The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Like me,” Heimdall says.

  “Why do you think you were selected? Here’s the only photo we could locate. Taken when she won Women’s Singles at her club. Published in the Sun-Sentinel.”

  “Good legs,” Heimdall says. Studying the blow-up.

  “So do you. I’ve noticed. You’re about the same height and weight. You’ve got a little more up front than she had, but that’s all to the good. Your hair is longer than hers. Can you have it shortened?”

  “Of course. And I’ll have it styled like hers. A gamine cut.”

  “Fine. She liked vodka gimlets. Had a thing for Caesar salads and romance novels. Wore little makeup. Always bare legs. Smoked long Benson and Hedges menthols. Are you getting all this?”

  “I’m getting it. What did she wear?”

  “Mostly designer things. Other people’s names on practically everything she owned.”

  “Ugh. Well, I suppose I can do it. Right-handed or left?”

  “Right. You mean you can do either?”

  “Tony, I have talents you haven’t even guessed.”

  “I believe it. You may have an opportunity to exhibit them. This Sylvia Dancer was reputed to be a tiger in the bed department.”

  “Now how on earth did Intelligence get onto that?”

  “Easy. Harry Dancer’s personal physician is one of ours. He reports that Harry had some worries about keeping up with his wife. He was taking B-12 shots.”

  “Was taking? Recently?”

  “No. The worries date back a few years. Oh, one other thing—Sylvia Dancer liked the horses. Apparently she wasn’t a degenerate gambler; just two-dollar bets. But she loved to see them run at Calder, Hialeah, Gulf Stream—wherever. She owned a pony when she was a kid; maybe that started it.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Background stuff. Parents, education, and so forth. But at the moment I want you to concentrate on your first meeting with Harry Dancer. Let’s go over it again.”

  Evelyn Heimdall dresses carefully for the Sea Watch luncheon. Pale linen Halston sheath. Hair shortened. Lightened slightly. Bare legs. Minimal makeup. Benson and Hedges in her Mark Cross handbag. She has managed two hours in the sun that morning. Skin a bronzy tan.

  It all works. When the hostess brings her over to Dancer’s table, she sees the shock in his face as he stumbles to his feet.

  Small table. Small talk. Both face the ocean at an angle.

  “What’s across?” she asks. Gesturing at the shimmer. “If you sail directly east, what do you hit?”

  “Portugal,” he says. “I think.”

  She thinks it’s West Africa, but doesn’t say so. Takes the long menthol cigarettes from her handbag. He snaps a lighter. Holds it in a hand that trembles.

  Waitress hovers. “Cocktails?”

  “Vodka gimlet,” Heimdall says. “With a piece of lime, please.”

  He orders a gin martini straight up. When it comes, he drains half in a gulp. She sympathizes. Silently.

  “What would you like?” he asks. Studying the menu. Not looking at her. “Their seafood is good. And a really big hamburger.”

  “I wonder if I could get a Caesar salad?”

  “Of course,” he says. Strained voice. Then orders another martini.

  She doesn’t want to hit him too hard too quickly. Turns the talk to her finances. Says she has approximately eight hundred thousand. How should she handle it?

  “Play it cool,” he advises. “At least forty or fifty percent in fixed-income investments. I’ll have to know something about your tax situation, dependents, living expenses, and so forth. I’m conservatively oriented. I wouldn’t put you into high-risk things.”

  She smiles.

  They discuss his fees, problems of transferring assets, tax-exempts versus zero-coupon bonds, insurance. He is very knowledgeable. So is she. But doesn’t let him know it.

  Pleasant luncheon. Iced black coffee and Baileys Irish Cream later. Lazy talk about South Florida. Her reactions. Places to go. Things to see.

  “I’ve got to get out to the tracks,” she says. “I love racing. I’m not a heavy bettor. I just enjoy the scene.”

  He hangs his head. “You’re so like my wife,” he says. So low she can hardly hear him.

  “Oh? I’d like to meet her.”

  “She passed away.” Raises his head to stare at her. “About a month ago.”

  “Oh my God,” she says. Stricken. Reaches to cover one of his hands with hers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I went through it six months ago. It’s hard, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Hard.”

  “The worst thing,” she says, “the absolute worst, is that gradually the pain goes. You’re convinced you’re going to suffer for the rest of your life. But slowly the sorrow dulls. Even your memories fade. And that seems so shameful that you can hardly live with it.”

  “Yes,” he says. Looking at her wonderingly. “That’s the way it is.”

  He signs the check. Pays with plastic. While they’re waiting for the receipt, she decides to give him a final jolt.

  “By the way,” she says. Lightly. “I’m a tennis nut. Can you suggest a court? Some place nearby?”

  Before they part, they’ve made a date to play at his club in Boca the next day. Saturday. Heimdall gives him her address and phone number.

  “I’ll reserve as soon as I get back to the office,” he promises. “I’ll call you. I imagine everything is booked for the morning. If we play in the late afternoon, perhaps we could have dinner later.”

  “Love it,” she says. “How shall I dress?”

  “For dinner,” he says. Happy. “Bring your tennis things in a bag. You can change there. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Sounds like fun,” she says.

  He presses her hand.

  Back in the motel suite, Anthony Glitner debriefs her. Takes her over the entire meeting. What did he say? What did you say then? What cocktail did you order? What did he have? What did you eat? What did he? How did he look? What’s your take on him?

  “I like him,” Evelyn Heimdall says. Slowly. “Very much. Right now he’s vulnerable. It can go either way.”

  6

  The Department has two moles in Corporation headquarters in Washington, D.C. One is the night code-clerk. The Department turned him by getting him hooked on cocaine. Now on a daily ration. Enough to keep him wired, but not so much that he can’t function.

  When the transmission comes in from Leonard concerning Harry Dancer, the night code-clerk makes a duplicate of the transcription. Passes it along to his coke contact. He, in turn, hands it over to the Department’s Resident in Washington. That agent forwards it via microfilm to the Department’s headquarters in Cleveland.

  There the information is printed, evaluated, added to the computerized file. An alert is immediately sent to the Director of the Southeast Region in Fort Lauderdale.

  This process takes almost a week. By the time the Regional Director receives the intelligence, he knows the Corporation’s team of agents is already in place, zeroing in on Harry Dancer.

  That fact doesn’t disturb him half as much as the question of how the Corporation learned of the Department’s interest in Dancer. The only answer to that is a leak, a serious leak, within Regional headquarters. The Director calls in his Chief of Internal Security. Ted Charon.

  They huddle in the Director’s office, make a list of all personnel with knowledge of the Dancer operation: The Director himself. Secretary Norma Gravesend. Agent Sally Abaddon. Case officer Shelby Yama. And a dozen others: computer operators, file clerks, aides who set up Sally’s employment at the Tipple Inn.

  “And Jeremy Blaine,” the Director adds. “Don’t forget him. He tipped us to Dancer, but maybe he’s playing a double game. Check him out.”

  “Yes, sir,” Charon says. “I have a feeling the leak is at a low level, but we’ll cover everyone. Do you have any idea how large a team the Corporation has sent down?”

  “I’ve asked Cleveland to
query our moles in Corporation headquarters. Nothing yet, but we’ll be getting names and numbers shortly. The Washington Resident knows his job. But while we’re waiting for intelligence, I’m bringing Briscoe down from Atlanta.”

  “Briscoe? Isn’t he the one who terminated the Corporation’s agent in the Miller case?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “I don’t know, Director,” the Chief of Internal Security says. Frowning. “The guy’s supposed to be a hothead. A real pistol.”

  “We may need a pistol before this is over,” the Regional Director says. He shows his tombstone teeth. “When you’re in this business, anything goes.”

  7

  Sunday nights are the worst. When Sylvia was alive, they were the best. Just idling. Soft laughter and light rump slaps. Cold dinner. Shrimp or Florida lobster or crabmeat salad. A bottle of something chilled. Teasing each other. They’d eat on the patio. Sometimes they’d take the remainder of the wine, two plastic cups, and wander down to the beach. Sit on sand still warm from the sun. Watch the moon come up. Listen to susurrus of waves. Smell salt tang. Content.

  Then, later, arms about each other’s waist, back to the house. Slow climb to the bedroom. Slow lovemaking. Everything drowsy and right. Pillow talk. Finally, sweet sleep.

  All gone.

  Harry Dancer tries. On that Sunday night he makes himself a chef’s salad. With slices of garlicky salami. Opens a jug of California chablis. Planning the routine. Then puts the salad in the refrigerator. Trades his wine for a double gin on the rocks. Takes his plastic cup to sit on the beach. Looks up at a cloud-clotted sky. Then hangs his head.

  Thinks of the previous day. Mrs. Evelyn Heimdall. Lovely woman. Perceptive. And so like Sylvia he can’t stop staring. Good tennis player. Great legs. Great body.

  Her husband has died; she has been through it. At dinner they talk about grief and what it does to you.

  “You learn,” she says, “that all the old platitudes are true. ‘Life goes on.’ ‘Time heals all wounds.’ And so forth. But even knowing all that, you’re left with an emptiness. A big void in your life. Not knowing how to fill it. But you try.”

  “What do you do?” he asks. Hopefully.

  “Religion helps. Faith. Are you a religious man?”

  “Not especially.”

  “Well, what works for me may not work for you. But it’s something to think about. If you’re looking for an explanation. Not a reason, but an explanation. Think about it.”

  “I will.”

  “Promise?”

  “Of course. Would you like a brandy?”

  Now, on the dark beach with his iced gin, he tries to think about it. But cannot. He cannot conceive of any explanation or any reason. Only chance. Accident. Senselessness.

  If life is without meaning or purpose…Well then? Well then? Intelligent men gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Is there any other choice?

  Gin finished, he struggles to his feet. Plods back to his empty home. Phone begins to ring the moment he steps inside.

  “Hey there, old buddy,” Jeremy Blaine says. “Blanche is having one of her famous headaches. How about you and me wandering out to the Tipple Inn and inspecting the beavers?”

  “All right,” Harry Dancer says.

  They sit at the same tiny table. Order beers. Dancer looks around at the gyrating girls on the three stages.

  “Looking for someone?” Blaine asks. Grinning.

  “Just checking the action.”

  “Uh-huh. How about that brunette on the right? She’s got a tattoo on her tush. Can you believe Ml”

  Drink bottled beer for almost an hour. Shifts of nude women come and go. Girls, really. All young. Firm-bodied. With bikini tans. Something piquant there, Dancer decides. Light and dark. Like marble cake.

  Finally Sally comes on. Golden girl. No bikini marks. Overall glow. And long wheaten hair that could be a wig but looks natural. Her total shaved nakedness provokes. She has a soft sheen. Frenzied oscillations. But graceful for such a big women. Choreographed.

  “Let’s have her over again,” he says.

  “Sure,” Blaine says, “go ahead. I’ve got to trot out to the trough for a minute.” He leaves.

  Set ends. Dancer stands. Waves. Sally sees him. Smiles. Comes over.

  “Another private performance?” she asks.

  He tucks two twenties into her garter. Helps her up onto the table. Her flesh is whipped cream.

  “Can we meet?” he asks. Suddenly.

  “Sure,” she says. “You got wheels?”

  “Not tonight. We came in my friend’s car.”

  “I don’t do doubles,” she says. “Want me to get another girl for your friend?”

  “No.”

  “Then call tomorrow. Ask for Sol. He’ll give you my number.”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you, Sally.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says. And starts dancing.

  Seated, he looks up at her foreshortened body. Thighs and breasts seem immense. She caresses her belly and buttocks. With secret delight.

  “You like?” she asks.

  “Yes. Very much.”

  He catches the burnt scent again. Exciting.

  “You’ll call?” she says. Staring at him.

  “Oh yes.”

  “I’ll be good for you.”

  He thinks so, too. And wants to tell her. But then Jeremy Blaine comes back to the table. “Hey, hey!” he says.

  8

  Norma Gravesend sends another message to Corporation headquarters via Leonard. The Chief of Operations studies the transcription. Summons Anthony Glitner back to Washington. They talk in a soundproofed room, wired to prevent electronic surveillance.

  “Tony, we’ve got problems,” the Chief says. Slips a Turns into his mouth. “In addition to Sally Abaddon, the field agent, and Shelby Yama, the case officer, the Others are bringing in Briscoe from Atlanta. He’s the man who terminated our agent on the Miller case.”

  “Damn!” Glitner says.

  “Watch your language,” the Chief says. Sharply. “It’s an indication of the importance they attach to this Dancer action. I think we better counter with some muscle of our own.”

  “Chief, we’ve got no one like Briscoe,” the case officer says.

  “I know that. I suggest you hire a local. A mercenary.”

  “You think that’s wise?”

  “I think it’s necessary. He’ll be an Other, of course, but it’ll be divine justice to defeat them with one of their own. Tell the muscle as little as possible about the assignment. Make it sound like a drug deal or a divorce case or something. I’m sure you’ll be able to con him.”

  “HI get on it as soon as I get back.”

  “Good. Now our second problem is this: The Department is aware that we learned of the Dancer thing through a leak in their Regional organization. Our mole there reports they have begun an Internal Security search.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Are you going to pull the mole?”

  “No. She’s too valuable; we need her there. She knew the danger when she turned. But that isn’t what worries me so much as this: If the Department knows of our interest in Dancer, there must be a leak here, in this building. I have alerted Counterintelligence, and they have started an investigation. Tony, be very, very careful. The Others are probably aware by now of your presence, and your team’s, in Fort Lauderdale. They’ll stop at nothing; the Miller case proved that. So watch your back. And warn your people. And keep your communications to a minimum.”

  “I’ll do that, Chief. Now I understand why you feel we should hire a muscle.”

  They sit in silence for a moment. Brooding. The Chief puts a knuckle to his lips to stifle a small belch.

  “Tony, do you think Evelyn Heimdall is going to work out? She seems to be moving slowly.”

  “Following the game plan,” Glitner says. “She’s right on schedule. She’s made contact. Spent a day with Dancer. Started her pitch. Today she’s at his office, going ove
r her investment planning. I expect her to meet him again for lunch or dinner or whatever. Chief, she is a very talented, sincere, and persuasive woman. She believes in what she’s doing. I have faith in her.”

  “I hope you’re right. What kind of a man is this Harry Dancer?”

  “Big. Handsome in a craggy kind of way. Athletic. He’s still shook from his wife’s passing. Hurt. Confused. Uncertain. He’s become moody—which is understandable. He was married for nine years, and now he’s alone. Evelyn is providing sympathy and companionship. She’s a very solid woman, and there’s no doubt he’s attracted to her. He’s drowning, and she’s offering a life preserver. I’m very confident of the outcome.”

  But on the plane back to Fort Lauderdale, Anthony Glitner admits to himself that he isn’t all that certain.

  He is a tall, attenuated man with the big hands of a basketball player. Charmingly ugly. Scimitar of a nose. Wide mouth. Enormous, floppy ears. But it all comes together when he smiles. Joyous smile.

  He knows that people devoured by sorrow sometimes act in eccentric and unpredictable ways. Abruptly change their lifestyle. Discard habits. Take on a new persona. The meek become bullies. Bullies weep. And all seek excess as a blanket on their anguish.

  Glitner fears Dancer may be falling into that trap: forgetfulness through intemperance. If that is happening, the case officer isn’t sure that Heimdall’s life preserver will be grasped—or even welcomed.

  He meets with her in Lauderdale that evening. She reports on her meeting with Harry Dancer.

  Nothing significant. Dancer is cordial, speaks vaguely about another tennis game, another dinner, a possible visit to the track. But makes no commitment.

  Glitner tells Evelyn about the Chief’s warnings. Cautions about her personal safety. Then he tells her of his anxieties concerning Dancer’s emotional stability.

  “He may go off the deep end,” he says. “A common enough reaction to grief. I think you better press a little harder. The Department is fielding a tough, experienced team. We’ve got our work cut out for us. Can you get together with Dancer in, uh, an intimate setting?”