ASSIGNMENT IN GREENPOINT
THE EDITOR'S EASY CHAIR
Reprinted From The
STRATFORD NEWS
Stratford, Conn.
PAUL A. DEEGAN Editor
"The 'Boss' wants this special Pilsener
beer," the city editor of the New York
Journal and American told me. "He doesn't
care how much it costs, and he wants to get
as many cases as he can. Do you think you
cand find any?" He looked me straight in the
eye.
I looked right back at him. It was the first
big assignment they'd given me since I'd
joined the Journal-American staff. I knew
the "Boss" was William Randolph Hearst,
the so-called "Lord of San Simeon." I'd show
him I was worth my salt, such as it was.
About $15 worth a week at the time, I
think. I'd show him that if Stanley could
find Livingston or vice verse, Deegan could
find beer, or vice versa.
I stood up. "Yes," I said, showing little
emotion. He smiled up at me. I thought he
was going to lead the whole staff in a con
gratulatory "Allegeroo," but he merely gave
me a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and
told me to be on my way.
"Give me that name again," I said. "I
want to make sure the 'Boss' gets the right
kind."
He looked at the telegram from San
Simeon. "Hilenbauser's Imported Pilsener,"
he read. "It's made only by the Hilenbausers,
a Holland family. The family is now dead."
I gulped and looked to see if he were kid
ding. He wasn't. I had the silent hope that
the Hilenbausers had made a lot of beer be
fore they'd gulped their last.
I got on the phone, and called up every
beer importer I could find in the classified
section of the phone book. The first few had
never even heard of this particular variety of
suds, and told me so. "Maybe you're thinking
of Heineken's," one suggested. "Heineken's is
nice beer," he said.
I said no, I wasn't trying to find Heine
ken's. I knew where to get that if I wanted
it.
The first note of encouragement came on
my fifteenth call. "Yeah, Johnny," the voice
said. "I've heard of Hilenbauser's. Used to
handle it myself Don't know what has
happened, though. I haven't seen a bottle of
the stuff for the last ten years."
I went in to the editor. "Find any?' he
wanted to know.
"Not yet," I said. "Most people haven't
heard of it. And the one who did hear of it
hasn't seen a bottle in ten years
"Did the ones you called have any sug
gestions?" he asked.
"Yeah, one of them wants to sell me
Heineken's," I said. "I told him I knew
where I could buy Heineken's."
"What's your next step?" the editor asked.
His face was lined with worry. You'd think
the Pulitzer was at stake.
"I'd like to wire the 'Boss'," I said, "and
ask him if he has any ideas where we might
find some of this Hilenbauser's. I don't mind
looking," I said, "but I'd at least like to
know where to start."
"I'd rather not," the editor said. "I'd
rather not disturb the 'Boss.' He knows there
is some in the East somewhere. It's up to
you to find it."
I saluted. Not as crisply this time. I started
to walk dejectedly away, fresh out of ideas.
Carlson Krendall, a rewrite man who could
reel off stories with speed and inspiration
when the spirit moved him (the spirit being
a medicine bottle of gin) called me over.
"What have they got ya doing now?" he
asked.
I sat down next to his desk. "The 'Boss'
wants a special kind of beer," I said. "The
family that made the beer is an extinct Hol
land family. Name of Hilenbauser."
"What have you tried so far?" he asked.
"I called all the importers," I told him.
"Only one of them ever heard of it. He
hasn't seen a bottle in ten years."
"Try Greenpoint," he said.
"Who is Greenpoint?" I asked.
"The section," he said. "Greenpoint's sec
tion. Go to the Greenpoint bars. If there is
any Hilenbauser's anywhere, you'll find it in
Greenpoint."
"Are you kidding?" I asked him.
"No, I'm not kidding" he said. "You'll
find every kind of beer that was ever made,
in Greenpoint."
"Why?" I asked.
"What do you mean, why?" he said with
annoyance. "They just happen to like beer,
that's all," he said.
"Okay, okay," I said. "And thanks a lot,
Mr. Krendall."
I whizzed by the editor's desk. "I got a
tip there's some Hilenbauser's in Greenpoint,"
I said breathlessly. "I'm going out there. I'll
call you if I locate any."
"Good luck," he shouted after me.
Downstairs I hopped in a waiting cab.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked. He started
up.
"Greenpoint," I said.
The cab moved away from the curb, and
headed for the Brooklyn Bridge.
"Where?" he asked.
"Greenpoint," I said again.
"Yeah, I know," he said. "I heard you
say Greenpoint. Greenpoint's a big place.
Where in Greenpoint?"
"The first bar you can find," I told him.
He turned around and looked at me.
"The first bar in Greenpoint, huh, Joe?"
he repeated. "You want to go to the first bar
I can find in Greenpoint. That's right?"
"That's right," I said. "I've got to start
someplace."
"I agree with you there," he said. "But
why pick Greenpoint?"
The cabbie and I were silent the rest of
the trip. He finally pulled to a stop in front
of a bar.
"Here's a bar in Greenpoint," he said.
"Will that one do?"
"Yes," I said. "I wonder if it's open yet."
"Yes," he told me. "It's after one. It's
open that'll be $1.75."
I got out of the cab. "I want you to
wait," I said. "I won't be long."
"He wants me to wait," he muttered. He
turned off the motor and picked up the Rac
ing Form.
A big and bald-headed bartender was
shining glasses at the far end of the bar. He
looked up as I came in.
"What'll it be, Mac?" he wanted to know.
"I'm looking for some beer,' I started to
explain.
He eyed his eight taps thoughtfully.
"Mac," he said. "I think you've come to
the right place."
"Oh, no," I said. "I'm not looking for
just any kind of beer for myself. I'm looking
for a special kind of beer for the Boss."
He looked at me suspiciously.
"Who is the 'Boss'?" he asked with a
slight quaver.
"Hearst," I told him. "I'm with the
Journal-American and Hearst is the pub
lisher. He wants a special kind of beer."
"What for?" he asked.
"To drink, I assume," I said.
"Why doesn't he come himself, then," he
asked.
"He can't," I told him. "He's in Cali
fornia."
"That clears it up," he said. "What kind
of beer are you looking for?"
"Hilenbauser's," I said. "It was made by
a now extinct Holland family
"Hilenbauser's Hilenbauser's," the
bartender mulled to himself. "We've got
some cases of some kind of beer in the cellar.
Wait'll I call the boss
He walked to the rear, and I could hear
him going up some stairs. I finished the glass
and waited.
An elderly man with a moustache and a
sleepy expression followed the bartender back
to where I was sitting.
"You looking for Hilenbauser's?" he asked.
"Yes, I am," I said eagerly.
"I don't have any Hilenbauser's," he said.
"I have better beers than Hilenbauser's, but I
don't have any Hilenbauser's. If you want an
inferior beer like that, you'll have to try an
other bar. We do not carry it here."
"Do you have any idea who might carry
it?" I asked him. "I have to find some for
my 'Boss'."
He blanked his eyes and thought.
"Which way you facing?" he asked.
"Down that way," I told him, pointing
the direction of the cab.
"Go two blocks that's the second red
light. Turn left. Then left again. That's
Britenoff's. He has all the inferior beers. He
might have what you want."
I paid for my beer, thanked him and went
out to the cab.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked.
"Go two blocks, turn left, and left again.
Britenoff's is the name of the place," I told
him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"It's a bar," I said.
He looked at me in the mirror.
"You're really a character," he said.
"Sure," the bartender at Britenoff's said.
"We have some Hilenbauser's. How many
cases do you want?"
"Lemme use your phone," I said excited
ly. "I want to call the office."
"Go ahead," he told me.
I dialed the Journal. "City desk," I said.
The editor got on. "I got some," I told him
triumphantly. "Got some what?" he asked.
"Some Hilenbauser's," I said. "We can have
as many cases as we
"Forget it," he said in a bored voice.
"What?
"Forget it. C'mon back to the office. We
just got another wire. He's decided he wants
some Heineken's."
