But like I said, tragedy hounds Max Weider. Tom and Kittyjo were murdered. Hannah died that same night, destroyed by the shock.

I climbed the steps to the main brewery entrance. An old, old man sat behind a small table in a cubby just inside. He was a retiree putting in a few hours of part-time. He was almost blind. But he was aware of me because I came in with a creak of hinges and a blast of cold air.

‘‘Can I help you?’’

‘‘It’s Garrett, Gerry. Looking for the boss. He here today?’’

‘‘Garrett? You ain’t been around in a while.’’

‘‘Cold and snow, Gerry. And nothing happening to worry the boss.’’ My function is to stimulate the consciences of the brew crew. So they don’t surrender to temptation. Not too often, in too big a way. ‘‘What about the boss?’’

‘‘If he’s here, he came over underneath. And he don’t do that much no more. Less’en it’s really foul out. So, chances are, he ain’t here. Yet.’’

Max is a hands-on owner who visits the floor every day.

By ‘‘underneath’’ Gerry meant through the caverns below the brewery. Those were the reason Weider chose to build where he did. The beer is stored there till it’s shipped.

‘‘How’s business? Any cutbacks because of the weather?’’

‘‘I hear tell a ten percent drop-off on account of it’s hard to make deliveries. The local brew houses picked up most of the slack. The boss didn’t lay nobody off. He’s got the extra guys harvesting ice. It’s a good year for that.’’

‘‘So I hear.’’ They would be cutting the ice from the river. ‘‘Thanks, Gerry. I’ll head on across.’’

Would he believe I was just looking for the boss? The whole brewery would know I was on the prowl before I found Max. Any villainy would scurry into the shadows to wait the danger out.

Privilege, private law, is vibrantly alive. Max Weider is a comfortable practitioner. He cares for his troops. Most return the favor by limiting their pilferage.