Faye Kellerman - The Garden Of Eden And Other Criminal Delights

Benton looked intrigued. “How so?”

“You see, Mr. Benton, I worked with Cola Gold in a very tangential way. It was necessary for me to learn the formula of their new line of cola-”

“ Good God, Rabbi! You know the formula? That would be worth millions to me!”

“I take it you’d pass a few million to me in the process. But that’s not the point. I can’t give you the formula. That would be unethical.”

Benton sat back in his seat. “Yes, of course.” He ran his hand through thin strands of white hair. “However, there’s nothing… unethical… about you making… suggestions for additives in our competing brand of new-generation cola.”

“The problem is, Mr. Benton, I don’t know anything about new generations, period. I am from an old generation.”

Benton turned to Philip. “So this is why you interrupted me at the clubhouse?”

“Hold on, Mr. Benton,” Feinermann said. “Don’t be so rude to Philip. The man is not my best friend, but he does have your interests at heart. I don’t have any suggestions for your new-generation drinks. But I have a lot of suggestions for your old-generation drinks.”

“What old-generation drinks?” Benton asked.

“That’s the problem,” the rabbi said. “There are none. Mr. Benton, I watched your life story many, many times. Not my doing, but be that as it may, I feel I know you quite well. We have a lot in common. We both had immigrant parents, grew up dirt-poor in New York, the first generation of Americans in our family. We were the dreams and hopes of our parents who sacrificed everything so we could have it a little better, nu ? We lived through the Depression, fought in World War Two, gritted our teeth as our hippie children lived through the sixties. And now, in our waning years, we sit with a sense of pride in our lives and maybe bask a little in our grandchildren. Am I not correct?”

Benton stared at Feinermann. “Exactly! I see you as a man with vision! Philip, hire this man on as a consultant. Start him at-”

“Wait, wait,” Feinermann interjected. “Thank you for the offer, but I already have a job. And I’m not so visionary. I know how you feel because we’re from the same generation. I saw your mother, Mr. Benton. She looked like my mother. She probably knocked herself out chopping meat by hand and scrubbing floors with a sponge.”

“Her hands were as rough as sandpaper, poor woman.”

“And I bet she always had a pitcher of iced tea in the icebox when you came home from school. Maybe some shpritz from a bottle with the O2 pellets?”

Benton smiled. “You’ve got that one down.”

“No cans of cola in her refrigerator.”

“Just where is all this leading?” Philip asked.

“Shut up!” Benton replied. “We’re reminiscing.”

Again Feinermann wiped his mouth. “I’ll tell you where this is leading, Philip. Pay attention, because it has to do with business.”

The bald man wiped his forehead. “I’m listening.”

Feinermann said, “You have a multibillion-dollar business that provides beverages to America. And all of your products are aimed at the young or the ones who wish they were young. Not that I have anything against the new generation, but I can’t relate to them. And I don’t drink the same things they drink. I want my glass of tea with a lemon. I want my old-fashioned shpritz without essences of this flavor or that flavor. Whatever happened to tonic water and ginger ale, for goodness’ sake?”

“We have ginger ale,” Philip protested. “King Ginger.”

“Ach!” The rabbi gave him a disgusted look. “Relegated to the back of the cooler. The young people think it’s a drink for stomach maladies.”

“You have to realize that New Age drinks comprise a measly three hundred and twenty-seven million dollars of market sales,” Philip said. “Ginger ale’s a drink with no appeal.”

“It appeals to me,” Feinermann insisted.

“The rabbi’s got a point,” Benton said. “The New Age drinks do appeal to the older set. And let’s not forget the growth rate, Philip-fifteen percent as compared to two percent in the industry as a whole.”

“There you go,” Feinermann stated. “When are you companies going to wake up and realize there is a whole generation out there waiting for you to appeal to them?” He turned to Benton. “You gobbled up dinner tonight because it reminded you of your mother’s cooking.”

Benton bit his lip. “I see what you’re saying. But, Rabbi, you have to realize that carbonated beverages are still a youth-oriented market.”

“Because you choose to woo the youth. What about me?”

“The elderly market is tricky,” Benton said.

“Even if you convert them to your product, they’re just going to keel over anyway,” Philip said.

Benton glared at his assistant. “I beg your pardon.”

“No… I mean… not you, Mr. Benton-”

“Calm down, Philip,” Feinermann said with little patience. “Yes, we’re all going to die. Even your Mr. Benton here. But I see your point. So don’t market them as old-fashioned drinks. Make them family drinks. Seltzer, tonic water, ginger ale-promote them as new, lighter, less sugary drinks with a history of America . Show teenagers and grandpas drinking them at the family barbecues. What could be better?”

Philip said, “I’ve got the hook, sir-a New Age drink with a touch of nostalgia.”

“I like it, Philip,” Benton said.

“And what about iced teas?” Feinermann said.

Philip said, “Only a four-hundred-million-dollar share of the market.”

Feinermann said, “But combine it with your three-hundred-and-twenty-seven-million-dollar New Age share, Philip. That’s almost a billion dollars.”

“Man’s got a point, Philip.”

“Tensel’s has a lock on tea, sir,” Philip said. “Besides, I heard Heavenly Brew is coming out with a new line. Lots of teas for such a little market share.”

“Ah, Heavenly Brew. That’s not tea. Not tea the way Mr. Ben-ton and I remember it,” Feinermann said.

Benton nodded. “True. We had tea that rotted the gut. How about a new full-flavored tea drink, Philip? It just might work, especially if we get a decaf version.”

“Very good, Mr. Benton.”

Feinermann said, “We’re a lost generation, Mr. Benton, just waiting for someone to sing our tunes. Stop regurgitating old cola recipes and expand your horizons.”

Benton exclaimed, “Glad you brought all this to my attention, Rabbi! Philip, make a note to bring all this crap to the board’s attention this Thursday. And, Rabbi, you will join us at the meeting, won’t you?”

“Thursday I have a funeral to preside over. I’m afraid I must pass. Besides, I’ve stated my piece. Perhaps now your Philip will leave me in peace?”

“Absolutely! Philip, stop pestering the rabbi.”

Philip nodded like a Kewpie doll.

Feinermann stood. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to take my leave.”

“Certainly, Rabbi,” Benton responded. “And anytime you need anything, just ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Benton.” The old man shook hands with the philanthropist and bade him goodbye. As he was accompanied back to the car, walking in the cool March air, he reflected on how much he missed his childhood. Not the part about being beaten up by Tommy Hoolihan… and he didn’t miss the cholera and polio, either. But he did miss his youth-a generation that grew up without T V. And a good glass of ginger ale… corporations do forget about the elderly-a reflection of society, he supposed.

Ah well, at least he’d sleep in his own bed tonight.

When they arrived at the Cadillac, Feinermann said to Philip, “You don’t have to come back with me. The Marxes know the way.”