Chapter 10: The Six-writer Junket
Ms. PR disclosed to her bosses at Schloss the results of the survey following Saki’s recent wine column. Fifteen cases of a featured producer’s wine left the Cuisine store in the week following Saki’s review. None had been sold the week prior to the column’s appearance. On her cue, Ms. PR had a wine glass placed in front of each of the board members by one of her underlings in the tasting room. Two ounces of the featured wine were poured into their glasses.
“Now gentlemen,” Ms. PR had said, “this is the wine that Saki described in his column as, and I quote, ‘a fruity, though full-bodied red wine with the positive attributes of the particular style of wine that it is. This wine will go with practically any fare because of its incredible robustness yet soft and lingering tones of its finish. I give it my three stars. An unbelievable value at its modest price, this wine is best served very cold.’”
The board members smelled the red wine – served to them at room temperature – and a quick perusal of their faces left Ms. PR with the impression that several had smelled a black-yoked egg that just hit the frying pan. The GM, on the cue they had prearranged the night before, piped up, “No wonder he wants this wine served very cold. It tastes horrible!” With Pavlovian response, most of the members nodded in agreement.
“Exactly, gentleman. This wine is horrible. It was purchased in bulk from a winery that had gone broke and shut down six months before. This wine had sat in an unblanketed, half-full tank and had been ignored during the entire time, which we know is a shoddy cellar practice. A group of entrepreneurs – or negotiants – bought it and bottled it, and they put this flowery, six-color label on it. They spent more on the package than on the wine. And Saki’s involvement, you might ask? He was flown to Honolulu at the entrepreneurs’ expense to discuss California wine in general and this wine in particular.”
“Didn’t they laugh him off the island after they tasted this swill?” the GM asked as they had rehearsed the night before.
“No! I learned that during his week-long stay at the Waikiki Hilton, he showed up for one tasting attended by exactly 17 people – all distributors and sales reps who in my opinion probably don’t have the faculties to uncover a flaw in a wine.”
Ms. PR then added more statistics compiled from her Cuisine survey. She told them that of the 74 people who had purchased the wine at Cuisine, 37 drove BMW’s, 23 Mercedes and eight Audis. Of the 48 women purchasers, a whopping 34 of them carried Gucci handbags, 25 smoked cigarettes with the words “deluxe,” “ultra” or “light” on the package, and an unbelievable 92 percent were regular viewers of talk shows. Most of the grape farmers thought the consumer profile she was giving them was impressive, although they had no idea what it meant. Delaney thought Ms. PR’s profile was the perfect description of his wife.
“We also found that a majority of the buyers were conservative, upwardly mobile urban dwellers who, when directly questioned, said it was imperative that they, as Americans, preserve the freedom of being told what to buy. So you see, gentlemen, it is important for us, in order to gain a foothold in the marketplace for our new line, to provide the information brokers with the incentive to tell these people how to think. And I believe the program I’ve proposed can do just that.”
It was a beautifully presented proposition couched in the terms of corporate lingo. In other words, they needed to fork over the bucks for a bribe. Ms. PR thought her fictional mentor, Dagny Taggart of Atlas Shrugged fame, couldn’t have done a better job.
“And what’s the second part of your marketing attack?” her shill, the GM, had inquired.
“I propose that we create our own wine writer for our wines. I’ve done some research into how much some of those known wine writers and connoisseurs make prostituting themselves on TV for the desert producers’ wines. Frankly, gentlemen, our ad budget can’t afford it. So I suggest that after providing the junket for the six writers this year, and before we do it again the following year, that we form a consortium of large wineries of the area – wineries that ‘think’ along similar lines – and we secretly fund an unknown writer – a hungry, unknown writer – that, in essence, is on our collective payroll.”
“I’m not quite following you Miss,” said the current board chairman, whose eyes, Ms. PR noted, had been fixed on the third button of her low-cut silk blouse since she had begun.
“Mr. Bucolietti, we would set up our own writer and provide him with his own newsletter. He would be fed press releases from the PR departments of, say, six large wineries. What it means, sir, is that we would have our own ‘wine journalist’ in our pocket, and he would have a tremendous amount of information handed to him requiring a minimum amount of effort on his part to disseminate to his flock. And he would cost us about one-fifth of adding another person to our own PR department.”
“Miss, I see you’ve already decided this writer will be a man.”
“Yes. Research shows that wine connoisseurs are perceived by the public as being males., If I say a word, such as ‘Archbishop’ or ‘Commissioner,’ does a woman come to mind? Of course not. That’s why I don’t think the public would take a woman wine writer seriously.”
The chairman’s stare dropped to the floor. Another member asked her if she thought other wineries could be signed up for the project.
“I’ve discussed the concept in a round-about way with the PR heads of three large wineries. They believe that the idea holds definite promise, as long as it’s handled discreetly.”
At the close of the meeting, the board agreed to proceed with Part One of her plan, the six-writer junket, but they tabled Part Two until the results were in from the first prong of her attack. The board also agreed, as a cost-saving measure, to have board members pick up the writers at the airport and ferry them and their entourage to their respective inns. And it was that penny-pinching suggestion that had set Jeremy’s plan into motion.
Delaney’s letter was delivered two weeks before the writers were to arrive, seven months after the death of Daniel. It read:
Dear Jeremy,
I hope this letter finds you and Janie well. As a member of our co-operative here at Schloss and a respected grower in our valley, would you please take the time to consider the following small request from your friend.
On April 18, a select group of wine writers will arrive at the county airport to attend a three-day conference on wine sponsored by the co-operative. They will stay at several of our county’s finest bed and breakfast inns. My request, Jeremy, is for you to drive one wine writer, Reginald Sebastian Heath, and his three guests to an inn on Friday night, and from the inn back to the airport on Monday morning.
Because of time limitations, I will give you a call on Wednesday to hear of your decision. I was pleased with our recent conversation at the Citrus Festival – that there are no problems with our relationship after the untimely death of your son. I agree with you, Jeremy, that it was not proper for the representative of our insurance company to approach you so soon after the tragedy. He certainly was not acting on the behest of Schloss. Since I have talked to you, I have contacted our insurance company and was assured that the representative would be reprimanded.
Thank you for considering this request.
Truly yours,
Tom Delaney
Jeremy thought that Delaney had written the letter to prey on Jeremy’s weakness – fancy cars. He thought Delaney just wanted Jeremy to chauffeur around this Heath-person in his new plaything, a cream-colored 1958 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud. He didn’t know that the car was but a small factor in the decision – that Jeremy had been something of a last resort.
The GM and Delaney had problems rounding up a sufficient number of the board to greet the writers, and they ruled out hiring limousines because Ms. PR already was several thousand dollars over her budget for this unusual media event. When another board member backed out of his role as a ferry godfather to leave on an unexpected Caribbean cruise, Schloss management was in a jam. And, as they handled most simple decisions couched in the terms of corporate strategy, they wasted a tremendous amount of company time and money deciding not so much on what to do, but what would look best.
The GM wanted Jeremy to use his Rolls. The GM based his decision on data to which only he was privy. A half-year after the GM was hired he had gained access to credit information on all the powers-that-be at Schloss, including the most prominent growers. He had assumed at the time that the famous Jeremy Barnes figured prominently in the Schloss picture. The GM had obtained the credit information from an old school chum who had worked for the CIA for two years before moving into the “private sector” – in that case a company with the most thorough credit data banks in the world. And the GM’s chum had brought more than just “government experience” with him to his new job.
The files that the GM obtained in exchange for ten cases of rare cabernet sauvignon from the old Schloss – mysteriously disappearing from the inventory one Sunday – held data he felt was essential for him to do his job.
Inside of Jeremy Smyth’s folder was information that had little to do with the grape grower’s financial status. The file disclosed not only the amount of Jeremy’s contribution to McGovern’s presidential campaign in 1972, but also the comment that it was the largest political contribution to the Senator by a prominent person in California agriculture. The file did not disclose that Daniel, who shared neither the guilt nor the political viewpoint of his father, had contributed $500 to the Republican National Committee.
The file did tell of Jeremy’s recent contribution to the ACLU (given only after prodding from Bobby) and of an anonymous contribution traced back to Jeremy that went to the Brown Berets, “a radical organization that is contrary to Mr. Smyth’s own agricultural interests,” the file had said. The novella in the GM’s lap told of “Mr. Smyth’s son, Robert, who currently is a dues paying member of the Lawyer’s Guild, a quasi-communist organization.” The GM had learned through his late-night reading that the files on other board members were almost as fascinating.
Based on the liberal bent of Jeremy’s views, the GM believed him to be the perfect – or the only – wealthy grower in the co-op to be put in the small confines of a car with the likes of Reginald Sebastian Heath, or Reggie, as he was often called. The GM thought Jeremy was the only grower who was open-minded – liberal – enough to tolerate him. Only a week before, the GM had heard from Ms. PR that Reggie had requested to stay at the Happy Trails Country Inn out on The River instead of the Chablis Blanc, a lavish white mansion near Healdsburg. The GM knew that the Happy Trails had a seedy reputation, and driving past there one recent afternoon, he noticed a group of young, waif-like motorcyclists out front dressed in leather – entirely too much leather.
The GM pushed for Jeremy’s nomination as chauffeur, but his boss, Delaney, was hesitant. Delaney had seen Jeremy at The Valley’s Citrus Festival, the first time the two had spoken after Daniel’s death. Jeremy had shown restraint that bordered on hypocrisy, considering that he had already begun his secret war against Schloss. He did take a moment to chastise the Schloss president for the crassness of the co-op’s insurance representative, who had appeared three days after the funeral – the day before Bobby and Carin had arrived home from Miami.
It was that visit which had brought on Delaney’s written apology to Jeremy, for the representative had brought with him a three-page, typewritten letter, a waiver absolving Schloss of all responsibility for the accident – a waiver that anyone in their right mind would have thrown back in his face. Jeremy signed it, and that was one part of his story that he had failed to tell Bobby.
As the figurehead of Schloss management, Delaney wasn’t sure if it was right to ask the favor of Jeremy at the time. He felt uncomfortable with it. The GM persisted, telling Delaney that they had the least to lose having Jeremy drive Reggie. Secretly, the GM questioned the ability of his boss, for no corporate officer worth his salt would have let emotions such as concern or compassion interfere with a cold, hard business decision. Delaney eventually conceded and the letter was dictated and sent to Jeremy.
After reading the letter, Jeremy was unsure who this Reginald Sebastian Heath was, but he thought he had been introduced to an Englishman at a barbeque put on by Bergen’s winery a few years back; perhaps this Heath was him. Jeremy called The Winery to find out from Stan. Unfortunately, Jeremy was reminded by Stan’s assistant that he had left the week before for a much needed vacation in Puerto Vallarta with several friends.
Jeremy had five days before Delaney would call back, and he didn’t want to blow what could be an excellent chance to reveal Schloss to a person with the ability to spread the word. Jeremy called back The Winery and finally drew out of San’s assistant the number of his rented villa in Mexico. Half an hour later he had Stan on the phone:
S: Jeremy?
J: Stan! I can barely hear you.
S: Jeremy, is there a problem? Hail? Frost? Earthquake?
J: No, Stan. I’m sorry to bother you, I really am. I’ve just got a deadline on something, and I need your help.
S: It’s okay. I’m just reclining on the patio sipping a Bohemia.
J: So how is it down there?
S: Perfect. We’re living like royalty. What can I do for you?
J: I just received a letter from Delaney. He wants me to chauffeur around a wine writer about two weeks from now. I was thinking that this is the perfect time to expose my friends at Schloss.
S: I see you’re still fighting your personal war. What’s the writer’s name?
J: It’s, uh, let’s see. Reginald Sebastian Heath. Have I ever met him at your place?
S: No, I don’t think so. I’ve only been introduced to him two or three times. Our PR department handles him. He’s quite a character.
J: So you know him?
S: Not exactly. I poured wine at The Wine Spectacle down at Palm Springs last year. He was there. In fact, he was seated next to our booth in this high-back, red velvet chair – looked like a throne. He was autographing posters of himself holding up a glass of wine with our valley in the background. All of these people that I once had respect for were kissing his hand and vying for an audience. It was disgusting. He’s an Easterner who now considers himself to be the new ambassador of California wine. He gained title to the crown in a bloodless coup.
J: Okay, okay, Stan. Bud do you think he’d listen to me?
S: Jeremy, I’m not sure. Tell you what, I’ve got Sheila Burke out here on the patio – she’s the winemaker at Yuban Cellars. I think she’s had some contact with him. Let me go ask. If she knows anything I’ll call you right back.
J: You don’t have to do that.
S: No problem. Talk to you in five minutes.
A short time later the phone rang in Jeremy’s study.
J: Hello?
S: Hello. This is Sheila Burke down in Mexico.
J: I can barely hear you. Please speak up!
S: This is Sheila Burke!
J: Yes!
S: Well, I have a fascinating tale to tell.
J: I want to hear it, but we’ve got a poor connection.
S: Blame it on the peso! Listen, Jeremy, I’ll get your address from Stan and write you a letter all about him.
J: On your vacation?
S: Sure!
J: But I need it in five days.
S: I’ll overnight it to you when I go to the airport. We’ve got some friends arriving there tomorrow morning.
J: That would be great. Thank you, Sheila.
S: Adios!
