Crazy Like A Fox

CHAPTER 3

Neat piles of papers on the right-hand side of Crawford Howard’s specially built enameled desk reflected the blue light of the computer screen Crawford was studying. The L-shaped desk had a heavy glass insert in the section where he wrote letters. The desk itself, enameled in hunter green, dominated the room, as did the man himself.

Crawford, now in his mid-fifties, had made his first fortune in Indiana, building strip malls. Once secure, he moved to central Virginia, which he remembered, as a young man, visiting historic sites with his parents. He fell in love with the beauty of the state, and the strange romance of the battlefields, starting with Yorktown. He also fell in love with foxhunting. He began hunting with Trader Point Hunt near Zionsville, Indiana. As this was a drag hunt, he learned to jump because hounds always found the dragged scent. Once he moved to Virginia he encountered the vagaries of live hunting, as well as the difficult terrain of The Jefferson Hunt, where he started.

Accustomed to getting his way, thanks to his wealth, he felt, after a few years and large checks to the club, he should be appointed Joint Master to serve along with Sister Jane. However, riding and giving money is not the same as knowing hunting, and he didn’t really know it. He knew real estate, he knew construction, he knew the stock market, but he couldn’t tell the difference between an American foxhound and an English foxhound. While that can be learned, modifying one’s behavior’s to Virginia standards was too much for certain egotistical personalities. Crawford was such a one.

Needing, at long last, a Joint Master, Sister asked Walter Lungrun, M.D., in his early forties. She’d known him since he was a child. She also knew her husband had fathered him on Mrs. Lungrun. Neither she nor her husband referred to this, and Mr. Lungrun raised Walter as though his own. In theory, no one knew.

In a snit, Crawford withdrew from The Jefferson Hunt to start his own outlaw pack. Having blown through three huntsmen, it was not a success. He’d hired a young woman, Cynthia Skiff Cane. She could deal with his meddling better than the prior men, but there were days when even she had to walk away, diplomatically.

Having lost some weight, Crawford, in good shape, still with a full head of hair, proved attractive enough. His wife loved him. Someone did, thankfully.

He leaned back in his chair, letting out a long deep breath. “My God.”

Then he picked up the phone to call an old college friend in New York City who was a vice president at a large brokerage house. “Larry.”

“Crawford, how are you?”

“Dismal. I’ve been looking at our dollar rising even higher today. The euro is about worthless.”

After a pause, Larry replied, “Great for importers. Bad for exporters.”

“My mat business is suffering. I’m losing money hand over fist.”

Crawford, keeping his fingers in many pies, had bought into a wonderful business manufacturing car mats and truck bed mats to protect the paint and offset the slipperiness of a truck bed, especially in foul weather. You could break a leg back there.

“You fortunately are diversified. I have clients who really are going broke over this.”

“I hate to lose money,” Crawford grumbled. “And I believe I will lose more. Why did anyone ever think a European Union would work? They’ve been killing one another over there for centuries. Hell, if you go back to Julius Caesar and Vercingetorix, thousands of years. Absurd.”

“Well now, Crawford, I’d like to think that World War Two truly woke them up. I’d like to think that the European Union will pull the chestnut out of the fire.”

A long sigh followed this. “I’m not going to argue.”

“That’s a first.” His old friend laughed. “Back in the days of our Sigma Chi bull sessions, who could argue all night long, with or without booze?”

Crawford smiled at those days, how much he loved his fraternity, the sheer fun of it all. “You’d be surprised at how much I’ve learned.”

“You married Marty. That was the best move you ever made. You make a mess, brother, she cleans it up.”

A really long pause followed this, then Crawford assented. “You’re right.”

“I am drawing a red square around this day in my desk calendar.” Larry laughed, as Crawford laughed with him. “It’s good to hear your voice. I can tell you what our analysis is up here.” He paused. “It’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better.”

“Yes, I think so, too.”

“Can you develop new markets? I’m assuming the losses are with the mat company, Protect All.”

“Are. Larry, it takes years, sometimes, to develop new markets. I’d always hoped Africa would build good roads. I’d love to expand there but even South Africa—hell, the elephants can’t walk on those damn roads once you get out of the cities.”

Larry laughed. “True, but I do love Cape Town. Melanie and I go once a year to visit Danielle, Nate, and the kids. I was worried when she chose to move there. Well, I was worried when she fell in love, but God, it is beautiful and seems stable enough.”

“I don’t know if any place is stable anymore. Truly. I’m even wondering about us.”

“You’re in a doom-and-gloom mood. We do this every eight years. We’ll survive. You know history. You love history.”

Crawford smiled. “You’re right. Hell, we survived Buchanan.”

“I know you’ve moved some investments out of Europe. You’re fine. If Protect All’s profits drop, even if they drop precipitously, hang on to the company. It’s a damn good one, Crawford. You were shrewd as always to buy it. Gotta go, bro.”

Crawford hung up the phone somewhat mollified, but the numbers were jarring. He returned to his enormous computer screen, built just for him at a cost of twelve thousand dollars. He loved it despite what he saw at this moment.

Marty popped her head into his office. “Sweetie, coffee? Tea? Coke?”

“No. Just got off the phone with Larry. Sounds great.” He wrinkled his brow. “Wanted to talk to him about the strong dollar and”—he exhaled—“the faltering Euro. He thinks it will get worse.”

“Let’s take a ride. It’s a perfect September day. That will restore your spirits. I’ll call Sam and have him saddle up our babies.”

He nodded. “You’re right. Nothing I can do here anyway.”

“Is everything else all right?”

“Yes, it is. I just sometimes think the world is going to hell.”

“Honey, people have been saying that since B.C.” She laughed.

Once at the stable, Sam brought out two immaculately groomed horses. “I didn’t tell Skiff you were going out. She’s out there roading the hounds.”

“Ah, good.” Crawford smiled.

Sam Lorillard, a reformed alcoholic, now in his mid-sixties, was an early recipient of a scholarship to Harvard, no mean feat for an African American of his generation. He blew it. His brother Gray saved him, literally pulling him off the streets down at the old C&O train station, throwing his sorry ass into rehab.

Crawford was the only person who would hire Sam, since most everyone in central Virginia had been disappointed, let down, or, if female, dumped by him, or the reverse.

Gray, now retired as a partner from a prestigious accounting firm in D.C., was Sister’s gentleman friend. No one of their generation would say “lover.” And as Crawford set himself against The Jefferson Hunt and Sister, it could get dicey. Sam loved Sister. He’d hunted with her since college, but he had to eat and he needed the self-respect of a job.

“How’d Ranger do yesterday?” Crawford inquired of the young horse Sam hunted with Sister.

Crawford liked his horses trained. They couldn’t really do it with his hounds. He was more than happy to use Jefferson Hunt for this.

“A little fussy at the checks but he’s getting it.” Sam held the offside stirrup, the right one, while Marty mounted, then performed the same service for Crawford.

Looking up at his boss, Sam said, “You know everything about technology.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Crawford liked the compliment.

“My brother told me about a strange incident at the Museum of Hounds and Hunting.” He proceeded to relate the story with detail, as Gray had seen the video.

“It’s possible to do something like that with a hologram. We will soon see modern films with late, great actors in them, bit parts perhaps but quite believable. It would be possible to do this if there was original footage of—what’s his name?”

“Weevil. A nickname, as he was called, behind his back, ‘The Necessary Evil.’ ”

Marty laughed. “Must have been quite a character.”

“So they say.”

Crawford reconsidered the story. “Yes, it could be done with a hologram.” He paused, glanced down at Sam. “But no hologram could have stolen the horn. Has to be some kind of prank.”

Some prank.