Brewing Up a Storm Page 4

  “Oh, God,” said Dean Kichsel to himself as Moore swept on:

  “We can’t sneak onto the market, hoping nobody will notice. We can’t sell in new outlets without causing talk. So what’s our answer? It’s: What are you complaining about!”

  “They’ll say we’re teaching kids to drink beer,” said Kichsel with last-ditch stubbornness.

  “They can try!” Alec Moore had said gleefully.

  Initially, Kichsel had hoped that Alec and Quax would just go away. But from feeble beginnings, sales grew, modestly but steadily. Now he was stuck, talking about expanded capacity and more of the selling campaign that had already wrecked his peace of mind. Self-respect, and self-respect alone, had kept Kichsel from recrimination when Madeleine Underwood and NOBBY marched into court. Sustained by loyalty to family and firm, he signed the legal papers and held his tongue.

  Fortunately, he was not the lone guardian of the larger interests at Kichsel’s. Theo Benda stood beside him, without family ties or family stock, but a pillar of strength.

  Alec Moore had come to value Benda too.

  “What’s your thinking, Theo?” he demanded. “You’re the guy who really knows.”

  “Oh, there’s no doubt Quax will be needing a new plant,” Benda replied almost absently. “But not necessarily here, Alec. I want to do some number crunching before I commit myself. We’ve got to think about regional patterns for the next few years—and that means factoring in transportation costs.”

  Illinois was home base for Kichsel’s, the site of its largest brewery. But satellite operations had sprung up in California and New Jersey. The considerations that Benda raised were legitimate, and Moore accepted them.

  “Anything you decide,” he said. “I’m not really competent on that end.”

  “Also,” Benda added, “the union contract still has to come first. That’s what the board’s really got to wrestle with. It’s where we’re going to see a real impact on earnings.”

  If Moore was chastened by this reminder of Quax’s minor role in the Kichsel scheme of things, he did not show it. Setting a brisk pace, he led the way outdoors, charging ahead until they reached the railroad siding where hops and malted wheat were delivered.

  “We’re running out of silo space too,” he announced.

  Engulfed by the semisweet, semi-arid aroma that pervades all beer making, Kichsel dispiritedly studied the towering structures.

  “I suppose we could take care of that to ease some of the pressure.”

  “Better wait until we come up with a master plan,” said Benda softly. “It’s not cost-effective to do things piecemeal.”

  His lack of emphasis was a statement in itself. Benda’s square head sat solidly atop a bull neck and massive shoulders. Unlike Moore and Kichsel, he was informally attired, a rumpled, shirt-sleeved figure who was a familiar sight as he stomped around the compound. Even the slight accent he had brought from his native Czechoslovakia contributed to the picture of a master artisan supervising an age-old art. In fact, he was Kichsel’s chief financial officer, one of the first non-family executives.

  “It’s a shame they put the employees’ rec area over there,” said Dean Kichsel. “Otherwise we could use the land on the other side of the tracks, and we wouldn’t even have to extend the siding.”

  When public tours of the brewery became popular, the dusty old baseball diamond had been replaced by immaculately groomed playing fields, a professional jogging track and tennis courts. Furthermore, in recognition of midwestern weather, a substantial structure rose in the rear, housing squash courts and weight rooms.

  “Unfortunately, we can’t,” said Benda. “The drainage there would cost a fortune. That’s why we’ve left it as it is.”

  Moore did not share his cousin’s sentimental paternalism about Kichsel, or Benda’s encyclopedic grasp of its reality.

  “So long as we can keep Quax up to the mark,” he said single-mindedly. “Speaking of which, have I told you two the latest good news?”

  Benda cocked his head warily, but Kichsel gave himself away.

  “That woman’s dropped the court case?” he exclaimed hopefully.

  Moore blinked. The heartburn Madeleine Underwood and NOBBY were causing others left him untouched.

  “Not that I’ve heard,” he replied. “No, it’s Claudia. She’s pulled off a big one.”

  This brought a subterranean twinkle to Benda’s eye. His habitual reserve did not extend to Mrs. Fentiman, whose energy and ambition touched a chord. Without ever saying so, he felt that they shared a special bond. Highly paid professionals both, they were not Kichsels like Dean and Alec.

  “And what has this marvelous marketing lady done now, Alec?” he inquired jovially.

  “She’s signed up Rugby’s—the fast-food chain that is expanding east, you know. She’s convinced them to carry Quax,” Alec announced.

  This time Kichsel groaned aloud, and when Benda and Moore both indicated curiosity, unburdened himself.

  “It’ll just hand that Underwood woman more grist for her mill,” he lamented.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Alec replied. “You’re not still fussing about that nuisance suit, are you?”

  In intergenerational tussles, youth has the strength and optimism. But there is one powerful weapon available to the opposition.

  “You don’t remember Prohibition,” Kichsel accused. Actually he didn’t either, but he had heard enough about it from his father and grandfather to think that he did.

  So many distilleries, vineyards—and breweries—had disappeared during the Prohibition years that the survivors all got religion. Moderation, designated drivers and knowing when to say “when” became their watchwords. An industry tarred by the mark of Satan had embraced virtue in a big way.

  But the history that weighed so heavily on Dean Kichsel, and haunted every serious brewer, meant little to Alec Moore.

  “That was a long time ago, and things have changed,” he declared. “There aren’t a lot of crazies out there agitating to ban beef.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” said Kichsel darkly, but Benda was more inquisitive.

  “What about Mrs. Underwood and NOBBY?” he asked.

  Moore laughed aloud.

  “A nuisance—but nothing more. Hell, she couldn’t lay a finger on Kichsel if she tried—and all she’s doing to Quax is giving us a lot of free publicity.”

  His insouciance goaded his cousin.

  “Forget about Quax,” he snapped with unwonted vehemence. “In fact, you can forget about beer—if you haven’t already. Think about cars and drunken driving! Think about minors drinking! Think about substance abuse. They’re all out there, waiting to clobber us if we give them a chance.”

  But, as Theo Benda observed with amusement, for every old argument there is a new one. Moore, ignoring Kichsel’s outburst, indicated that he had no intention of forgetting Quax.

  “Concentrate on health, Dean,” he said kindly. “That’s what sells America these days—not all these scare stories. And that’s where Quax is a winner all the way.”

  “Health!” Kichsel snorted.

  “Just think about it,” Moore cajoled. “The country’s into light, nutritious and natural. Well, that’s exactly what Quax offers. The fact that it’s brewed is irrelevant. Quax is healthy—and that’s what matters. It doesn’t have a lot of fat and salt. It isn’t loaded with artificial additives or sugar. And it doesn’t contain dangerous stimulants—like caffeine.”

  Then, modulating to a less hortatory tone, he added: “So instead of agonizing about all these bogeymen of yours, Dean, you should be thanking God Quax sales are growing, while everything else Kichsel produces is flat as a pancake. Isn’t that right, Theo?”

  “Ye-es,” said Benda, withdrawing himself from the controversy.

  “Quax,” said Dean Kichsel thickly, “will have to grow astronomically before it makes the slightest damn difference to Kichsel!”

  “And that,” Alec Moore retorted, “is just exa
ctly what it’s going to do!”

  Chapter 4.

  Another Round

  Madeleine Underwood was as enthusiastic about free publicity as Alec Moore. To disseminate the NOBBY message, she seized every opportunity that came her way. For twenty minutes on talk radio, she was willing to drop everything, Ludlum versus Kichsel included, and rush down to Philadelphia for the night.

  Congressman Harry Hull could do better than a local radio show any day in his Texas home district. But with an education convention in Philadelphia, three full hours were going to be dedicated to the child-related issues that had helped sweep him into office. That much exposure, shared with a rotating cast of near celebrities, was irresistible to an ambitious congressional freshman. Hull accepted the invitation to appear, to shine and, with any luck, to broaden his base.

  And even after one hundred and forty minutes of close attention to often incoherent questions, he was still able to summon a warm welcome for Madeleine Underwood as she replaced her predecessor—a police specialist on schoolyard drug dealers—in front of the microphone.

  Jack Marten, the low-keyed talkmaster, seized the commercial break to spell out the ground rules for the newcomer.

  “I’ll introduce you and give you a couple of minutes to outline your subject. Then the congressman, here, will briefly give us his position and we’ll go directly to taking calls. Right?”

  Madeleine nodded energetic agreement and they were under way.

  “. . . Mrs. Madeleine Underwood, executive director of NOBBY. Perhaps you’d explain to us the goals of your organization, Mrs. Underwood.”

  As Madeleine competently reproduced her prepared text, Hull began to relax. With lethal schoolyards behind him and newborn infants displaying withdrawal symptoms yet to come, this could be the breathing space he sorely needed.

  “And Congressman Hull, what is your response to NOBBY’s program?”

  “I am not only familiar with the organization’s work on the East Coast, I am already on record as calling for adequate research into the long-term results of Quax’s promotion. Without prejudging the issue, I think it’s a good example of the everyday dangers to which we could be exposing our children. Glue-sniffing alone demonstrates the need for more extensive investigation of what comes into our homes and possibly the need for regulating packaging and promotion.”

  It was only after the first few calls that Hull realized his relaxation might be premature. As John Thatcher had noticed before him, Madeleine’s strength as a solo performer did not extend into the area of give-and-take.

  She had been startled enough by a rough-hewn male voice to let herself be embroiled in an irrelevant argument.

  “Listen, it all comes down to whether or not you stay on top of your kids,” the basso had growled. “I told mine that if I caught them having a drink before they were eighteen, I’d beat the bejesus out of them. As long as they know you mean business; it works fine.”

  “And you call that communication!” she gasped indignantly. “It’s a sure road to secret alcoholism. You have to make them understand the reasons for your . . .”

  And they were both off and running.

  “I think we may be straying from the topic,” said Hull, responding to the silent plea from the talk-master. “Mrs. Underwood’s primary concern is for the innocent and parentally approved use of a beverage that may lead to alcohol consumption.”

  That was all Jack Marten needed.

  “And now for our next caller,” he broke in swiftly. “Is that Barbara from Ambler?”

  Barbara from Ambler was very elevated indeed and had called primarily to give the world the benefit of her own superior domestic arrangements. She and her husband regularly drank a stately glass of wine with dinner, not only as a source of personal gratification but in order to educate their children in the way they should go.

  Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the next caller evinced no desire to parade his individual excellence.

  “Either it has alcohol or it doesn’t. I say anything that isn’t the real stuff is a godsend. You just have to look at what’s floating around out there.”

  It should have been the perfect, foolproof call for Madeleine to handle. But within three sentences she had Harry Hull straightening in alarm.

  “When you hear that Congressman Hull has joined our movement, that should convince you that opposition to Quax is justified. A responsible government official would not endorse our program unless there was a real peril.”

  Oh, no you don’t, lady, Hull thought to himself. I haven’t broken my back to create an image just to have you cast me as a spear carrier in your production. And you sure as hell aren’t getting a blank check for my support.

  “I certainly do sympathize with the anxieties of NOBBY’s membership,” he chimed in the minute Madeleine paused for breath. “What’s more, I’ll admit I get edgy about the resemblance between Quax and Kix. But I don’t know if my alarm is justified. That’s why the action that I advocate is a moratorium on Kichsel’s whole marketing strategy until we’ve had adequate time to study its consequences.”

  He had managed not only to set limits to his identification with NOBBY but also to cue in the next caller.

  “I don’t think I can agree with that, Dick,” Hull was able to say a few minutes later. “Just because packaging and promotion in certain areas have never been regulated doesn’t mean we shouldn’t do it in the future. We had this argument about the Surgeon General’s warning on cigarettes. You have to realize that the sale of consumer goods gets more sophisticated every day. Ten years ago the big companies hired market researchers. Now they employ behavioral analysts, which means the messages are becoming subtler and perhaps more insidious.”

  While Harry Hull was delicately tap-dancing along the fine line between hysteria and callous disregard, Madeleine Underwood was thoroughly enjoying herself until a calm young woman took the field.

  “I think Mrs. Underwood is overreacting,” she began. “National crusades and mass protests are entirely inappropriate in this instance. Quax is not alcoholic and the problem of our children drinking beer a few years later should be treated separately.”

  “So many people make that mistake,” Madeleine said sadly. “They don’t understand the powerful influence of association, which can ultimately be just as dangerous as eighty-proof content. NOBBY’s function is to create awareness of the psychological games that the Kichsel company is playing.”

  “No, you’re the one who doesn’t understand,” was the crisp reply. “There are two totally different kinds of prohibited conduct that parents have to deal with. The first kind you want your children to avoid for the rest of their lives—such as taking drugs. But there are other potentially dangerous activities you expect them to engage in as adults—for example, driving a car, having sexual relations or drinking beer. You have to teach them to do those things responsibly. No parent can slough that responsibility onto a company.”

  Two angry red spots had appeared on Madeleine’s cheeks but, to do her credit, her voice was rigidly controlled. “NOBBY is certainly not recommending that any company act as a surrogate parent. But your examples are simplistic. Parents should of course teach their youngsters to be careful crossing the street. At the same time it helps to demand safer streets, to insist on enforcing speed limits and revoking licenses of drunken drivers. NOBBY simply wants a safer street.” Pleased with her felicitous response, she adopted a more discursive manner. “And now that I come to think of it, that analogy could hardly be more timely. You may not know this, Congressman Hull, but a large fast-food chain called Rugby’s has just agreed to serve Quax. In other words, they are preparing to expose young children to the notion that hamburgers and a beer look-alike are natural companions. I assure you NOBBY plans to mount protests against this transparent attempt by Kichsel to enlist allies in its campaign to increase adolescent alcoholism.”

  Swallowing the suggestion that the expansion of a Texas-based enterprise was an open book to
Mrs. Underwood while remaining a secret to Texas legislators, Hull said mildly, “Elmer Rugby may be misguided in this decision but it was certainly not inspired by any desire to promote alcoholism.”

  They had both forgotten that the caller was still on the line.

  “The trouble with your organization is that you’re trying to turn the whole world into a child-safe play area. The first place most children see a beer next to hamburgers is in their own home.”

  The evening was not proving to be the banner event Madeleine Underwood had expected. Some offensive young woman called Phyllis was pretending to know more about the dangers posed by Quax than her elders and betters. And Harry Hull was proving to be a very wayward recruit into the ranks of NOBBY. On top of all that, an uneasy recollection of conditions once prevailing in the Underwood household made it impossible to refute Phyllis’s last proposition out of hand. Instead, Madeleine turned her mounting ire on a less embarrassing target.

  “Mr. Rugby knows exactly what he is doing and has to be held accountable for his actions just as were a drug dealer. The many teenage addicts caused by his willingness to profit from Quax must be laid directly at his door.”

  This time Jack Marten did not aim his SOS at Congressman Hull. Instead he directed a meaningful gaze at the engineers on the other side of the glass and clutched his own microphone.

  “Thank you very much for joining us, Mrs. Underwood. Now it’s time for another word from our sponsors, but don’t go away, folks. When we return, we will hear from Dr. Olympia Arkwright.”

  He turned to Hull the minute the door had closed behind a still flustered Madeleine. “Sorry about that, Congressman.”

  “It’s my fault, I was the one who suggested her,” Harry admitted gloomily. “When you said you wanted some leavening in that slot, I thought she might be light relief.”

  In the course of any given year, more than five hundred people eager to express their views passed through Marten’s studio. He was an expert.

  “Mrs. Underwood doesn’t see it that way. As far as she’s concerned, NOBBY is right up there with stopping the war in Vietnam. She’s—”