jeans and a sportcoat, I took 68th to Wells. Wells took me to 35th street where I saw the first sign of Krahn breweries, a huge tower with the logo spinning slowly on top.
I reached a giant cement bridge that provided an overview of Krahn breweries. To the north of the bridge sat the main warehouse, next to which were the towering fortress-like vats that looked like mutant farm silos gathering for a riot. I saw the mile long line of beer kegs. A sour stench filled the area, smelling vaguely of a frat house the morning after a rush party. The Krahn sign sat atop the vats, now crusted in ice and snow.
The road dipped and went between more Krahn warehouses before cresting another hill. To the right was the original Jacob Krahn house, now a museum. It was from that house the old man built the brewery, watched as horses carried sleds of beer up the hill. Built his dynasty of hops, malt and barley.
A man after my own heart.
The brewery tour and info center was on the right, its windows filled with Krahn beer memorabilia of every kind: mugs, banners, t-shirts, wastebaskets and inflatable Krahn logos.
At the top of the hill a sign pointed to Krahn headquarters and I turned onto a private drive. It curled and meandered its way past evergreens and park-like benches before arriving in front of corporate headquarters.
The new, modern office building was only four stories high, and seemed remarkably unimaginative for a corporation of this size. They must have gotten a bad architect.
Inside, I told the receptionist I had an appointment to see Philip Krahn. She motioned toward the elevators and told me his office was on the fourth floor and that I should check with his receptionist.
The elevator deposited me into a room of rich, dark wood and thick plush carpet. A secretary sat behind a half-oval desk made of faux granite.
"I'm here to see Philip Krahn," I said. "My name is Michael Ashland."
She checked her appointment book.
"Oh, yes. You can go right in."
•
There was so much smarminess in his office that I feared when I stepped onto the thick carpet I would hear a soft, squishing sound. I didn't know if it was the mood lighting, the low ceiling, the control panel that held switches for the lights, stereo and temperature, or if it was just the man himself.
Philip Krahn, one of the richest men in Milwaukee, and certainly among the Forbes Four Hundred, sat with his back to me, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet propped up on the edge of a bookcase. His shoes looked Italian, his suit was neatly pressed.
The office was large and elegant with a sleek desk, two Steelcase leather and chrome chairs and a black leather couch. On the right was a giant picture window, providing a view of the brewery trucks, rows and rows of kegs, the giant tower with the Krahn sign, and beyond, wooded bluffs from which a few old homes watched.
He swiveled his chair to face me.
"Mr. Ashland." His voice was smooth, refined. Just the slightest hint of a baritone rasp.
I reached across the desk and shook his hand.
"Mr. Krahn."
He was an odd contrast of a big man with wide shoulders and large hands, yet the face of a pretty boy. Straight, cosmetically straightened and whitened teeth, sharp nose, thin lips, clear skin, soft brown eyes and sandy tan hair, brushed casually across his forehead. I knew he was in his early forties, but he looked like he was twenty-eight.
"So glad you could take a meeting with me." His tone was cultured and silky, his smile as genuine as only the finest social coaching could produce.
"It was my pleasure," I said.
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes until he said, "So you're a private detective, I understand?"
"Fully licensed," I said.
“Do you have room to take on a case?” he asked.
“Not right now, no. I’d be happy to refer you to someone, though.” I decided to leave it at that. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Normally, someone in my position would be honored to be summoned by
I reached a giant cement bridge that provided an overview of Krahn breweries. To the north of the bridge sat the main warehouse, next to which were the towering fortress-like vats that looked like mutant farm silos gathering for a riot. I saw the mile long line of beer kegs. A sour stench filled the area, smelling vaguely of a frat house the morning after a rush party. The Krahn sign sat atop the vats, now crusted in ice and snow.
The road dipped and went between more Krahn warehouses before cresting another hill. To the right was the original Jacob Krahn house, now a museum. It was from that house the old man built the brewery, watched as horses carried sleds of beer up the hill. Built his dynasty of hops, malt and barley.
A man after my own heart.
The brewery tour and info center was on the right, its windows filled with Krahn beer memorabilia of every kind: mugs, banners, t-shirts, wastebaskets and inflatable Krahn logos.
At the top of the hill a sign pointed to Krahn headquarters and I turned onto a private drive. It curled and meandered its way past evergreens and park-like benches before arriving in front of corporate headquarters.
The new, modern office building was only four stories high, and seemed remarkably unimaginative for a corporation of this size. They must have gotten a bad architect.
Inside, I told the receptionist I had an appointment to see Philip Krahn. She motioned toward the elevators and told me his office was on the fourth floor and that I should check with his receptionist.
The elevator deposited me into a room of rich, dark wood and thick plush carpet. A secretary sat behind a half-oval desk made of faux granite.
"I'm here to see Philip Krahn," I said. "My name is Michael Ashland."
She checked her appointment book.
"Oh, yes. You can go right in."
•
There was so much smarminess in his office that I feared when I stepped onto the thick carpet I would hear a soft, squishing sound. I didn't know if it was the mood lighting, the low ceiling, the control panel that held switches for the lights, stereo and temperature, or if it was just the man himself.
Philip Krahn, one of the richest men in Milwaukee, and certainly among the Forbes Four Hundred, sat with his back to me, his hands clasped behind his head, his feet propped up on the edge of a bookcase. His shoes looked Italian, his suit was neatly pressed.
The office was large and elegant with a sleek desk, two Steelcase leather and chrome chairs and a black leather couch. On the right was a giant picture window, providing a view of the brewery trucks, rows and rows of kegs, the giant tower with the Krahn sign, and beyond, wooded bluffs from which a few old homes watched.
He swiveled his chair to face me.
"Mr. Ashland." His voice was smooth, refined. Just the slightest hint of a baritone rasp.
I reached across the desk and shook his hand.
"Mr. Krahn."
He was an odd contrast of a big man with wide shoulders and large hands, yet the face of a pretty boy. Straight, cosmetically straightened and whitened teeth, sharp nose, thin lips, clear skin, soft brown eyes and sandy tan hair, brushed casually across his forehead. I knew he was in his early forties, but he looked like he was twenty-eight.
"So glad you could take a meeting with me." His tone was cultured and silky, his smile as genuine as only the finest social coaching could produce.
"It was my pleasure," I said.
We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes until he said, "So you're a private detective, I understand?"
"Fully licensed," I said.
“Do you have room to take on a case?” he asked.
“Not right now, no. I’d be happy to refer you to someone, though.” I decided to leave it at that. If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. Normally, someone in my position would be honored to be summoned by
Similar Books
Skin Walkers - King
Susan Bliler
Guild Hunter 05 - Archangel's Storm
authors_sort
A Wild Ride
Andrew Grey
The Safest Place
Suzanne Bugler
You Play the Black & the Red Comes Up Up
Richard Hallas
Women and Men
Joseph McElroy
Chance on Love
Vristen Pierce
The Private Patient
P. D. James
Valley Thieves
Max Brand
The Vigilante Poets of Selwyn Academy
Kate Hattemer