, Evan Hunter—including The Blackboard Jungle (now in a fiftieth anniversary edition from Pocket Books) and Criminal Conversation. Fiddlers, his final 87th Precinct novel, was recently published in hardcover. Writing as both Ed McBain and Evan Hunter, he broke new ground with Candyland, a novel in two parts. He also wrote the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds. He died in 2005. Visit EdMcBain.com.

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      The Spiked Heel - Ed McBain

      1

      Even the factory wore a jubilant face.

      It squatted on the Jersey flatlands like a grinning gargoyle, its. windows reflecting the early morning sunlight like rows and rows of bright shining smiling teeth. He pulled the car around the wide white sweep of concrete and then through the cyclone fence into the parking lot. He could smell New Jersey, but the smell wasn’t an obnoxious one this morning. No, nothing could be obnoxious this morning. The smell was a dash of cologne and a sprinkle of Shalimar, and the sun was shining and the factory was smiling and puffing at its chimneys like a fat burgher with a pipe, and all was right with the world.

      He drove through the lot leisurely, picking a good spot, and then locking up. He automatically looked for Aaron’s old Dodge, and when he found it he derived a peculiar satisfaction from knowing Aaron was already in. He walked through the lot quickly, unable to keep the unconscious spring out of his step, unable to keep the smile off his face.

      High up on the roof of the factory, like the overgrown face of an envelope sprawling between two chimneys, the company sign looked down at him, a huge white rectangle with black script lettering on it:

      JULIEN KAHN

      Fashion Shoes

      Good morning, Julien Kahn, he thought.

      And good-by, George Kurz. Good-by, you old son of a bitch.

      Now, now, he chided himself, we shouldn’t be gleeful over another man’s misfortune, but oh am I delighted that rotten bastard is finally getting the ax, I’m tickled pink, I’m so damn happy I could bust.

      The smile expanded on his face. He felt the sudden nip of the February air, threw a hasty salute at the sign above the building, and then went through the wide glass doors and past the information booth and Bill, the watchman, walking directly to the elevator banks. He pushed the UP button and then pulled back the sleeve of his coat, glancing at his watch. Eight-forty-five. Early this morning, early for the beheading. Any volunteers to hold the basket? And forty thousand men were killed in the mad rush to the scaffold.

      He began humming to himself, standing in the corridor where the real factory began, an abrupt changeover from the marble-floored entrance lobby with its plaque to old Julien Kahn and its glass cases of shoes. Occasionally, he glanced up at the floor indicator needle, and it wasn’t until the needle reached 3 that he realized he was humming The Funeral March. He burst out laughing and then looked over his shoulder, managing to suppress his glee before the car doors opened.

      Morning, Max, he said cheerfully.

      Morning, Griff, the elevator man answered. He was a short squat man who wore his dungarees with all the authority of a brigadier general. His shoulders were wide and muscular and the face above the shoulders was beaming and round.

      Nine, Griff?

      Nine, Max.

      Max pulled the doors shut and set the car in motion. The men were silent for a moment, listening to the whir of the car’s mechanism, hearing beneath that the steady thrum-thrum of the factory.

      G.K. gets canned today, Max said happily.

      He does, Griff answered, he does that. He was always amazed by the efficiency of the intrafactory spy system, a system which apprised every employee of everything that was happening or about to happen even when it was top-level stuff.

      Max shook his head in mock sorrow. I bleed for him.

      All over the rug, Griff said, smiling.

      But, Max said, returning the smile, those are the breaks. Some got it, and some ain’t got it. Max paused philosophically. Yep, I really bleed for G.K., all right. I really bleed for the poor bugger. Now he’ll have nothing to do but sit back and spend what he’s been stealing from the company for the past twenty years.

      "Requiescat," Griff said.

      Huh? Max said, and then as an afterthought, Nine. He threw open the doors, and Griff thanked him and stepped out of the car. He waved at the closing doors and then walked to the time clock.

      5741.

      He reached for the card automatically, inserted it into the IN slot, and heard the familiar clicking whir as the card was punched. He looked at the stamped time. Eight fifty-one. He put the card back in the rack, and then walked left down the corridor, passing the huge Payroll Department and then Credit. He doubled back and peeked into the open door, wondering if Danny was in yet. Magruder was sitting at his desk with a container of coffee in front of him. He looked up and waved and then went back to reading his morning newspaper. Griff went down the hallway, toward the partitioning at the end of the wing. A sign over the doorway at the end of the hall read COST. To the right of the doorway, one over the other, two small placards announced the names of the office’s inhabitants:

      R. GRIFFIN

      A. REIS

      He walked through the doorway and directly to Aaron’s desk.

      Good morn-ing, Mr. Reis, he said pompously.

      Ah, good morning, Mr. Griffin, Aaron replied, using his phony big-business voice. He was a thin man with curling black hair and wide, soulful brown eyes. His nose and mouth seemed to be constantly on the alert for alien smells and tastes, giving him the appearance of a perpetually sniffing cocker spaniel.

      You’re early today, A.R., Griff said, expanding his voice in imitation of a tycoon, taking off his coat at the same time.

      Well, R.G., Aaron said big-businessly, I didn’t want to miss the gala festivities.

      Did you come prepared?

      How so, R.G.?

      Rice, confetti, things to throw?

      Aaron snapped his fingers in disappointment. Damn, he said. Only thing I brought to throw was an old monkey wrench. Now, do you suppose the son of a bitch will mind a monkey wrench at the back of his bald dome?

      Now, now, A.R., Griff warned, you mustn’t speak disrespectfully of the departing comptroller. Remember, my young friend, and here he looped one thumb through an imaginary suspender, spreading his legs wide and assuming an oldtimer-to-newcomer pose, that the likes of George Kurz are the foundation, the very foundation stone, of Julien Kahn, Fashion Shoes. Remember, my young friend, that without this bulwark of intelligence and imagination …

      Horse manure, Aaron said.

      Without, Griff persisted, this bulwark of intelligence and imagination, the entire industry, the en-tire industry may well fall into a state of total collapse, unguided by …

      You want some coffee? Aaron asked.

      Boy, Griff said, seemingly hurt, you interrupted me.

      Do you want some coffee?

      Wait until Marge comes in, Griff said. He walked to the window where the company inventory calendar hung just over his desk. Beside the calendar, someone from Production had put up a sign reading HANG THE COST! LET SALES WORK IT OUT. The office wags had scribbled their usual comments all over the sign. Hang David Kahn. Hang wallpaper. Heng the Hengeman. And scrawled across the face of the sign, Oh hell, hang it all. He glanced briefly at the sign, and then whirled rapidly, stabbing an index finger at Aaron.

      Hey, man! he said, are you happy? Are you happy as hell?

      I’m delirious, Aaron said.

      Let’s go split a magnum of champagne.

      Let’s go split a few cups of coffee.

      All right, Griff said enthusiastically. As soon as Marge gets here.

      They fell into a warm silence, sitting on the edges of their desks, listening to the hum of the factory below them. The factory had been on the job since eight that morning, and there was a certain luxury attached to hearing the sounds of toil and knowing that their own labor had not yet begun. They seemed to sense too, on this morning, a happiness pounding beneath the factory’s effort. They sensed it humming through Prefitting and Lasting, sensed it vibrating ecstatically all the way down to Packing and Shipping. This was the day, the machines sang. This was the day George Kurz got flipped out of his flabby flaccid fanny.

      I can’t wait, Aaron said. I know I’m a morbid bastard, but I can’t wait.

      I’m going to applaud, Griff said. Kurz is going to stick out his hand for that final tender handclasp, and I’m going to start clapping, I swear to God.

      He heard the click of high heels in the outside corridor, and he turned his head quickly. Marge Gannon breezed into the office like an assault wave at Anzio, her short blond hair bobbing at the nape of her neck, her green eyes sparkling.

      Good morning, good morning, she chanted, and then she stopped dead in her tracks, looked over her shoulder, and whispered, Has it happened yet?

      Not yet, Aaron said.

      Good, she answered. She threw her coat onto her desk and then pulled off her gloves and put them and her purse into the top drawer. Her eyes gleamed with mischief. I wrote a poem for G.K., she said. I wrote it on my own time, and I’m not even charging the firm for it.

      Let’s hear it, Aaron said.

      Steady, boy, she answered. She was wearing a woolen suit, the ruffles of a blouse showing at her throat. Her feet were encased in a pair of Julien Kahn’s caramel calf pumps, selling in retail outlets for $22.95, but which she’d picked up from Mauro in Wholesale Adjustment for six dollars and some change because one shoe had a slight damage. She wore the shoes extremely well, for, whereas Marge was a small girl with only an average figure, she had been endowed with splendid legs. It was Marge’s contention that such legs should not be wasted on a typist’s job. Typists were a dime a dozen, but good legs were hard to come by. And good legs in a fashion house should understandably be utilized for the modeling of shoes, or so she reasoned, and so she showed off her legs at every possible opportunity.

      Griff did not entirely disagree with her reasoning. He had tried, on his various sorties to the Chrysler Building Sales Offices, to generate some interest in Marge Gannon and her really, remarkable under-pinnings. But each time he’d mentioned her possibilities, he’d been brushed off with a Sales-to-Factory pat on the back. He had not, in all truth, been sorry. Marge was a damned good typist, and her determination to exhibit her legs, which—let’s face it—were really and truly superb legs, incomparable legs, pinup-girl legs, damned exciting legs when you got right down to them, did a lot toward adding a certain amount of class and distinction to the Cost Department. It also added a lot of loiterers from every other department in the factory, people who allegedly came in to chat, but who really came to admire the crossed legs and exposed knees behind Marge Gannon’s desk, Marge enjoyed the audience. She knew her legs were good, and she knew any prospective employer would adore having them adorn his offices, at possibly twice the salary Julien Kahn was paying her. But she dangled the carrot of self-delusion before her pert Irish nose, and the carrot was stamped MODEL, and the dream was most appealing to her, and dammit! what better place to make a start than at one of the top fashion houses in the country?

      She plumped her shapely bottom down on Aaron’s desk, crossed her legs, jiggled one aristocratically shod foot, and reached into the pocket of her jacket for the poem she’d created. She unfolded the sheet of paper with a good deal of pomp. She cleared her throat.

      Come on, already, Aaron said.

      Don’t get nervous, Marge answered. If you’re nervous, watch the pretty legs. They’ll soothe you.

      It’s the pretty legs are making me nervous, Aaron said, smiling.

      Fresh, Marge said, and she made an attempt to pull her skirt down over her knees, but the skirt somehow resisted and she shrugged and went on to more important matters.

      To Our Beloved Comptroller, George Kurz, she read.

      Hear, hear, Aaron said.

      Now hush, Marge said. She jiggled her foot once more, cleared her throat again, and began reading the poem.

      "Our affection for you, dear old G.K.,

      Will never erode, rust, or D.K.

      We love you–no buts

      We don’t hate your guts,

      But we’re glad you are going A–way, A–way …"

      Say, that’s … Aaron started.

      There’s more, Marge said.

      Let her finish, Griff said, smiling.

      "Your suspension, you poor dear old G.K.,

      Will cause grief from New York west to L.A.

      But tonight we’ll get plastered,

      And drink to the bastard

      Who’s finally going A–way, A–way,

      Who’s finally going A–way!"

      Aaron and Griff burst out laughing simultaneously. Aaron slapped the top of his desk, and Marge basked in the accolade of approval.

      Read it to him! Aaron said. When he comes around, read the damn thing to him. Oh, God, read it to him, Marge.

      Should I, Griff? she asked seriously.

      Well …

      Why not? Aaron wanted to know. Do it, Marge, do it.

      I, Griff said slowly, don’t think so.

      I don’t think so either, Marge said, sliding off the desk. But, tell the truth, don’t you think I should be writing copy for the Advertising Department?

      I thought you wanted to model, Griff said.

      I do, Marge answered.

      She walked to her desk, took a mirror from her purse, and studied her mouth. It was a full mouth, with a pouting lower lip, and it still carried all the lipstick she’d expertly applied before leaving her apartment that morning. Satisfied, she put the mirror back into the bag and closed the desk drawer again.

      We’re going down for an important conference, Griff said.

      Okay, Marge answered.

      If there are any calls …

      Who’s finally going A–way, A–way, Marge quoted, and then burst out laughing, throwing her head back, swinging her chair around, and extending her legs as she rocked on her backside. Aaron looked at Griff and Griff looked at Aaron, and then both men looked at the incredible legs once more before leaving the office and heading down for the lunch counter on the ground floor.

      There were three calls waiting to be returned when Griff got back to the office. He got the list from Marge, and then left her with a long report, hearing the busy clatter of her typewriter as he got down to business. Posnansky had called from the Chrysler Building, and he decided that call rated top priority. He made himself comfortable in his chair, and then asked the operator for Chrysler. The tie line connected him with the Sales Office in a matter of seconds. He asked for Ed Posnansky, and then waited.

      Hello? the voice said. It was a gruff masculine voice, a real hairy-chested voice. The voice always surprised Griff, because Posnansky was a short thin man with gold-rimmed glasses.

      Ed? he said. This is Griff.

      Oh, hello, Griff. How are you?

      Fine, thanks. You?

      Great, great. Listen, this order you sent back from Stapleton’s in Dallas. You didn’t price it.

      I know.

      Well, why not? How can we—

      We haven’t got a price on that shoe yet, Ed.

      Why not? We’ve been making that shoe for three years now. Hell, Griff, look at the style number. Thirteen dash seventy forty-two. You know as well as I that—

      It’s not the same shoe, Ed. Take a look at your order—

      I don’t have to look at the order blank. It’s a black suede pump, and I damn well—

      I know the code, Ed, thanks. Now, don’t start shoveling it at me, will you? Take a look at the goddam order blank. If you can read Canotti’s handwriting, you’ll see the account wants a rhinestone crescent on the vamp of that shoe. That means I’ve got to check it with a glitter house after it leaves Prefitting. On an outside job, I can’t possibly estimate what they’re going to charge.

      Well, why didn’t you hold it there? Posnansky asked. Until you could get me a price on it?

      I’d planned on sending the specifications to the glitter house before we cut the shoe. That way you could relay the price to the account before we go ahead. Look, Ed, this is a single-order shoe. The price on those rhinestones may make it prohibitive. In the meantime, I don’t want the order lying on my desk. I don’t want the account buzzing us in a week or so yelling where the hell’s my acknowledgment? Am I getting the shoes, or not? Then Chrysler will get all excited and start looking for somebody to hang, and then they’ll find the order on my desk, waiting for pricing. No, thanks.

      So what the hell am I supposed to do? Posnansky whined.

      "Get a letter off and tell the customer we’re working up an estimate on the rhinestones. He knows we’re running a factory here, Ed. Hell, he knows we have to make the goddam shoes for him."

      Can’t you give me a price on it? Posnansky pleaded.

      When?

      Well, this morning was what I had in mind.

      Kurz is leaving this morning, Griff said. We’re going to be busy here.

      That’s just my beef, Griff. Now, look, man, just between us, there’s a lot of anxiety here at Chrysler. We don’t know Titanic from a hole in the wall, and the place is crawling with goddam rebels from Georgia. Now, don’t misunderstand me. I think Kahn selling out was the best thing that ever happened to this company, but I’m not forgetting that a lot of the big boys are going, and I don’t want my ass in the sling next, do you follow me?

      So? Griff said.

      "So? So? Oh, come on, Griff, you’re kidding me. Do you know how many people have been tossed into the street since Titanic took over?"

      I’ve got an idea, Griff said, smiling.

      You’ve got an idea, huh? Well, I’m right here where I can see it all. Kurz is the first man to go on your end, but they’re dropping like flies here at Chrysler. President, vice-presidents, even—did you know David Kahn got the ax?

      We heard, Griff said, still smiling.

      Executive Chairman of the Board! Posnansky almost shouted.

      The Kahns deserve everything they get, Griff said.

      All right, I’ll grant you that. But what about Mercer? He wasn’t a Kahn, was he? Damn it, they’ve put him on the road with a territory, would you believe it? From sales consultant, they’ve dumped him on the road selling shoes. Now tell me—

      Mercer was a crook, Griff said.

      Was our fashion coordinator a crook? All right, Adele was a Kahn. But our publicity director? What about the copy chief? I’m telling you, Titanic Shoe is tightening the screws, Griff. I wouldn’t laugh it off so lightly, if I were you.

      All right, all right, Griff said.

      So that’s why I’m raising a fuss over a stupid thing like the goddam price on a black suede pump with a glitter crescent. I need that price, Griff, and I’d like it this morning. I don’t want anybody coming down on my ass.

      You worry too much, Griff said.

      Damn right, I worry, Posnansky said fervently. I’ve got three hungry mouths to feed. If David Kahn can get fired, anybody can.

      I say three cheers for Titanic Shoe, Griff said.

      Sure. Until they make a grab for your job.

      I’m indispensable, Griff said.

      Don’t I know it, you bastard? How about a price on that shoe?

      We’ll work on it, Griff said. I’ll call you back this afternoon.

      Fine. When this afternoon?

      Some time this afternoon, Ed, I’m busy. Go sell shoes.

      Okay, so long, Griff. And thanks.

      He hung up and looked at the list of callers again, smiling. Kurz still hadn’t come in, and he began to wonder if he’d ever come in. Was the skunk going to deny them the pleasure of watching his execution? He shrugged, consulted the list again, and then called Fazio in the IBM Room.

      Fazio was a highly excitable man, and he was apparently at the end of his rope when he picked up the phone.

      Griff? he said. Griff, where the hell have you been? Jesus, boy, you shouldn’t—

      What is it, Frank? Griff asked.

      We’re trying to get these commissions straight, Griff. Murphy was taken off the Illinois-Ohio territory on the eighth of … let me see, when the hell …?

      January, Griff supplied.

      Yeah. I want to know if he still has any credits coming from Illinois-Ohio or if—

      It takes us six weeks to straighten out commissions on a transfer, Frank, you know that.

      Yeah, but—

      The last of his orders was shipped and billed last week. He’s clean now.

      Well, okay, that’s all I wanted to know. But what about returns? Hasn’t he had—

      I sent down a tally on that the other day, Frank. One of your girls probably has it sitting under her manicure kit.

      Oh. Fazio paused. Oh, well, thanks, Griff. I hate to bother you like this, but Chrysler has been putting a lot of pressure on me. I got a hunch … well, never mind.

      What’s the matter?

      Nothing. I’m just not sure I like what Titanic Shoe is doing, Griff.

      They haven’t bothered us yet. What are you worrying about?

      I’m not worrying. It’s just … well, the hell with it. Thanks again.

      Any time, Frank.

      He hung up and shook his head. He could not understand why Fazio was worried. True, there had been a lot of firings since Titanic Shoe had taken over almost two months ago. But, aside from the closing down of the Boston factory and the suspension today of Kurz here in New Jersey, the axings had been confined to the Chrysler Building. The firings had all been in the higher echelon, and the firings had cleared out only the old regime, and that regime had been as corrupt and decaying as a rotten pomegranate. He had watched the decadence spread, had watched it grow in the eleven years he’d been with the firm until it finally overpowered the entire operation. He had often wondered, during that time, what old Julien Kahn would have thought. In his own mind, he carried a supreme respect for the clubfooted German bootmaker who’d founded the firm, a respect in inverse proportion to the contempt he held for Kahn’s descendants.

      He had never met the old man, and the old man had been in his grave for a hell of a long time now, but Griff could never look up at the JULIEN KAHN, Fashion Shoes sign without feeling this ungrudging admiration for the man who’d established the organization. Nor could he completely minimize the contributions old Kahn’s three sons—well, really two sons if you discounted Peter Putter—had made to the firm in its early expansion stage. Old Kahn had been a lucky man in that all of his sons, with the exception of Peter, loved the shoe business as much as he did. They’d all started learning it from the bottom, all endowed with the knowledge that the empire would someday be theirs, and all shrewdly businesslike enough to realize you had to know a business in order to run it.

      When old Julien Kahn died, his three sons took over. Manny Kahn went in as president of the firm. Isaac Kahn took over as president of the retail chain and general strong-arm man in the bunch. He knew how to sell shoes, and he also knew how to deal with lockouts and other union trouble. The boys made a formidable pair. Peter, whom everyone at the factory took to calling Peter Putter, puttered around here and there, fussing and fidgeting, turning off lights in offices, complaining that too much electricity was being used, or too many staples in the shipping room, a bumbler who contributed nothing but his presence to the firm. Even the Kahn brothers treated him with the disrespect he had rightfully earned.

      The business grew. Manny bought the larger New Jersey plant, and then the plant in Boston, and then the brothers opened their Kahnette division in Utica, putting out a slightly less expensive line than Julien Kahn, Fashion Shoes, did. The name of Julien Kahn was slowly but indelibly stamped on the fashion world. It became a name that automatically came to mind whenever anyone mentioned a good shoe. The company took its place among the other leaders in the industry. Julien Kahn was murmured in the same reverent breath with Delman’s, Andrew Geller, I Miller, Palter De Liso. Julien Kahn, Inc., was a vibratingly alive, alert, progressive business run by levelheaded shrewd men who also happened to love the industry.

      And then, as will happen, sons begat sons. And daughters.

      The wife of Mandel Kahn presented him with a pair of bouncing baby boys, twins who were weaned on the best milk, raised by the best governesses, tutored by the best private tutors, sent to the best prep schools, the best Ivy League colleges, and then absorbed into the Kahn empire. David Kahn stepped into the firm as executive chairman of the Board. Donald Kahn came in as general manager of the Boston Division. Nor were the other sons of Julien Kahn lacking in the progenitive spirit.

      Isaac Kahn bred and raised a handsome boy called Theodore. Theodore achieved manhood and prepared to take on the sacred robes of a priest in the Kahn dynasty. He had good intentions, the boy. He decided to learn the business from the bottom up, the way old Julien Kahn had done, the way his father and his uncles had done. He spent a grand total of six months in the newly acquired New Jersey factory, and perhaps he learned how to conserve staples and electricity from his Uncle Peter. At the end of six months, his pathetic apprenticeship came to an abrupt halt. He fled to Boston, where he was installed as comptroller of that factory.

      Peter Kahn contributed two daughters and a son to the clan. Adele, his eldest, attended Cooper Union, where she majored in Design and garnered a straight C average. Armed with knowledge, she went into the firm as fashion coordinator. Freida Kahn attended the University of Miami, where she majored in Tennis, and then came north to marry a wealthy Boston socialite, depriving the firm of her talents. She held a strange, unwarranted contempt for Julien Kahn, and was often heard to refer to him as The Old Cripple. Peter died when his only son was eighteen years old and still a senior at Birchwood Prep. Most of Peter’s shares in the firm went to this beloved offspring, Peter, Jr. When Peter, Jr., was graduated from Harvard University, he ran to the Chrysler Building and was promptly crowned sales manager of the firm.

      The sons and one daughter had been handling the business in their own slipshod manner for as long as Griff could remember. Their fathers separately lapsed into death or bored indifference. Isaac Kahn was still alive, and he had occasionally visited the factory before the deal with Titanic, but he was a man of the past, adjusting his memories to fit the new scheme of things. The final deal with Titanic—a transfer of stock, the details of which had never been explained to Griff—was inevitable. If you want to run a business, you have to know it. The grandchildren of old Julien Kahn didn’t know a shoe from a banana peel.

      It was sad in a way, Griff supposed, something like the passing of a royal family, but it was immensely gratifying at the same time. Titanic Shoe was an enormous monster of a company, but it was also an outfit with vigor and force. The business would look up now. There’d be changes, yes, and maybe some people would get hurt when the new broom began sweeping clean, but the business would survive and it wouldn’t be a family business any more (how he hated those

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