The Prince of Beers by Alex Berenson

Sunday, Dec. 19, 2010. Just past noon.
    The man with a thousand toys opened his eyes, came to his feet. He padded through the golden wreckage of his bedroom, a mess of flat-screen televisions, boxes of ammunition, pistols and rifles of every imaginable make and caliber, stereo speakers, flashlights, dozens of bottles of Gatorade. Like a survivalist cult had taken over the Playboy Mansion. A few feet away, a loaded shotgun was propped beside his toilet. A Glock pistol hung ready on a hook above it.
    Ready for what? The man with a thousand toys lived behind walls and fences, with dogs and cameras watching his mansion inside and out. Once, the security might have been necessary. Once he'd been the heir of a dynasty that had lasted five generations, the rightful ruler of one of the world's most famous companies.
    But hardly anyone cared about him now, even in this place that had respected and feared his father, adored his grandfather. And the company wasn't his to run anymore.
    His father had made sure of that. His father. The Chief.
    The weapons were a tradition too. His family believed in guns and had the accidental shootings to prove their love. He owned more than a thousand, from single-shot pistols to .50-caliber sniper rifles. Beside his mansion he'd built a second house to hold them all.
    The man with a thousand toys escaped his bedroom. In the kitchen he mixed drinks, one for him, one for her. Nothing fun. Chocolate protein shakes. He was forty-six now. Staying in shape wasn't as easy as it had been. He was even stuck with a prescription for Crestor now, cholesterol medicine, the balm of middle age. But he tried. Despite his reputation for partying, he'd always worked out, always been careful with his body and his looks. He was handsome, about five-feet-ten, with the blow-dried hair and strong chin and easy smile of a soap opera star. His caterpillar eyebrows and jug-handle ears were his most obvious flaws, but they hardly dented his appeal.
    He gathered the shakes, carried them back to the bedroom. Barely four hours of sunlight left. They'd better get up. Mike was around, somewhere.
    "Adrienne?"
    She lay on the bed, her left arm twisted under her body, unmoving. She still wore her clothes from the night before. She hadn't been sleeping the last few days, been sick. Maybe the insomnia had caught up to her.
    "Adrienne?" Louder this time.
    Still she didn't move. He put a hand to her cheek, felt her skin cool and clammy. He leaned over, shook her, looked for life, for breath. Found none.
    "Adrienne?" Not again. Not another dead girl.
    But yes, again, another dead girl.
    Where was Mike? He needed Mike. They had to call 911. At least the cops and the paramedics knew the way. They'd become regulars at this haunted house.

* * *
    This may sound like a murder mystery. But in truth it's a portrait of power grown soft and louche; it recounts the history of a man given opportunities most of us can hardly imagine, borne of wealth and position to the St. Louis family empire that controlled Anheuser-Busch — a beloved and powerful American institution in an industry that holds unique sway over American life. Yet he was always hobbled, for he was not given, and never had the strength to take, the most important chance of all: the chance to live his life as he saw fit, make his own mistakes, face the consequences of his actions — the way the rest of us, without privilege or position, live our lives every day.
    In the end, the fall of August Busch IV shows what tragedies can transpire between the hardest of fathers and the softest of sons — and reveals what mistakes can befall a forty-eight-year-old who has never fully rounded into adulthood; a drinker who over the years bought ten thousand rounds for strangers but can no longer identify his friends; a sloppy good-times hedonist who offers the only link between two untimely deaths, more than a quarter-century apart. It also serves as a reminder that expectations can be curses, that