Brewing Up a Storm Read online

  He broke off to produce a practiced smile.

  “I’m Jack Marten, Dr. Arkwright. Why don’t you take that seat next to Congressman Hull and I’ll give you the rundown on our drill here.”

  • • •

  “Quax!” said Charlie Trinkam out of the blue. “All of a sudden everywhere you look, there’s something popping up about Quax.”

  He was amusing himself with the New York Times while Thatcher studied the latest effusion from the Atlanta Fed. More than willing to be diverted, he looked up, mildly surprised to hear his own sentiments voiced. To the best of Thatcher’s knowledge, nobody at the Sloan, apart from George Lancer, had the slightest interest in Kichsel’s foray into the youth market—and emphatically not Charlie. Good gray Everett Gabler, Trinkam’s counterpart and polar opposite, would have been weighing in with strictures about beer, profits and morality, but Everett was currently enjoying the Spartan pleasures of a health resort in northern Maine.

  Charlie had to jog Thatcher’s memory. “Rugby’s just announced that it’s going to sell this Quax stuff,” he said helpfully. When this did not ring a bell, he added, “You haven’t forgotten that Elmer Rugby’s one of our clients, have you?”

  “I’m not sure I ever knew,” Thatcher replied. “Between George and Kichsel and now you and Rugby, why do I get the feeling that pincers are closing?”

  Charlie ignored the aside and stuck to the essentials. “We just signed him up when he began expanding east. So far he’s only opened two outlets here in New York, but he’s planning more.”

  “Delighted to hear it,” said Thatcher. Given the impossibility of keeping tabs on all the Sloan’s commercial clients, he was always pleased to learn that one of them, unbeknownst to him, was prospering. “Just don’t mention Rugby’s to George or he’ll have another crisis of conscience.”

  “Not when he sees Rugby’s cash flow,” said Charlie stoutly. “But that means you haven’t met Elmer. You’re missing an experience. Next time he comes around, I’ll trot him in. He’s a fellow who appreciates attention, and I think you’ll get a kick out of him. He’s one of a kind.”

  “Shoot him in,” said Thatcher, returning to Atlanta.

  Within the week, Charlie was doing just that.

  “Glad to meet you,” said Elmer Rugby, pumping Thatcher’s outstretched hand. “It’s a good idea to get to know the people you do business with. It would have saved me from making a lot of mistakes if I’d learned that early on.”

  Thatcher did not turn a hair. “And did you make a lot of mistakes, Mr. Rugby?”

  “Call me Elmer. Mistakes? I’ve made every one in the book. Didn’t get on the right track until I was damn near forty—and that’s leaving it pretty late.”

  Thatcher was in no danger of swallowing all of this self-criticism. “Charlie here is enthusiastic about Rugby’s prospects. In fact, the only reservation I’ve heard—”

  “Reservation?” barked Rugby, raking Charlie with a cold stare.

  “Not guilty!” said Charlie, hands raised in surrender. “Don’t shoot!”

  “I was thinking about your tie-in promotion with Quax,” said Thatcher hastily. While he enjoyed watching the games people play, he himself preferred the straightforward approach. “The opposition to that appears to be growing.”

  “You mean those maniacs who’re running around claiming that serving Quax is the devil’s work?” Rugby retorted. “That’s Quax’s problem—not mine. And from what I saw of that little lady from Kichsel, they can take care of themselves.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie. “And maybe the mad-mothers movement won’t make waves for you, but now there’s this congressman—and from Texas too—who’s making noises on the House floor.”

  “Politicians,” said Rugby with robust contempt. “Listen, I wouldn’t be where I am today if I was scared of those stumblebums.”

  This was an avenue that neither Charlie nor Thatcher cared to explore, so Rugby continued, “The way I see it, if Quax pulls in the crowds, fine! Rugby’s will get an edge over the competition. If not, then we yank it and no harm done.”

  This pragmatism had its appeal, especially for bankers. But, as Thatcher knew, life does not always cooperate. Rugby probably knew exactly how to cope with government, local or national; most successful entrepreneurs do. But energized citizens on a single-issue rampage could be new to him, and easy to underestimate.

  “So you’re not seriously worried about NOBBY?” he asked.

  “Hell, I haven’t bothered to find out what NOBBY means,” snorted Rugby. “That’s how worried I am!”

  • • •

  “It’s NOBBY,” explained Sean Cushing. “That’s for ‘No Beer-Buying Youngsters.’”

  “Sounds interesting,” said his companion. “Do you like it there?”

  “It’s a challenge,” said Cushing, modestly self-confident. In this restaurant, assurance was as obligatory as a credit card, and even lunch with an old friend could not be treated as a purely social occasion.

  “I was just a little surprised,” said Karen Zwick artlessly. “When I heard that you were hooking up with a non-profit.”

  “Executive director,” he replied, automatically inflating his status. Titles had mattered to him and to Karen back when they were both riding high at Crain Company. Since then their paths had diverged, and Karen, who had survived the great downsizing, could still glow naturally. Cushing had to work at it.

  “Don’t sell non-profits short,” he said. “Plenty of them are as big-time as anybody else.”

  Karen nodded. “Oh, I know,” she said.

  Fortunately she did not know about the chaos standing between Cushing and his goal of transforming NOBBY, of replacing Madeleine Underwood and her amateurs with a large, well-heeled apparatus. But Karen had known when he got the ax at Crain and she probably guessed that months of unemployment had cost him the BMW, the condo and the time share in Aruba. So necessity had to be presented as choice.

  “It’s the right place and the right time for me to start over,” he said, defying her to sympathize.

  He had forgotten Karen’s tenacity.

  “The people you work with,” she said, tracking his own calculations. “What about them?”

  Pretending to misunderstand, he said, “A great bunch, Karen.”

  She pursed her lips and he unbent. “They’re nothing to worry about. I can manage them with one hand tied behind my back. There’s a woman named Underwood who’s a royal pain in the ass. But I know how to handle her.”

  Chapter 5.

  Turning on the Tap

  The train trip back to New York gave Madeleine Underwood an opportunity for a grand review of programs and projects. When she swept into NOBBY’s downtown office, she had a list in hand.

  “Naturally, I’ll be monitoring Ludlum versus Kichsel,” she declared. “But at the same time, we’ve got to organize a major demonstration against Rugby’s. Now, I’ve roughed out a draft letter to our members in the metropolitan area to encourage them to join in, but I don’t have time to polish it. Can you whip it into shape by this afternoon, Sean, so we can mail it in time?”

  Silently, Sean Cushing nodded. What Mrs. Underwood called a rough draft he described as a disorganized jumble.

  “. . . and it would be a good idea to add some numbers to show how important Rugby’s is. Things like how many outlets they have, and how many people they serve. Do you think you can get that?”

  “Already done,” he said sturdily, illustrating how far NOBBY had come since it first saw the light of day in a corner of the Underwood living room in New Jersey. There, after thirty years of marriage, Madeleine had found herself with an empty house, substantial alimony and time to fill. One day she penned an indignant letter to the local newspaper about Quax, thereby discovering a new role in life. Soon she was writing, phoning and speaking to community groups. The response was so encouraging that it became necessary to transform NOBBY as well. Madeleine and her supporters still supplied the enthusiasm, but
the acquisition of a proper office and the installation of Sean Cushing moved NOBBY’s operations onto a more professional level. Inevitably, there were conflicts.

  “We also have to finalize the schedule for your tour,” he reminded her. “You’ll be leaving in two weeks. California is no problem because we already have the makings of an organization there. So you’ll start with L.A. and San Francisco.”

  “As well as San Diego,” she said.

  “Right. But the real question is the stops on the way back. There’s not much point to them unless we get a good payback. I’ve already got you booked for Minneapolis and Atlanta.”

  “What about Cleveland? I thought that was on the list too.”

  Sean shook his head. “Not unless they get their act together. So far they’ve got a membership of seventy-five. It just isn’t worth it.”

  “But my appearance will bring in new people.”

  “Madeleine, there are just so many hours in your day and so many days in a week. Now that we’re going national, you’ll have to ration your time. I think we should adopt some ground rules—say, at least two hundred members before they get a personal appearance.”

  She was torn and Sean added, “These barn-storming tours are very taxing. I don’t want you coming back here totally exhausted.”

  “You know I thrive on work.”

  “It’s not the work that bothers me. It’s all the hassle in traveling—checking in at airports, dealing with bad ventilation in hotels, eating strange meals, just getting your laundry done.”

  Madeleine did not give up easily, but Cushing finally induced her to sacrifice Cleveland. This returned them to the present.

  “I promised the Ludlums I’d talk to them today to bring them up to date,” she remembered. “Schedule a call to them for about four o’clock, will you?”

  “Do you want me to take care of it?” he asked, knowing she would decline.

  Since instinct had led Mrs. Underwood to pluck the Ludlums from obscurity, their performance as NOBBY stars was a matter of personal pride to her.

  “I’ll make a point to reach them,” she said quickly.

  “They’ve been in court every day,” Sean observed. “What kind of update do they need?”

  “They’re a little overwhelmed by all the attention,” she explained. “The poor dears can use all the encouragement I give them.”

  A flurry of voices from the outer office caused her to glance at her watch with a squawk of dismay.

  “Where has the time gone?” she exclaimed. “That must be Iona coming in, and I’ll have to leave in five minutes.”

  When a young woman burdened with a bulging portfolio entered, Madeleine overflowed with apology.

  “Oh, Iona, I’m so sorry. I know I said I’d meet with you now, but I have another appointment.”

  “That’s all right, Madeleine. Of course you have to keep your appointment,” the young woman said placidly.

  “But it’s not all right. This is the third time this has happened. It’s not fair to ask you to take so much responsibility.”

  “Don’t worry, I understand how busy you are. Anyway, I can work it all out with Sean.”

  Madeleine was shaking her head in vexation. “This will be our most important demonstration to date and I can’t afford to lose contact with it. If we don’t stop Rugby’s in their tracks, there’s no telling what the other hamburger franchises will do. Everything has to be just right.”

  Suddenly her face cleared and she began rooting around her capacious shoulder bag. “I’ve got it,” she said, triumphantly producing a small recorder. “All you have to do, Sean, is tape your meeting with Iona. That way I can review all the plans tonight.”

  “Sure tiling,” he agreed.

  Madeleine’s unwillingness to delegate was equaled only by her enthusiasm for electronic gadgetry. Six months ago she had fallen upon the notion of a fax in her home.

  “That way,” she had said earnestly, “I can keep in touch even when I’m not here.”

  Convinced that every vagrant thought about NOBBY was of value, she had generated a flood of material. Fortunately Sean Cushing was a sensible young man who had taken the measure of his employer from the outset. Knowing full well that she lacked the self-discipline to read mountains of material, he had matched her, word for word, page for page. Within two weeks the fax had fallen silent.

  Her current toy was the tape recorder and Sean confidently expected this experience to be even more disillusioning. Like many people, Madeleine had no idea that most conversations, stripped of the immediacy of participation, were unbelievably boring, repetitive and disconnected. Hours and hours of playback would soon bring her to her senses. In the meantime Sean assiduously produced tape after tape to join the growing pile in New Jersey.

  So he smiled blandly as she scooped up her belongings and raced for the elevator.

  “You know,” he said, in the sudden calm, “I sometimes wonder what all the damned fuss is about. What difference does it make if Rugby’s serves Quax?”

  “That’s because you don’t have kids,” said Iona Perez.

  It was because she was the mother of two boys, aged nine and eleven, that she had joined NOBBY. As the coordinator of volunteer activities, she was a godsend to Sean Cushing. Under her guidance, envelopes were stuffed for fund-raisers and brochures were distributed at subway stations. The right number of volunteers showed up at the right place at the right time. And if they were appearing in public, they had been coached in the right answers to all predictable questions.

  Now she cast an appraising eye over the hodgepodge of notes that Sean would shortly be transforming into a polished document.

  “Oh, dear, Madeleine does get carried away sometimes,” she said indulgently. “You will tone it down, won’t you? We can’t sound as if we think Quax is the only problem out there.”

  In addition to her other virtues, Iona managed to combine admiration for Madeleine with realism.

  “Trust me,” Sean murmured.

  As they settled at the desk to deal with the voluminous documents Iona had presented, they could have been mistaken for brother and sister. They shared the same undistinguished physical appearance—medium height, slim build, bland coloring, neutral features. Iona had the advantage of a lilting musical voice while Sean’s only claim to fame was a gap between his front teeth that gave his infrequent smile an engagingly boyish quality. But their chief similarity was the quiet, serious determination with which they plodded through the host of preparations necessary to a successful, effective protest. The creation of shift schedules, the production of suitable posters and placards, the wording for flyers—all were dispatched on an orderly basis.

  Iona, ticking off each item as they went, gave a sigh of satisfaction as they neared the end.

  “One thing more. I’ve agreed to provide buses for the chapters in Nyack, Huntington, Tarrytown and Passaic.”

  “Can you take care of that?”

  “No problem,” she assured him as she prepared to leave.

  Sean, conscious of their progress, marveled to himself at the difference between these two women. From the day she first appeared, Iona had made it clear that her sons constituted her first priority. Her stints in the office were rigidly confined to school hours, with suitable adjustments for holidays and vacations. She rarely mentioned the other demands on her time, never seemed hurried or excited, and yet, at two-thirty every afternoon, the day’s assignment was invariably completed.

  What a contrast with Madeleine, who rushed into NOBBY later that day like a whirlwind, stalking into her office to use the phone, demanding her messages, examining the afternoon’s mail. She even, to Sean’s private amusement, pounced on the tape recorder as if it were a jewel of great price.

  “Now, Sean, I don’t have much time,” she announced, perching on a chair ready for instant flight, “but we really must discuss our approach to the Food and Drug Administration.”

  “That may be a little premature.”


  “Nonsense! A research report from NOBBY will be just the thing to wake them up.”

  “But that’s the difficulty. NOBBY doesn’t have the resources to do any research.”

  They were using different dictionaries. Madeleine, who resorted to her favorite word to describe any piece of writing containing a number, shook her head vigorously.

  “Of course we do. It’s just a matter of getting the facts together. We have over ten thousand members, and we can always circularize them to enlist the help of husbands and friends with useful expertise.”

  “Actually, there are no physical facts to support the claim that drinking Quax promotes beer addiction.”

  “Oh, physical facts,” Madeleine replied with an airy wave. “I think we should concentrate on the psychological dangers. There we know we’re on firm ground, and Dr. Schumacher will be an enormous help.”

  Silently Sean debated tactics. First he had to persuade Madeleine that the opportunity for a formal presentation to the FDA was not a matter of course. There he had some hope of success. Schumacher, however, represented more sensitive ground. It had not escaped Sean’s notice that Paul Jackson welcomed Schumacher’s appearance with a wolfish grin and employed every possible device to extend his stay on the stand.

  “Look what a good job he’s doing for us in the trial,” said Madeleine, who had relished every word of Schumacher’s performance.

  “Of course that’s the right line to take when he’s addressing laymen,” said Sean, sacrificing truth to expediency. “But a less dogmatic approach would probably be more useful with the FDA. It would be an acknowledgment that they’re the ones who get to make the decision.”

  Madeleine had not been listening. “And once we’ve won the case, his testimony will have official sanction. By the way, did I tell you how much the Ludlums appreciate our help? They were quite touching just now.”

  “Well, we’re paying all the bills.”

  “Sean, Sean, you never see the whole picture,” she replied with playful censure. “Of course the money is part of it. But the Ludlums want to see that this doesn’t happen to other boys. They could never get all this publicity if it weren’t for NOBBY.”