Brewing Up a Storm Page 6

  At last there was something he could agree with. When he was opposing Madeleine, Sean thought it wise to throw in as much approval as possible.

  “How right you are. And what we need is more publicity before we approach the FDA. We can’t impress them with Dr. Schumacher because they have access to their own psychologists. What they don’t have available is a barometer of public dissatisfaction with Quax’s marketing. If we can give them that first, then we’ll have a basis on which to interest them.”

  “It will all work out,” she replied buoyantly. “You’ll see. I only wish I had more time to thrash this out, but I’m due for a conference with our attorneys. We still have to finalize our strategy for the trial.”

  Sean refrained from pointing out that lawyers were supposed to earn their fat fees by undertaking this task themselves. He was otherwise occupied trying to identify the flicker of apprehension that danced down his spine. It did not take long. For over a year NOBBY had risen smoothly from one plateau to another. Madeleine might not understand Sean’s systems or even Iona’s carefully dovetailed schedules. She was, however, a born showman and her deficiencies had not mattered.

  But now Madeleine was thirsting for new worlds to conquer.

  “So what?” Sean tried to reassure himself. “The lawyers will birddog her at the courthouse.”

  “And after that?” persisted an inner voice.

  Sean might be able to squash the desire to tangle with the FDA, but Madeleine’s end run with the Ludlums spoke for itself. He would come into the office some morning to find that she had indentured NOBBY to the service of some other unknown.

  “I’m losing control,” he admitted, finally putting his finger on the sore spot. “And there’s no telling what she’ll be up to next.”

  Chapter 6.

  Hops and Skips

  With private citizens, special-interest groups and the courts buzzing about Quax, it was inevitable that another entity should want to join the fun.

  “Congress to Investigate Quax,” said the handout from the office of Congressman Leon Rossi (D.-N.Y).

  Reproduced almost verbatim in the metropolitan press, it prompted comment in New York and Washington.

  “What’s gotten into Leon?” wondered an assemblyman from the Bronx.

  Rossi, a dapper old warhorse, represented mean streets and schools with metal detectors. In Washington he was famed for his unswerving loyalty and his absenteeism.

  “. . . a real party hack,” ran the think-tank consensus. “Which is why they finally gave him this subcommittee on Inner City Youth.”

  By then, Rossi had issued the first statement he had ever made that was not a bid for more funding. Speculation mounted, at least in some circles.

  “Reform Candidate Challenges Rossi!” wrote a usually well-informed columnist.

  Rossi found the attention gratifying, but after ten lackluster terms in obscurity, it did not go to his head. He was still proceeding on the tried-and-true principle that the best way to keep the electorate sweet was to appear in its midst—at rallies for District C Steamfitters Local 302, at weddings in the Portoriqueño Pentecostal Chapel, or at rummage sales for the Boys’ Club. Congressional hearings conducted within shouting distance of Central Park qualified, so he issued orders that set administrative assistants and staffers scurrying, then leaned back and lit an ivory-tipped cigarillo.

  Ranking members of the subcommittee were less content. Enthusiasm for the hearings was concentrated at the lower end of the seniority scale, where Congressman Harry Hull sat. His only regret was that his own name figured so slightly in the coverage, and that the Rossi road company was not heading for Austin.

  “But that’s just plain ridiculous,” he remarked, laughing at himself.

  “What a spectacle Rossi would make in Texas,” said his wife, passing the bag of potato chips. “He always looks as if he goes to a Mafia tailor.”

  The Hulls were unwinding in their modest Washington home, a furnished apartment near Capitol Hill. Harry and the realtor described it as gentrified, but Betty Jo was as down-to-earth as she was pretty. She recognized a dump when she saw one.

  “Leon’s not so bad, once you get to know him,” said Harry.

  Betty Jo, who had campaigned at his side, knew better.

  “Even if that’s true,” she said, reaching out to rescue the few remaining chips, “I still say you played him just right, Harry.”

  He would have liked to agree but mistakes do happen, so instead he reviewed the record.

  “Well, the leadership took some convincing,” he said modestly. “But nudging Rossi—hell, that was easy as pie, Betty Jo. He’ll do anything to get some ink in New York.”

  “In the end, you’re bound to get a lot of the credit,” she predicted. “After all, you’re the only one who knows a damn thing about Quax.”

  Harry nodded, seeing rave reviews ahead. Favorable exposure could make the Hull dream a reality, if the inevitable hurdles were safely negotiated.

  “Something worrying you?” Betty Jo asked, deciphering his frown.

  “Nothing, really,” he hedged. Even to himself, Hull was reluctant to admit that, since Philadelphia, his certainty that Quax was a vehicle sent to give him mileage had been slightly chilled.

  “It’s just that I hope there won’t be any surprises.”

  “There shouldn’t be,” she assured him.

  But then, Betty Jo had not met Madeleine Underwood.

  Neither had Dean Kichsel, and he had already passed beyond surprise. Rattled to the core by a summons from the subcommittee, he traversed Chicago’s O’Hare Airport in a state of open perturbation. Captains of American industry usually radiate near divinity, even when they are part of the stream of humanity converging on a departure gate. They are not expected to halt abruptly, pile up pedestrian traffic, and glare at banners festooning a concession stand.

  QUAX—AND YOU CAN FORGET JET LAG!

  Kichsel drew a shaky breath. “Will you take a look at that!”

  George Lancer had no alternative.

  “It’s tantamount to telling people not to drink beer,” Kichsel fulminated. “As if Quax hasn’t done enough harm, now it’s turning against Kix.”

  Lancer made soothing noises which he amplified later in the day for John Thatcher’s benefit.

  “Naturally, Dean’s upset,” he explained, understanding as usual.

  “Naturally,” Thatcher agreed.

  They were in the Lancer duplex, awaiting the arrival of the dinner guest. With Mrs. Lancer in the Bahamas, Dean Kichsel was being entertained en garçon.

  “You will remember that it’s been a hard day for him, won’t you, John?” he said.

  Lancer did not request similar forbearance for himself, but then, as Thatcher had frequently noted, George was a mild-mannered, soft-spoken man of iron. His ability to go from speech to meeting to convention—and back—was awe-inspiring. Lancer’s day had been just as taxing as Kichsel’s because it had been largely identical, although there had been one salient difference.

  “I’m not emotionally involved,” he said scrupulously as he checked his watch. Kichsel was running twenty minutes late.

  “But concerned, George,” Thatcher replied. “You can’t deny that you’re concerned.”

  Lancer had been in Chicago fulfilling his duties as a Kichsel director.

  “I gather your meeting this morning was sheer hell,” said Thatcher.

  “Yes,” said Lancer after some thought. “You can put it that way.”

  Thatcher’s shorthand version was comprehensive as well as accurate. Apparently when Lancer had joined the rest of the board members, he had been primed to tackle the Teamsters, the Water Board, even, at a pinch, Alec Moore’s expansion hopes. But some busybody had distributed copies of the morning Tribune alongside the carafes and notepads. Even without the careful yellow highlighting, the damning words leaped from the page.

  “. . . Quax, produced by Chicago-based Kichsel Brewery. Said New York Congressman Leon
Rossi today: ‘This is not a witch hunt. We only want to get the facts.’”

  As is so often the case, headlines preceded legal notification.

  “And Dean went into a tailspin,” Lancer commented. “That’s why he put on that unseemly display at O’Hare. The last thing he wants is to be grilled in public about Quax. Frankly, he’s beside himself.”

  Several questions immediately leaped to Thatcher’s mind, but silvery chimes sounded in the distance, followed by discreet murmurs from the Lancer’s newest faithful retainer. A minute later, Dean Kichsel bustled into the library, full of apologies for his tardiness.

  “. . . checking in and, good God! You wouldn’t believe how many messages were waiting for me.”

  He broke off for his introduction to Thatcher, then continued his explanation.

  “For one reason or another, half of Kichsel seems to be here in New York,” he concluded wearily. “That’s what held me up.”

  Thatcher suspected that the calls on Kichsel’s time might have cost him a much-needed nap. But apart from fatigue, which could be attributed to any air travel these days, there was nothing immediately noteworthy about Kichsel. That he had spent many honorable years as the company’s faithful steward seemed credible enough. Even in post-merger America, worthies like him abound—solid, safe and dependable.

  “Until a crisis looms,” said Thatcher to himself, although, as the evening progressed, he was inclined to revise this opinion.

  If, as Lancer maintained, Dean Kichsel had been shattered by news of the Rossi Subcommittee, he was making a fast recovery.

  “Naturally, we’ll be grateful for any support the Sloan cares to give us,” he said over soup. “But before I left Chicago, I spoke with our lawyers—”

  “Paul Jackson?” asked Thatcher, trying to strike a livelier note.

  “No, our in-house counsel,” Kichsel corrected. “At any rate, they assure me that Kichsel may be subjected to a short, politically motivated media event, but nothing more serious is likely to emerge.”

  His dignity was undented by the prospect of notoriety and Lancer took this to mean that he was back in form. So did Thatcher.

  “I’m glad to hear that you don’t anticipate serious repercussions about Quax,” he said to keep the conversational ball rolling. “I don’t pretend to be an expert on the subject, but it happens that another Sloan client, Elmer Rugby of Rugby’s, is involved. I know you must be familiar with him, but if you haven’t actually met, we’d be happy to introduce you. Rugby’s in town for a few days too.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Kichsel replied. “A big customer is always a big customer.”

  “I’ll try to get hold of him,” Thatcher promised.

  Kichsel smiled sourly. “You’ll probably find him at the subcommittee hearings,” he said. Then, bursting forth: “It’s just like Alec to sign him up in time for a congressional investigation.”

  Lancer played the good host. “Oh, come on, Dean. Alec couldn’t have foreseen that.”

  Recovering himself, Kichsel agreed. “I suppose not.” Then, with an effort, he turned to other woes, and the Teamsters lasted them through the rest of dinner.

  Kichsel lingered long enough for coffee, then departed pleading his early start the next morning.

  “And what was that jab about Alec, whoever he may be?” asked Thatcher.

  Lancer got up to poke the fire. “Quax is Alec Moore’s brainchild,” he said shortly. “Dean’s gotten so that he hates the sound of the name.”

  With a House probe in the offing, this seemed comprehensible, but, as Thatcher remarked, Kichsel gave every indication of coming to terms with the immediate menace of Leon Rossi.

  “Oh, he’s doing his best to sound positive,” Lancer agreed. “Unfortunately, that’s difficult for him. Dean’s let Quax make his life miserable for the last two years.”

  “Uncomfortable, yes,” said Thatcher. “But miserable?”

  Obligingly George supplied some background. “You see, Quax goes to the heart of things at Kichsel. Dean’s been assuming that he’ll go on until he’s ready to step down and hand over to his next in line, who happens to be a very competent CFO named Benda. Then, out of the blue, up pops Alec Moore!”

  “And Moore is . . .?”

  “Moore’s a cousin, he’s Quax, he’s ambitious, and as far as Dean’s concerned, he’s trouble waiting to happen,” said George, more acidly than was his habit.

  “Trouble, some of which is already upon him,” said Thatcher, unheard because just then Lancer exploded into a paroxysm of sneezing.

  Chapter 7.

  Bottled Up

  Like trials, congressional hearings attract a motley crowd. There are those whose presence is mandatory. When the Rossi Subcommittee convened in the Babcock Auditorium, the official witness list included representatives from the Kichsel Brewery, NOBBY, the Soft Drink Institute and several consumer groups. Others, however, were there of their own free will. Dr. Joseph Schumacher, for example, had not been asked to appear. But, convinced that the undetected danger of non-addictive substances was his road to fame and fortune, he arrived long before the first gavel fell and stayed late, making himself available to anybody willing to listen.

  His was a special case, but as old hands know, the importance of congressional hearings is often better gauged by examining the audience than by listening to the testimony.

  Roger Vandermeer, casting a professional eye over the crowd, instantly spotted one significant block of seats.

  “You can see which way the wind is blowing,” he whispered, leaning over to address one of his clients. “Those guys in the fifth row on the other side are McDonald’s and Burger King.”

  Swiveling, the burly man made an even more distressing identification. “But look at the ones two rows further back,” he snarled. “They’re from Disney. You don’t think Kichsel’s had the nerve to try to sell to them, do you? I can’t believe it!”

  “I wouldn’t put anything past that outfit,” a companion said darkly. “They’ll probably try to peddle their stuff at the next Boy Scout Jamboree.”

  Vandermeer fell back on the hard-headed approach. “We have to face facts. Kichsel’s position has been the same from the start. According to them, Quax is just another soft drink. That’s how they justify their aggressive marketing, and it means nothing is safe from them.”

  A long way off, Dean Kichsel was also spotting familiar faces. “All the other breweries have got someone here,” he said, acknowledging a wave from a section toward the rear.

  “Makes sense,” Theo Benda grunted. “They want to see what their future holds.”

  Neither Alec Moore nor Claudia Fentiman was familiar with the senior management of their chief competitors. Moore, shrugging, did not bother to turn, but Claudia immediately demanded chapter and verse from Benda.

  “I’ll remember them,” she promised after a long hard stare.

  In the meantime Kichsel was lamenting the absence of George Lancer due to influenza. “But at least,” he said, checking the composition of the committee, “we have some good friends on the panel.”

  Congressmen hailing from St. Louis and Milwaukee are just as zealous in protecting local interests as those from districts specializing in wheat farming, aircraft production and oil drilling. And if brewery employment figures alone are incapable of securing their dedication, then campaign contributions will do the job.

  Sean Cushing, although not a veteran in Roger Vandermeer’s class, was learning fast.

  “Look,” he said to Madeleine, “the MADD people have sent an observer. At least they’re keeping an eye on things.”

  But Madeleine was too distracted to care. Leon Rossi had gotten off to a bad start in her opinion by taking over an hour to define the aims of the subcommittee. Then came a parade of speakers who occupied the rest of Thursday and all of Friday. As hour succeeded hour, as nearby spectators chatted, yawned and even opened books, her frustration grew.

  She was particularly scornful
of the technical people. “They talk about absence of alcohol and wholesome ingredients. Don’t they realize that nobody is claiming Quax itself is poisonous? The danger lies in the entire elaborate attempt to imitate beer.”

  But Monday morning produced the worst shock of all. The committee had steered clear of all the participants in the Ludlum lawsuit and, instead, had invoked the aid of the nation’s leading psychologist specializing in alcoholism.

  His testimony was a model of common sense. When asked about the fundamental cause of alcoholism, he shook his head.

  “I can’t isolate one cause for you and neither can anyone else,” he said bluntly. “There are almost always a host of factors involved, and the mix varies from one person to another. I am of course talking about the excessive use of alcohol.”

  He went on to remind the committee that in this country, as in many others, a modest consumption of alcohol was not regarded as harmful either to the individual or to his society. He cited the long-established use of beer and wine at mealtime. He tolerantly alluded to medical theories that some alcohol could be beneficial with certain disorders.

  “As long as we take the position that the problem is not alcohol, but how much alcohol, we are talking about a judgment call and one that involves variables—both physical and psychological—which differ with each individual. Identical circumstances may render one person alcohol-dependent and not the other. Moreover, judgment itself is a complex process entailing almost every aspect of any given personality.”

  Finally returning to the question at hand, he told the microphones that contributing causes could range from lack of self-esteem to unendurable stress.

  “But if you were to ask me to confine myself to those causes that can be traced back to the formative years,” he said, clearly implying that they should have, “I would have to say that the two most prominent are the behavioral example set by the parents and the pressure imposed by age-peers.”