Brewing Up a Storm Page 3

  “On an emotional level, perhaps,” she said kindly. “But you have to remember we’re in a courtroom now. Of course I was pleased to meet those two classmates who were Wayne’s friends. Their testimony will be useful, but it’s still just personal recollection and we could duplicate that with almost any victim. It was when I came across all those photographs that I realized we had, in terms of the litigation, a real treasure trove. Those snapshots and videos of Wayne drinking Quax at barbecues and beach parties are documentary evidence.”

  The last phrase was meant to clinch the argument, but Sean Cushing remained unconvinced.

  “It’s not that hard to establish some kid was in the habit of drinking Quax. The difficulty is persuading a jury it has anything to do with what happened afterward.”

  “You say that because you haven’t been at the conferences with the attorneys. There are all sorts of peculiar rules about what constitutes proof.”

  “Yes, but the older the victim, the more time for other forces to—”

  “Shh!” she hissed warningly. “The Ludlums are coming.”

  Thatcher, following their discussion, decided that Mrs. Underwood tended to carry her platform manner too far. That calm, impregnable certainty, so effective from a public spokesman, had a crushing effect on informal give-and-take.

  The arrival of a rabbity-looking couple taking seats next to Mrs. Underwood coincided with the commencement of official proceedings. Preliminary motions defining the extent of expert testimony were on the tapis and a parade of psychologists began, with representatives from the Mayo Clinic, Bellevue, the Maclean Institute and Cornell Medical School following each other. These aristocrats confined themselves to a somber recognition of the knotty questions to be resolved. They were succeeded, however, by a younger man, artfully bearded, who unhesitatingly advanced directly into the minefields. Self-assured, authoritative and terribly articulate, Dr. Joseph Schumacher produced one flat declaration after another.

  “To the mind of any trained psychologist, the potential perils are immediately discernible. The absence of alcohol is irrelevant. We are not dealing with a problem that can be measured in terms of physical factors but rather with . . .”

  “. . . the vast literature of studies on early conditioning in related areas has established that . . .”

  “A paper of my own published last year considered the consequences of early exposure to . . .”

  At each effusion the brown curls ahead of Thatcher bobbed in accord.

  “That’s the kind of testimony we want the jury to hear,” she whispered to her companions. “If the judge cuts down the number of experts, we keep Dr. Schumacher, no matter what.”

  She was watching the wrong actors, Thatcher thought. If Madeleine Underwood had been really knowledgeable about choosing witnesses, she would have been watching the opposing counsel.

  Paul Jackson was leaning back with his eyes closed, lost in an inner reverie. But every now and then, at some particularly telling point from Joseph Schumacher, his lips involuntarily twitched, like a large dog dreaming of rabbits to come.

  Chapter 2.

  Selected Beverages

  Thatcher left the courthouse largely unimpressed except for one niggling little question. So upon returning to the Sloan he sought out Miss Corsa.

  “Quax?” she replied when he interrupted her. “That’s some new non-alcoholic beer, isn’t it?”

  Her uncertainty allayed one fear. Quax, of which he had never previously heard, was not imprinted on the national consciousness. Even Thatcher had not been able to escape saturation advertising from the Kichsel Brewery, proud sponsor of the World Cup of Soccer. There was, he believed, something called the Kix Cup, but whether it applied to tennis, golf, or hockey escaped him.

  “. . . which suggests that Quax hasn’t been getting the full treatment,” he mused aloud.

  Miss Corsa, eager to return to her proofreading, agreed that Quax was not yet a household name. This led Thatcher to another conclusion. Mrs. Madeleine Underwood might be training her heavy artillery on a chipmunk.

  “If so, I think we’ll be able to put Quax from our minds,” he said, making one of those reasonable predictions that prove to be fatally flawed.

  He could not know that, at that very moment, Claudia Fentiman was working hard to enhance Quax’s name recognition. Normally she would have been doing so out of her office at Kichsel headquarters, where Quax was brewed. But Claudia brought flair as well as a track record to her job, and when NOBBY began hurling charges, she knew that Quax’s marketing manager had to abandon formula. So instead of sitting tight in Illinois and churning out pious rebuttals, she had flown to San Antonio, Texas, where she was currently extending her right hand across a vast conference table to meet that of the man opposite her.

  “That’s it. Hold it a second!”

  Camcorders commemorated the traditional after-signature handshake. Then Elmer Rugby sauntered around to join Mrs. Fentiman.

  “There’s a crew waiting outside,” he informed her. “Local TV’s doing a feature on the contract.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Even as they shared a triumph, they presented a striking contrast in style. Elmer Rugby, like his growing chain of hamburger franchises, was following a trajectory from modest beginnings through regional renown to national prominence. His menus were heavy on tangy sauces, and when he was touting his wares—which he did so indefatigably that all over the Southwest Rugby’s was Elmer—he sported a Stetson and boots. His kindly weathered face and beguiling drawl conjured up the romance of the Old West even when, as today, he wore a well-cut business suit.

  It was impossible to visualize Claudia Fentiman riding the range. Urban to her fingertips, she was a creature of taxis and elevators, of high-rise apartments and expensive downtown boutiques. As usual, she was making no concession to her current locale. Her beige shift under a black-and-beige jacket, her patent-leather pumps and jade earrings would have been at home on Madison Avenue. Her dark-brown hair was cut in an artful short bob while sleek eye-brows arched over warm hazel eyes.

  “I thought we’d meet them out front,” Rugby told her.

  This came as no surprise. Rugby commercials were all filmed outdoors. The nation would soon be seeing him as Texas did . . . communing with a herd of beef cattle or hopping out of a jeep.

  “That’s a good idea,” said Claudia.

  She had every reason to cooperate. It had been Claudia Fentiman’s inspiration that one way to emphasize the wholesomeness of Quax and its role in the happy family was to piggyback on an acknowledged expert in wholesomeness, value and fun. Furthermore, it was Claudia who had calculated that the fast-food giants would be too tough to crack, too cautious to take chances. After months of research she had come up with Rugby’s, still in the risk-taking stage, still eager to make a splash as it conquered new worlds.

  That Rugby’s should also entail a rugged individualist like Elmer, she had to admit, was an unexpected stroke of luck. As she had reason to know, unabashed admirers of the bold gesture do not always practice what they preach.

  Outside, Rugby positioned himself before the larger-than-life-size statue of a chuck wagon and addressed his public:

  “No, hard as it is to believe, we’re still improving our offerings at Rugby’s. So we’re pleased to tell you that Quax is going to be added to our beverages. Folks can enjoy the taste of beer with their barbecue, and we all know what a winning combination that is.”

  Claudia smiled supportively. She was willing to let Elmer star until the inevitable question. When it came, she was ready.

  “But Elmer,” cried a reporter, “a lot of your outlets are on the highways. Is it such a great idea for kids to see people downing suds while they’re on the road? Won’t they get the wrong idea?”

  “Just the opposite,” Claudia intervened briskly. “Everybody knows that lectures don’t affect children while they’re growing up. It’s the example set for them. At Rugby’s they’ll see adults acting responsib
ly, parents who care enough about safety to stick to an alcohol-free soft drink.”

  Rugby promptly seconded her: “If there’s one thing you see too often in my business, boys, it’s people running in to grab their food—then crossing the street for a six-pack. Rugby’s is going to show them a better way to go.”

  The questions continued and Rugby and Mrs. Fentiman alternated fielding them. Even when the television crews were collecting their gear and the print reporters took their humble turn, nobody would have guessed that the self-possessed Mrs. Fentiman was itching to be off and away.

  “A man as successful as Elmer Rugby,” she said, her thoughts elsewhere, “is the kind of partner that fills Quax with confidence.”

  For an hour she spoke, smiled and even managed a friendly wave toward the dispersing crowd. Freedom came only when she left Elmer Rugby and returned to her hotel. When at last she closed the door behind her, she kicked off her spike heels and pounced on the phone.

  “Alec! We just signed, and the release has gone out to the financial press!” she announced buoyantly.

  “Great! I knew you’d pull it off.”

  She exploded into a relieved gust of laughter. “I only wish I’d felt that confident. But we’ve got our deal, and I think we can work with Elmer.”

  For Claudia and her immediate supervisor it was an unadulterated joy to discuss joint advertising, budgets and special coupon offers. But Claudia’s sense of perspective remained strong. With some regret she turned to the small cloud on the horizon.

  “What’s been happening with that NOBBY case?”

  Headquarters remained blithe. “Oh, them. We can talk about that when you get back. And when you arrive, Claudia, baby, there’s going to be a bottle of champagne waiting.”

  With the barest hint of a frown she said, “We’ll be too busy concentrating on Quax.”

  Events in far-off Texas had yet to catch up with Thatcher, but before the day was out, he accidentally caught a glimpse of a related development.

  Dinner at the National Association of Exporters provided it. Tedious as such functions were, they all mandated a Sloan presence. Ideally, this was provided by George Lancer, chairman of the board. But since there were limits to how many times a week Lancer could be cozened, the Sloan maintained a back-up roster. Tonight was Thatcher’s turn.

  Since most of Thatcher’s tablemates were cut from the same drab corporate cloth, they did not provide much food for vagrant thought—with one exception. Roger Vandermeer was president of Vandermeer & Adler, a public-relations firm with offices in Washington, New York and London, and, Vandermeer implied, a client list that virtually replicated the Dow Jones Industrial Average. This evening he was representing a trade association, the Soft Drink Institute, and doing so with considerable force.

  “My point is that for Americans to break into new markets like Japan and the East, they couldn’t do better than to look at us,” he announced confidently.

  Mild opposition came from one of his companions who observed that there was a big difference between soda pop and earthmoving equipment.

  “Maybe there is,” Vandermeer shot back. “But I still say we should concentrate on success stories, not on all the difficulties. Take Coca-Cola. Everywhere you go, even if you can’t read the signs, you’ll recognize their logo. And Pepsi was ready to get into new markets long before the Soviets collapsed. That didn’t just happen. It took planning . . .”

  His message might be commonplace but Vandermeer delivered it with a flourish. As he spoke, he automatically shot his cuffs, revealing two heavy gold links. They were fitting adjuncts to a veneer that included Italian tailoring and an all-season tan. Vandermeer’s appearance was calculated to impress and, as Thatcher discovered during the interval when plates of roast beef were cleared away, it had certainly done the job with Monroe Biggins, the president of the Soft Drink Institute.

  “We’re lucky to have a man like Vandermeer,” he confided, “and he’s doing crackerjack work for us.”

  Thatcher switched his attention from spokesman to warrior. Monroe Biggins, despite his timid demeanor, was mobilizing the Soft Drink Institute for domestic conflict, as well as expansion abroad.

  “It’s dog-eat-dog out there,” he explained.

  Thatcher was already familiar with the desperate battle for supermarket shelf space, but it was an ever-fresh topic to Biggins.

  “Baby food, cat food, salad bars!” he said, loathing every usurper of valuable footage. “But SDI’s fighting back. And if anybody can keep Quax out of our supermarket section, it’s Roger. He knows how to get results.”

  “Quax, eh?” said Thatcher, registering its second emergence in one day and its growing band of opponents.

  “Roger knows how to go for the jugular,” added Biggins with thin-blooded ferocity.

  Taking a second look, Thatcher decided that there probably was muscle beneath Vandermeer’s expensive serge. On the other hand, he did not think he discerned any of the moral fervor that marked Madeleine Underwood.

  “Tell me, are you familiar with the activities of NOBBY?” he asked.

  “A valuable organization,” Biggins replied vaguely. “Naturally we welcome input from the public.”

  Overhearing them, Vandermeer contributed his own opinion.

  “At least NOBBY’s on the right side. But the people we really need on our side are the supermarkets. Did I tell you Greengrocers are giving Quax thirty inches?” he told Biggins.

  “For a novelty item!” Biggins protested.

  “It’s not selling like a novelty item,” said Vandermeer dourly. “Sales are picking up all over the Northeast. I’m going to have to try twisting some arms about our two-for-one promotions.”

  Biggins took fright. “That’s just a manner of speaking,” he assured Thatcher.

  But Thatcher fastened on another aspect of all this unguarded shop talk.

  “I assume that the Northeast is where most of the publicity about Ludlum versus Kichsel is being carried. Do you think that may be contributing to this upturn in sales?”

  Vandermeer’s shrug was eloquent. “Who knows? People are funny.”

  Monroe Biggins, for one, was not amused. “We’ve got to do something about that!” he cried.

  Thatcher suspected that Vandermeer was already working on it.

  Chapter 3.

  Six-Pack

  Thirty-five miles northwest of Chicago, the Kichsel Brewery was still producing and shipping ten million barrels of beer each year and retaining, as it had for three generations, its share of the national market. This was quite enough to occupy the time and attention of management and staff. No one felt this more keenly than Dean Kichsel, the latest Kichsel at the helm. Today, however, he had been dragged off to inspect the corner of his empire dedicated to Quax.

  Only two years old, the facility should have encouraged warm proprietorial satisfaction. Giant stainless-steel vats, white-tiled walls, hoses snaking in every direction, all gleamed with first-rate maintenance. From the lager cellars to the bottle-capping equipment, everything hummed with smooth precision.

  “I just don’t know,” Kichsel said dubiously. “Expanding your operation again means going to the board ahead of schedule, and we’ve got the Teamsters’ negotiations coming up. Besides, there’s that Water Board hearing . . .”

  “The reason we’re ahead of schedule is that Quax has been a success,” said Alec Moore, ignoring lesser matters.

  Kichsel nodded without enthusiasm. But then nature had made it difficult for him to look enthusiastic about anything. His white receding hair exposed a broad-domed forehead that bulged over baggy eyes and drooping jowls.

  “You can see for yourself,” Moore continued his argument, savoring the bustle around them. “Quax is running close to capacity now. Pretty soon we won’t be able to meet demand.”

  It was Quax and Alec Moore that were making retirement look good to Kichsel. Like most of the young men in the family, Moore had spent two years in the brewery before concl
uding, again like most of his cousins, that he preferred a future elsewhere. In his case, this had been a professorship of statistics at Northwestern, until fate caught up with him. Then, just after he inherited his mother’s substantial holdings in the family firm, researchers discovered that per-capita beer consumption was leveling off. Instantly Alec Moore decided that the Kichsel Brewery needed the skills he had been wasting on the young. Armed with data about beer versus light beer, the growing popularity of wine, soft-drink marketing and, above all, low-cost techniques to produce alcohol-free beer, he descended.

  “But that’s nothing new,” Dean had objected on that black day. “All the major brewers are offering non-alcoholics, next to the basic line—”

  “And that’s where Kichsel’s missing an opportunity,” Moore had instructed. “Forget about producing, Dean. Think about marketing. None of the alcohol regulations apply, so there’s no reason to stick to package stores and taverns. We’ll sell it like a soft drink—right next to soda in the supermarket, in vending machines along with fruit juice!”

  Kichsel had not given up the fight, but he was outgunned. He had thrown in the towel long before Alec Moore ran out of arguments.

  “With beer sales declining, Kichsel has to diversify,” Moore had continued, twitching his glasses professorially. “You don’t want us to try selling cheese, do you? Making Quax will be just like making beer, except for that last step of cracking out the alcohol. So, we hang on to the same work force, we deal with the same suppliers. And Kichsel keeps the edge you’ve built up over the years.”

  Thus, Quax was born and Alec Moore was installed as division manager and perpetual thorn in his cousin’s flesh. Brimming over with ideas, he was unshakably confident.

  “You’ll have to find another name,” Kichsel had tried to object. “Quax sounds too much like Kix.”

  Kix had been, was, and always would be the flagship of the line.

  “But that’s the whole point!” Moore pounced. “We’ll package it the same way too. We’re openly selling a product that looks like beer, tastes like beer, has a head—and we’re proud of it.”