and feel comfortable reporting that as a laborer he’s pretty lame.
I said hello to the brewmasters on duty. Skibber Kessel returned a sullen greeting. Mr. Klees was too busy to notice a housefly like me. They were dedicated men, disinclined to gossip at the most relaxed times. I supposed they were happy with things the way they were. No brewmaster is shy about raising hell when he’s bothered. The finest brewmasters are like great operatic performers.
When I go to the brewery I try to stay unpredictable. The bad boys don’t need to catch me in a routine. Sometimes I hang around only half an hour. Other times I just won’t go away. I become like some unemployed cousin loafing around the place, though I will help the guys on the docks, loading and unloading. I shoot the bull with the apprentices, shovel with the guys in the grain elevator, just watch the boys in the hops shed. I wander, double-check counts on the incoming barley, rice, and wheat, calculating inflow against recorded output. In all ways I try to be a pain in the ass to would-be crooks.
The brewery’s biggest problem always was pilferage. That’s been a lot smaller since I came around but, unfortunately, human nature is human nature.
15
I knew some of the teamsters and dock wallopers well enough to drink with so it seemed I ought to start with them. They wouldn’t hesitate to talk about conflicts within the workforce.
There are two ways to reach the loading docks —besides going around to the freight gate. One leads through the caverns beneath the brewery, where the beer is stored. The caverns and the proximity of the river, on which raw materials arrive, are why Weider chose the site.
The caverns are the more difficult route. The other way runs through the stable. That’s huge. Few other enterprises require so much hauling capacity.
I chose the caverns. It’s almost a religious experience, wandering those cool aisles between tall racks of kegs and barrels.
They work round the clock down there and I always find Mr. Burkel there with his tally sheets. “Mr. Burkel, don’t you ever sleep?”
“Garrett! Hello. Of course I do. You’re just a lucky man. You get to enjoy my company every time you come around.”
“How can I argue with that? How are your numbers running these days?”
“As good as they’ve ever been. As good as they’ve ever been.”
Which still meant a slight floor loss in favor of the workforce, probably limited to what was consumed on the premises. Which was fine with Old Man Weider.
Mr. Burkel handed me a huge stein. As chance would have it, that stein was filled with beer. “This is a new wheat we’ve just started shipping.” I sipped half a pint.
“And a fine brew it is, Mr. Burkel. It’s heavier than the lager but lighter than the dark I usually prefer.” I forebore tossing in some wine snob chat. He wouldn’t get the joke. “This’s why I like Old Man Weider. He’s always trying something. Thanks. Maybe I’ll come through again on my way out.”
“Do. Now answer me something, Garrett. How come you got a stuffed bird on your shoulder? Looks goofy as hell.”
“It’s not stuffed. It’s alive. It’s kind of a signature thing. Other guys in my racket all got a gimmick.”
“Oh.” You’d have thought I was threatening to tell him about my new wall coverings. “Well, you be careful out there, Garrett.”
“Likewise, Mr. Burkel.”
16
The Weider freight docks are chaos incarnate, yet out of that confusion flows the lifeblood of the tavern industry. From its heart to its nethermost extremities beer is the blood and soul of the metropolis.
The teamsters and deckhands received me with mixed emotions, as always. Some were friendly, or pretended to be. Others scowled. Maybe some of those were involved in the theft ring I rooted out. They might figure I done them wrong because stealing from the boss is a worker’s birthright.
Shadows were gathering in the dockyard. Hostlers had
I said hello to the brewmasters on duty. Skibber Kessel returned a sullen greeting. Mr. Klees was too busy to notice a housefly like me. They were dedicated men, disinclined to gossip at the most relaxed times. I supposed they were happy with things the way they were. No brewmaster is shy about raising hell when he’s bothered. The finest brewmasters are like great operatic performers.
When I go to the brewery I try to stay unpredictable. The bad boys don’t need to catch me in a routine. Sometimes I hang around only half an hour. Other times I just won’t go away. I become like some unemployed cousin loafing around the place, though I will help the guys on the docks, loading and unloading. I shoot the bull with the apprentices, shovel with the guys in the grain elevator, just watch the boys in the hops shed. I wander, double-check counts on the incoming barley, rice, and wheat, calculating inflow against recorded output. In all ways I try to be a pain in the ass to would-be crooks.
The brewery’s biggest problem always was pilferage. That’s been a lot smaller since I came around but, unfortunately, human nature is human nature.
15
I knew some of the teamsters and dock wallopers well enough to drink with so it seemed I ought to start with them. They wouldn’t hesitate to talk about conflicts within the workforce.
There are two ways to reach the loading docks —besides going around to the freight gate. One leads through the caverns beneath the brewery, where the beer is stored. The caverns and the proximity of the river, on which raw materials arrive, are why Weider chose the site.
The caverns are the more difficult route. The other way runs through the stable. That’s huge. Few other enterprises require so much hauling capacity.
I chose the caverns. It’s almost a religious experience, wandering those cool aisles between tall racks of kegs and barrels.
They work round the clock down there and I always find Mr. Burkel there with his tally sheets. “Mr. Burkel, don’t you ever sleep?”
“Garrett! Hello. Of course I do. You’re just a lucky man. You get to enjoy my company every time you come around.”
“How can I argue with that? How are your numbers running these days?”
“As good as they’ve ever been. As good as they’ve ever been.”
Which still meant a slight floor loss in favor of the workforce, probably limited to what was consumed on the premises. Which was fine with Old Man Weider.
Mr. Burkel handed me a huge stein. As chance would have it, that stein was filled with beer. “This is a new wheat we’ve just started shipping.” I sipped half a pint.
“And a fine brew it is, Mr. Burkel. It’s heavier than the lager but lighter than the dark I usually prefer.” I forebore tossing in some wine snob chat. He wouldn’t get the joke. “This’s why I like Old Man Weider. He’s always trying something. Thanks. Maybe I’ll come through again on my way out.”
“Do. Now answer me something, Garrett. How come you got a stuffed bird on your shoulder? Looks goofy as hell.”
“It’s not stuffed. It’s alive. It’s kind of a signature thing. Other guys in my racket all got a gimmick.”
“Oh.” You’d have thought I was threatening to tell him about my new wall coverings. “Well, you be careful out there, Garrett.”
“Likewise, Mr. Burkel.”
16
The Weider freight docks are chaos incarnate, yet out of that confusion flows the lifeblood of the tavern industry. From its heart to its nethermost extremities beer is the blood and soul of the metropolis.
The teamsters and deckhands received me with mixed emotions, as always. Some were friendly, or pretended to be. Others scowled. Maybe some of those were involved in the theft ring I rooted out. They might figure I done them wrong because stealing from the boss is a worker’s birthright.
Shadows were gathering in the dockyard. Hostlers had
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