The next day, Paul Krendler phoned Crawford around 9:30 in the morning to invite him on a short day trip into down. Evidently, he had some business to tend, and Clarice had suggested that her cousin might enjoy getting away for the afternoon. Though nothing deeper was spoken into the message, Crawford speculated that it might be a reason for herself and Mapp to chat alone.
Also, he suspected that Krendler wanted to show off his mistress.
Crawford found this somewhat frustrating. While it remained true that he was humanly curious about the woman that drew the man to strive to be unfaithful, he had no desire to meet her. It felt too much like treachery to Clarice, someone he regarded in a much more esteemed opinion than Krendler, in any retrospect.
However, his personal views on the matter were not considered, or even asked. Krendler was by at ten o'clock to pick him up. A half hour later, they pulled up to a gas station, reportedly to fill the car.
Crawford noted immediately that they had a good half tank. This was an unnecessary stop.
"We're getting off," Krendler announced. "I want you to meet my girl."
The lack of secrecy, or the need for it, was astonishing in any aspect.
With a simple shrug, he nodded his agreement and stepped out of the car. He followed Krendler inside. It was a small place, locally owned, and thus in rather poor condition. Though it lacked the finer luxuries, Crawford was somewhat happy to see a place for the working-class-citizen of this town. Perhaps one of the only businesses not overrun by a chain company. Dismally, he wondered how long it would take before it conformed to the more plausible Get-N-Go.
Inside was a younger looking man, perhaps only by a few years. Crawford studied him narrowly, finding his profile rather familiar. However, before he could draw any sort of conclusion, Krendler approached and gave him a friendly slap across the back that seemed to startle more than greet.
"Heya, Noble. How's business?" He turned briefly to Crawford and nodded his uninterested acknowledgement. "Oh…sorry. Jack Crawford, this is Noble Pilcher. Noble, Jack Crawford."
Crawford nodded and started to speak, but words drown into a cough instead.
"I can't complain," came the unconvincing reply that promptly ignored the newcomer in front of him. "When are you going to sell me that car?"
"Next week. Promise. Got someone taking care of it now. As we speak."
There was an air of dishonesty from Krendler that Crawford thought best to ignore.
Likewise, Pilcher was visibly in need of more reliable reassurance. "Whoever it is ain't in too much of a hurry, is he?"
"No." Krendler's tone was cold and threatening, and Crawford was beginning to see how the rich did business. Bossing the all-American workingman around. And, by similar realization, he found his distaste for this man growing.
"And if you feel that way about it," continued Krendler, "maybe I'd better sell it somewhere else after all."
Panic spread across Pilcher's face, and he stuttered to make rapid amends. "I didn't mean that…" he said quickly. "I just—"
But no one was listening any longer. There were footsteps coming from overhead, and soon, the light of the office door was smoldered with the silhouette of an unanticipated guest. The toss of dialogue between Krendler and Pilcher had caused Crawford to forget the ulterior motive of their stop.
The woman in the door was not stunningly beautiful, but notably vivacious. There was something about her character that could attract nearly any man, Crawford decided. She looked like the type of gal who wanted to have fun.
Nevertheless, when he saw her, Crawford felt a stab of pity for Clarice. This was her unspoken competition? He allowed himself to wonder if she had any real knowledge of the affair, and if that was the cause of her greater rooted sadness. However, something forewarned him it wasn't quite that simple.
The woman smiled lusciously and paraded directly to Krendler, passing her husband as though he were a ghost.
Once satisfactorily at his side, she turned and narrowed her eyes to Pilcher. "Get some chairs so these people can sit down," she ordered. Crawford immediately detected the command in her voice, the absence of the civil request. The lack of commonly disregarded but pleasant manners annoyed him.
He could see why these two liked each other.
Pilcher, on the other hand, either ignored or didn't notice the innuendo in her voice. It seemed perfectly obvious to Crawford that she was just trying to get him out of the room, but that could have been for his more attuned knowledge on the current proceedings.
Once the second half of the marital pair had exited the room, Krendler and the woman drew nearer still. Crawford watched with mild interest, aware of his looming conscience and how he could hope to keep quiet around Clarice. He knew he would have to, if only to preserve the peace this summer.
It was more than obvious that it was not Krendler's intention to introduce him to her. This wasn't about introductions. He was showing her off, yes, daring him to tell his cousin. And it was lust. He simply wanted to be here, regardless of whose company he found himself in.
"I want to see you," Krendler remarked intently. "Meet us in town."
"All right."
There seemed no need for clarification of where. Obviously, these meetings were not a unique occurrence.
They left started for the exit as Pilcher reentered the office with chairs. Crawford felt a small, nagging obligation to apologize for the abrupt leave, but one look from Krendler convinced him to forget it.
They left without buying gas.
There was no discussion of adultery in the car. It seemed as though the most natural phenomenon in the world.
"Terrible place, isn't it?" Krendler asked. The implication in his tone was enough to decide what was being referred to.
"Awful." This was true. Though his pride for the workingman was steadfast, that particular business could stand for some tidying.
"It does her good to get away."
Crawford couldn't help it. The question left his mouth with no remorse, as though it had a freewill of its own. "Doesn't her husband object?"
"Noble? He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He's so dumb he doesn't know he's alive."
They met Krendler's girl outside the Macy's department store. She was standing in rather extravagant clothing at a newsstand. No longer did she have the shabby appearance of a workingman's wife. Rather, she fit the imagery the title 'mistress' brought to mind. Lavish and flashy, not the type of girl with any intention of formally settling down.
In her hand, she clutched a copy of the Town Tattle, a minibranched version of the National Tattler, adopted by New York citizens as for odd happenings right there in the city.
Lord knew there were enough.
Krendler and Mrs. Pilcher embraced and shared a kiss.
"Oh, Jack, I'm sorry. This is Gracie. Gracie, this is Jack Crawford."
The woman now identified as Gracie nodded her acknowledgement to Crawford. "How do you do?" she asked, as though trying to imitate some version of dignified.
"Very well," Crawford answered. "And yourself?"
But neither was paying attention. They were walking down the street, now, arms linked.
Crawford took a few minutes to admire the scenery. Living in Washington was a pleasant alternative to the Big Apple, but he was eager to note the cultural difference, as he could honestly say that held some sort of fascination with him. Though he had been here a time or two, it was never without a job to do, some tireless, tedious task to perform.
However, he had to remember he was with company. They had not been walking long when Gracie stopped abruptly in front of a man selling new pups of mixed breeds to willing passers.
"I want one of those dogs," she announced in a very New York accent, something Crawford had missed upon listening to her speak before. "One for the apartment, you know? They're nice to have—a dog."
They turned simultaneously to the man. Crawford was beginning to understand that Gracie was a woman you didn't say no to, even if you didn't like her too much. Like Krendler and Pilcher before him, he seemed helpless to do anything but what she asked of him, even if that was to dance naked down the streets of Manhattan.
"What kind are they?" she asked the merchant eagerly.
Crawford saw astutely that the breed of pups were of an indeterminate breed.
"All kinds," replied the man. "What kind do you want, lady?"
"I'd like to get one of those police dogs. I don't suppose you got that kind, do yah?"
With a frown, the man looked doubtfully into his basket and seemed to debate for a few minutes. Unconvinced himself, he gingerly plucked one from the litter, and presented it to Gracie, holding it by the back of the neck.
"That's no police dog," Krendler observed in disgust.
"No, it's not exactly a *police* dog," agreed the merchant. "More of an Airedale, I'd say. Look at that coat though." He handed Gracie the pup with a knowing gleam in his eyes. Any woman presented with a homeless puppy was destined to go weak and take it, anyway. "Some coat. That's a dog that'll never bother you with catching cold."
"I think it's cute," Gracie remarked, holding it to her face so it might lick her nose. "How much is it?"
"That dog? I'd say…ohhh…twenty dollars."
Gracie turned to Krendler expectantly, and he fished a twenty out of his wallet.
"Is it a boy or girl?" she asked once the transaction was complete.
Crawford managed to keep his eyes from rolling out of his head.
"That dog? That dog's a boy."
Krendler shook his head. "It's a bitch," he argued decisively. "All right then. You have your money. Go buy twenty more dogs with it."
Now with the pup, Gracie and Krendler assumed the lead. Crawford followed at a slightly more relaxed pace, not particularly caring to see where they were headed. While he assumed they had a place in the city, he thought they had passed it. It wasn't until they were outside an apartment complex that they found it was time to explain.
"We're going up to our room," Krendler announced. "Come on up, Jack. Gracie'll be upset if you don't see the place."
Gracie looked at him as though just realizing she and Krendler weren't alone. "My sister, Catherine, always has guests over for us," she explained, stroking the dog's ears playfully. "People who have met her say she's beautiful."
Crawford wondered suddenly what was with the hidden agenda to find him a lady friend before the summer was over. However, he had little room for doubt that Clarice's selection would override whomever Krendler and his mistress might introduce.
Inside, people that appeared to just be lingerers, waiting for the arrival of the mysterious hosts, greeted them. Several who didn't know his face approached Crawford, and he introduced himself as a family friend. To announce his honest connection with the Krendlers would be rude, and slightly awkward, as everyone here seemed to be aware that they were not together by any lawful bounds, nor did they intend to.
The sister mentioned outside, Catherine, was indeed quite lovely. She was closer to Crawford's age, perhaps a few years younger. As the crowd gathered around Gracie to admire the new pup, she wandered in his direction with a drink.
"Do you live down on Long Island, too?" she inquired without any need of structured introduction. She handed him the glass, and turned as another was extended to her by a man he assumed to be her butler.
Accepting the offered wine, Crawford indulged himself in a much-needed taste before feeling obligated to reply. "I live at West Egg."
The woman blinked a few times as though this was highly significant. "Really? I was down there at a party about a month ago. At a man named Fell's. Do you know him?"
"I live next door to him."
"Well, they say he's the cousin of Prime Minister Tony Blair—and that's where all his money comes from."
Crawford swallowed hard, unsure whether to reflect his disbelief or choke at the implied actuality. "Really?"
She nodded. "I'm scared of him. I'd hate to have him get anything on me."
For a minute, their attention was averted to Krendler and Gracie once more, a couple which seemed to illuminate when together. Crawford watched them neutrally, wondering a few things in silence as he sipped his drink.
It was Catherine who brought him back to the present. She leaned in close and whispered, "Neither of them can stand the person they're married to."
That seemed rather self-explanatory, but Crawford shrugged it off. He speculated it was a two-way street at the Krendler home of East Egg. "Can't they?"
"Can't *stand* them," Catherine declared. "What I say is, why go on living with someone if you can't stand them? If I was them, I'd get a divorce and marry each other right away."
"She doesn't like Noble either?"
It was Gracie who answered that. Evidently, she had caught this part of the conversation, and her reply was rather violent and obscene.
"You see," Catherine continued victoriously before lowering her voice again. "It's really his wife that's keeping them apart. She's Catholic, and they don't believe in divorce."
This was not true. Clarice was Lutheran; everyone knew that. He found himself more than shocked at the declaration in the lie.
"If he doesn't like Clarice," Crawford ventured, "then why in God's name did he marry her?"
At that, Catherine made a face. "It's a vulgar story."
"I'd like to hear it."
It didn't take more prompting. "Well…" Catherine said. "Paul liked her once, really liked her. But she seemed so sad and distant, he said. He wanted to…comfort her."
The implication was clear. Comfort, in this context, clearly meant sex.
"But she was repellant of his offers. So he married her."
"He married her just so he could—"
"She's not a dutiful wife," quipped Catherine defensively. "You can't really blame Paul for running around to find someone who will give him what he needs."
At that, Crawford cracked a brief, amused smile. "Do you mean to tell me…"
"They don't even share the same room. Honestly, I can't see why *she* doesn't divorce *him*. Paul says she sleeps with her gun under her pillow and threatens to shoot him should he try to get in the room."
That was sounding more like the Clarice he knew. Crawford's smile was becoming harder to disguise. "Then why doesn't he divorce her?" he asked, genuinely puzzled.
"Something about 'giving her what she deserves,' or something. That's what Gracie said, not Paul."
"All right. Why did Gracie marry Noble?"
Again, their conversation seemed to have attracted the attention of the discussed. Krendler's mistress raised her head from where she sat with the others admiring the pup in her lap. "Because I thought he was a gentlemen!" she quipped angrily. "Because he seemed to really like me. Because I thought he could provide."
"You were crazy about him for a while," Catherine observed.
"Crazy about him!" Gracie cried. "Who said I was crazy about him? Was never any more crazy about him than I was that man there!"
Crawford found a finger pointed in his direction.
From the other side of the room, Krendler seemed to peak interest in the unfolding conversation.
"Noble ridiculously thought he could make something of himself!" Gracie wailed. "And the only reason he married *me* was because…" With that, her eyes left her sister's and traveled to Krendler, as though afraid to continue without permission. However, this woman let nothing stand in her way, and with a deep breath and eyes sparkling with new conviction, she pushed forward audaciously. "Was because Clarice was already taken."
At the mention of his wife's name, Krendler's eyes darkened. It was as if she had committed a true blasphemy against his religion, or something of otherwise dire importance. Crawford registered in those brief seconds the oath under which they operated their affair, and similarly, his respect for Clarice elevated as he found himself more and more disgusted with her husband.
In a fury of quick movements, Krendler paraded to his mistress and hunched himself over her seat, snarling eyes burning into hers. "You have no right to say her name," he hissed.
For a fleeting moment, Crawford wondered if he was angrier with the reminder of his woman at home, and his marital obligation, or if this was in legitimate defense of her character. After a second of silent deliberation, he opted for the first.
Just as stubbornly, Gracie rose to her feet, not shying in any form from him. "Clarice! Clarice! Clarice! I'll say it whenever I want to! Clarice! Clari—"
A sound cut her short. It was the ringing of Paul Krendler's open hand striking her face. With a grunt, Gracie fell backward into her chair, and the entire room fell into an awkward quietness.
Crawford blinked and studied Krendler's face, waiting for a strain of remorse to befall him. Nothing that resembled it flashed in his direction.
With a muffled choke, Gracie reclaimed herself and turned to face him, oblivious to the dozens of eyes now on her. Blood trickled down her nose, and her eyes were full of pain, but not from the wound. In a small voice, she cried softly. "Clarice…" she declared. "Clarice. Clarice. Clarice."
Despite his extreme disliking for Gracie, Crawford felt an unwanted streak of admiration speed up his spine. He frowned and looked to Krendler, expecting another slap. Instead, the man drew her into an impassive hug, and let her weep on his shoulder.
With sad, knowing eyes, Catherine turned back to him. "You see? Can't stand them. Just can't stand them."
Crawford nodded absently, but his mind was now to the woman being quarreled over. He found his first instinct was to return and pay her extra attention, especially after witnessing this neglect.
However, when he did arrive home, Crawford found the hour only allowed him to sleep. There would be plenty of time for all sorts of compensated attention tomorrow.
Or the day after that.
For every day of this summer that promised to be longer than anyone anticipated.
* * *
