Bitter Brew: The Rise and Fall of Anheuser-Busch and America's Kings of Beer Part 15

"How'd we get that?" August asked.

"We wanted to give it more flavor."

August didn't complain about head feel, and perhaps because no one else said the beer was too bitter, he didn't tell Steinhubl directly to reduce the hops. But in subsequent weeks, he pressured him in other ways. Mike Roarty let Steinhubl know that August was voicing misgivings about the IBUs. "He doesn't like a number that high," Roarty said. August sent samples to Professor Russell Ackoff's group at the Wharton School, and they conducted a taste test at a local tavern. Steinhubl only learned of the test when one of Ackoff's a.s.sistants came to St. Louis to present their findings in the conference room next to August's office. The studious-looking young man used a chalkboard to explain the methodology underlying the survey, which showed that a group of patrons at a bar in Philadelphia had found the beer to be "too bitter."

Irritated by what he saw as a put-up job, Steinhubl asked, "Did you taste the beer yourself?"

"No," the young man replied, adding, "I never drink beer."

"Did any of your research group taste it?" The young man shook his head.

Steinhubl turned to August in exasperation. "If we change it, then it will not taste the way you want it to. So please let us go ahead."

Once again, August gave no directive regarding the hops content. But several weeks later he called Steinhubl to Room 220, where he'd tasted the beer for the umpteenth time. "I just don't like it," he said. "We're not going to be able to sell it, and the board of directors is going to fire me. I'll be the first person to go."

Steinhubl didn't believe for a minute that the board would fire August, but he could tell that the boss was genuinely worried. After all, he was about to put tens of millions of dollars and the reputation of the company on the line. To him, Budweiser Light wasn't just another brand, more brightly colored packaging aimed at crowding compet.i.tors off the retail shelves. Budweiser was his great-grandfather's grandest achievement, his family's heritage. Nothing with the Budweiser name on it had ever failed, and he sure as h.e.l.l didn't want it to happen on his watch.

Steinhubl was worn down from the months of pressure. "August, we are all good people trying to do our best, and we think this beer is right," he said. "But if you really disagree, just tell us what you want us to do, and then go away and leave us alone."

"I can't do that," August said heavily, as if history itself would not let him. Then, surprised at Steinhubl's uncharacteristic outburst, he asked, "Aren't you afraid I am going to fire you?" Steinhubl looked at him and said, "No, because Peter Stroh [the CEO of Detroit's Stroh Brewing]* told me they have a job for me anytime I want it."

Somewhere in that exchange, August apparently found the rea.s.surance he was seeking. He believed in building a team of smart people, listening to what they had to say, and trusting their judgment. To a man, his team was telling him that Budweiser Light was good to go. Was he going to believe them, or some random bunch of barflies in Philadelphia?

The next thing Steinhubl knew, August was telling him, "I want to make this beer in Los Angeles, and I want to fly out there the day after New Year's to taste the first commercial packaging that comes off the line."

By the time Budweiser Light was ready for its debut, Denny Long and Mike Roarty had built a sales and marketing juggernaut geared toward servicing nearly a thousand hyperregional markets (roughly corresponding to wholesale distributorships) with made-to-order media plans. It was "the first comprehensive quant.i.tative-qualitative marketing program in the industry," according to Long, who dubbed it Total Marketing in honor of the Dutch soccer team that came within a game of winning the World Cup in 1974 playing a style of game its legendary coach, Rinus Michels, called Total Football (Soccer) because it called for every member of the team, including the goalkeeper, to attack the opponent's goal. Long's Total Marketing recognized that beer drinkers in Dallas were different not only from beer drinkers in Boston but also from beer drinkers in San Antonio, El Paso, and Houston. It subdivided Latino consumers into Puerto Ricans, Mexicans, and Cubans. It broke down geographical regions not just by states and cities but also by neighborhoods and even individual bars. And it designed a distinct plan for each, resulting in approximately ten thousand individual sales promotion programs nationwide.

Because beer drinkers everywhere seemed to have one thing in common, Denny Long created a sports division in the marketing department, and Mike Roarty put a young executive in charge of each major sport. Starting from scratch, the new division secured sponsorship rights with all the major league baseball teams, twenty-three of twenty-eight NFL teams, twenty-three of twenty-four NBA teams, and thirteen of fourteen NHL teams, in addition to three hundred college sponsorships. In most cases, A-B simply outbid Miller for the sponsorships (August had warned them to bring lots of money). The deal with the Washington Redskins was typical in that it guaranteed A-B signage placement at exit level in both end zones, so that the product was visible to TV viewers every time a touchdown, extra point, or field goal was scored. The product image then was reinforced when the network cut away for a commercial break that more often than not included an Anheuser-Busch commercial.

Budweiser Light hit the market in March 1982, backed by a multimillion-dollar ad campaign that was built around the slogan "Bring Out Your Best" and starred a young Clydesdale named Baron. The first TV commercial featured Baron, who had been born and raised at Grant's Farm, galloping in slow motion through the Pacific surf as a stentorian voice-over intoned, "Born of tradition ... nurtured by pride ... a light beer worthy of the Budweiser name." It was a powerful metaphor-the new brand imagined as a magnificent stallion, his muscles rippling in the sun, running as if to join his proud sire in some unseen paddock.

Subsequent commercials centered on season-appropriate sports-football, baseball, hockey, skiing-with a dissolve to Baron at the end, running slow-mo through season-appropriate scenery. The commercials were aired almost exclusively during sports programming.

The introduction of Budweiser Light marked the turning point in the Great Beer War. A-B and Miller would continue to skirmish for another decade, but there was no more talk of Miller taking over as No. 1. Unable to expand its market share beyond 22 percent, the Milwaukee brewer soon ceased to be a serious threat to A-B's dominance.

Anheuser-Busch closed out 1982 with sales of nearly $4 billion, a market share of 32 percent, and the highest unit profitability in the industry-$3.59 per barrel. The company's ten plants were running at 98 percent of capacity. Its stock was trading as high as $60 a share.

"The clear establishment of Anheuser-Busch as the undisputed ruler of the industry is a lesson in marketing," said Business Week. August didn't want to gloat, but he couldn't help himself, telling the magazine drolly, "We are working very hard to stay humble." At the same time, he boldly predicted that A-B would command a 40 percent market share by the end of the decade, a goal that compet.i.tor Peter Coors agreed was "attainable and reasonable." In fact, Coors said, "With all the money Anheuser-Busch has, there is almost nothing it can't do."

It sure seemed that way. In September 1982, after more than a decade out of the running, the St. Louis Cardinals won the National League pennant, and with a big a.s.sist from their eighty-three-year-old chairman. Gussie's contribution was hiring manager Whitey Herzog in 1980 and backing him over the next two years as he overhauled the team. In February 1982, Herzog acquired fleet-footed future Hall of Fame shortstop Ozzie Smith and made him the linchpin in what became known as Whiteyball, a crowd-pleasing style of play that relied more on speed than power. The Cardinals. .h.i.t only sixty-seven home runs during the '82 season, the least in the major leagues, but they stole two hundred bases. Gussie and Whitey became genuine friends, bonded by a mutual admiration and a shared rough-edged sense of humor. It is said that when Gussie, in a fit of grat.i.tude for the pennant win, offered Herzog a lifetime contract, the manager quipped, "Your life or mine?"

Gussie threw out the ceremonial first ball at the '82 World Series. A photograph of the moment captured "the Big Eagle," as St. Louisans will always remember him. No longer barrel-chested and vigorous, he looked shrunken and frail, almost swallowed up by his trademark Redbirds outfit of red ten-gallon Stetson and matching red western shirt, string tie, blazer, and cowboy boots. Yet his exuberance remained undimmed, as did his delight in being the center of attention. This was the elfin figure that never failed to bring the crowd to its feet as he waved from the red beer wagon drawn by eight Clydesdales around the perimeter of the field before a game, though he no longer drove the hitch himself, and the crowd could not see the brace that held him in place like El Cid.

Looking on in the photograph, August III beams with unmistakable pride and affection. He had publicly threatened to sell the team the year before, but now he stood applauding with the rest of the crowd, the headstrong young stallion bowing in homage to his ancient sire.

The Cardinals won their ninth world championship in the final game before a sold-out crowd at Busch Stadium. As in 1968, the city of St. Louis lost its mind in celebration. Happy days had come again.

The '82 contest is remembered as "the Suds Series" because the team the Cardinals defeated was-fittingly, it seems-the Milwaukee Brewers.

14

WARNING SIGN

Shortly after 1:00 a.m. on November 13, 1983, Michele Frederick made the mistake of her life: she got into a car driven by August Busch IV.

Michele was twenty-two and worked as a c.o.c.ktail waitress at Dirtbag's, a raucous student hangout within stumbling distance of Fraternity Row on the University of Arizona campus in Tucson. She was a townie. A 1980 graduate of Sahaurita High School, she'd grown up in modest circ.u.mstances, living with her mother, younger brother, and stepfather in a series of rented homes in the semirural high-desert communities of Sahaurita and Rio Rico, which straddle Interstate 19 between Tucson and Nogales.

Whatever Michele lacked in socioeconomic status, she made up for with personality, energy, and good looks. "She was the most sought after girl at our high school," said a former neighbor in Rio Rico. "She could have any guy she wanted." She usually "dated up," preferring older guys with nice cars or tricked-out pickup trucks. Brown-eyed, blond, and athletic, "she could have been a model," said a schoolmate. "She was simply gorgeous, the most beautiful girl you ever saw. That's why Busch was interested."

Nineteen-year-old August IV was a regular at Dirtbag's. In his second year at U of A, ostensibly majoring in engineering, he still qualified as a freshman based on the courses he'd completed, indicating a casual att.i.tude toward academics reminiscent of his father. He was a more serious partic.i.p.ant in the local bar scene, where the Busch name had an even stronger cachet than during August III's time at the school, thanks to A-B's expanding promotional presence on campuses, particularly at party schools like U of A. On weekends, when Dirtbag's was so crowded that its 250-person occupancy limit required arriving patrons to stand in line out front until someone left, August IV was never made to wait; the doormen waved him in, along with anyone who was with him.

He wore his ent.i.tlement on his sleeve, casually revealing his family connection in the act of ordering rounds of Budweiser and Bud Light. He wasn't obnoxious about it. Picking up bar tabs was part of his heritage, after all. It was expected of him-promoting the family business. Good-looking and affable, he was basically a shy kid who'd learned growing up that being a Busch heir broke a lot of ice and drew people to him without much effort on his part. His car, a sleek black 1984 Corvette capable of hitting 145 miles an hour, added to the gravitational pull. Easily the flashiest set of wheels on the U of A campus, it helped attract hangers-on wherever he went. The general consensus among them was that for a spoiled rich kid, he wasn't an insufferable a.s.shole.

On Sat.u.r.day, November 12, August IV spent part of the afternoon drinking at Dirtbag's, and later that night turned up at another popular nightclub called Voila off Tanque Verde Road near Wilmot. Michele Frederick and her roommate, Deborah Harrold, arrived at the club sometime after he did. Michele knew August from Dirtbag's, of course, and it appears that they really hit it off at Voila. At closing time, they were part of a group that gathered in the parking lot to discuss moving the party to someone's apartment. Michele's younger brother Aaron was there, too, with a date. Separated by only a year, Michele and Aaron ran in the same social circle and sometimes even double-dated. "They were very close," said a friend. When the party destination was decided, Michele got into August IV's Corvette and told Deborah Harrold to follow them in her car. According to witnesses, August IV had downed as many as seven vodka Collins c.o.c.ktails, while Michele had drunk two White Russians. Harrold tried to follow the Corvette, but August roared off at a high rate of speed, pa.s.sing several cars in the process, and she was unable to keep up. Michele disappeared into the night.

Around 8:30 that Sunday morning, the Pima County Sheriff's Department received a call reporting a "collision with unknown injuries" on East River Road, a twisting, uneven thoroughfare that snaked along the Rillito River across north Tucson. Deputy Ron Benson, who was in charge of a unit that investigated all car accidents resulting in critical injuries and fatalities, arrived at the accident scene and found a black Corvette on its side about fifty feet off the pavement. Twenty feet behind the car lay the body of a young woman. She was cold to the touch, indicating that she had been dead for some hours. Benson noted several empty Bud Light cans lying near the car. He found a half-smoked joint in the woman's pocket and an expired driver's license identifying her as Michele C. Frederick.

Benson was familiar with the location, a particularly treacherous stretch of River Road west of Claycroft where the pavement dipped into a ravine and then rose sharply right in the middle of a tight S bend that the local kids called Dead Man's Curve. Despite the yellow warning sign and the posted 25 mph speed limit, the asphalt was periodically streaked with skid marks left behind by unmindful drivers.

In this instance, the lack of fresh skid marks told Deputy Benson that the driver of the Corvette had not even tried to slow down entering the curve, and it appeared that the vehicle had become airborne and then flipped when it came back down on the pavement, rolling over at least once. The woman had been thrown out through the detachable targa hardtop, which was lying by the road, and probably was crushed when the car rolled over her. She likely died almost on impact.

A man's sports coat was found in the car, with a sewn-in tag that said it had been "designed for August A. Busch IV." There was also a .44 Magnum revolver and a wallet containing two Missouri driver's licenses in Busch's name, one indicating that he was nineteen and the other saying he was twenty-three. A membership card to a local gun club listed a Tucson address for Busch. Benson sent two deputies to the address, which turned out to be a town house about four miles from the accident in the foothills of Catalina Heights, the most affluent section of the city.

The deputies could hear music playing inside as they knocked on the door. There was no response. After several more knocks, they tried the door and found it open. Inside, they called out and heard a voice answer from the bedroom, where they found August IV lying on his back in bed. He was naked and covered from head to midsection in dried blood. There was blood on the pillow, b.l.o.o.d.y clothes on the floor, a semi-automatic AR-16 rifle at the foot of the bed, and a loaded sawed-off shotgun on the kitchen table.

August IV told them he wasn't sure what had happened to him. He said he remembered driving his car, becoming tired, getting out of the car, and falling asleep by the road about 2:00 a.m. He wondered if he'd been hit by a car. The detectives wondered whether his gla.s.sy eyes and dazed demeanor were due to an apparent head injury or the consumption of alcohol or drugs. Did he understand that they were law enforcement officers, and he was potentially in a lot of trouble?

After conferring with Benson, the deputies read August IV his Miranda rights and had him taken by ambulance to Tucson General Hospital, where blood and urine samples were taken. All the while, August IV continued to answer questions. Yes, he was related to the Busch beer family, the eldest son of the chairman. No, he didn't think he'd had too much to drink the night before. He'd had a few drinks, yes, but he had a high tolerance for alcohol because, in accordance with family tradition, he'd begun drinking beer at an early age. At the same time, he suggested that perhaps he wasn't behind the wheel at the time of the accident, because sometimes when he had too much to drink he would let a friend drive his car. As for Michele Frederick, he didn't even remember being with her.

After an examination in the emergency room, August IV was admitted to the hospital for treatment of a possible skull fracture. The injury made his claim of amnesia more plausible, but Benson couldn't shake the suspicion that he was acting, that maybe his apparent lack of emotion over the fate of his pa.s.senger was due to the fact that he was just too cold to care. Benson was also unsettled by all of the weaponry in Busch's possession. Even in gun-loving Arizona, a sawed-off shotgun was not something you would expect to find in a college student's apartment.

From the outset, the investigators believed that it was highly possible, if not probable, that a felony had been committed in the death of Michele Frederick. If August IV was operating the vehicle in a reckless or negligent manner, under the influence of drugs or alcohol, or both, then he could be charged with involuntary manslaughter and leaving the scene of an accident. The blood and urine samples taken at the hospital would tell the tale. Even though they were taken hours after the accident, any level of alcohol or drugs still present in his system could be used to scientifically estimate the level at the time of the accident.

The story hit the St. Louis newspapers the next morning. "Woman Killed, Busch Heir Hurt in Crash in Arizona," blared the headline in the Post-Dispatch. "Busch Heir May Be Charged in Fatal Car Crash," announced the Globe-Democrat. August III reacted to his son's predicament exactly the way his colleagues and compet.i.tors would have predicted-he promptly spent a lot of money a.s.sembling a formidable legal team to do battle with the Pima County prosecutor's office. Team Busch included one of the top law firms in Tucson, along with Norman London, the prominent St. Louis criminal defense attorney who had represented Peter Busch in the shooting death of David Leeker, and two local private investigation firms. One of the first things the lawyers did was get August IV out of town, telling the authorities that he needed to return home to St. Louis to be treated by his own doctors and spend Thanksgiving with his family. There wasn't much the prosecutor could do about it, since August IV had not been charged with any crime. The Busch attorneys promised to make him available in Tucson if the prosecutor needed further evidence from him.

As a matter of procedure, Ron Benson had to obtain search warrants from a judge in order to examine and test the two key pieces of evidence in the case, the smashed Corvette and the blood and urine taken from August IV at the hospital. The search warrant process took more than a week, and when Benson finally sent a deputy to the hospital to pick up the samples, he got a rude shock. "Bad news, boss," the deputy reported back. "They don't have it." The urine sample had been lost, and the blood sample had been run through a centrifuge and rendered useless for testing. No one on the hospital staff could explain how it happened.

Benson couldn't believe it. Never before had the hospital mishandled samples in one of his cases. It was a potentially devastating blow. Now the prosecution would not be able to prove scientifically that August IV was under the influence at the time of the accident. They'd have to build a circ.u.mstantial case, relying on witnesses who could testify that he was impaired when he got behind the wheel.

Benson and his investigators conducted more than fifty interviews with August IV's friends and schoolmates, and with employees and patrons of Dirtbag's and Voila. One of August's closest friends on campus told them that August never let anyone else drive his car, contradicting the statement August gave to deputies at the hospital. Another student said in witness statement that August IV was a known "user of cocaine," which could have accounted for the cocaine residue the coroner found in Michele Frederick's nostrils. But no one said they had seen August using cocaine that night. Nor did anyone recall him behaving as if he'd had too much to drink.

It quickly became clear to Deputy Benson that August III's private investigators were bird-d.o.g.g.i.ng his every move, sometimes arriving at the homes of witnesses just minutes after he had left. While investigators examined every inch of the Corvette, August III obtained an identical car and had it transported to Tucson, where a group of his hired experts blocked off River Road at the accident site and spent the better part of a day with cameras rolling as a driver ran the car through Dead Man's Curve at different speeds. The idea was to gather data that could rebut whatever the prosecution might present at a trial. "They told us what they were doing and invited us to watch," Benson recalled later. "But when we showed up at the time they told us, they were just finishing."