The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  “May I guess your age?”

  “If you like.”

  “Thirty-eight.”

  She smiles. “Close, but no cigar. Thank you for your kindness.”

  “Older?”

  “A bit.”

  “You look marvelous, Mrs. Heimdall.”

  “Can’t we make it Ev and Harry?”

  “Splendid idea. Where did you learn to mix martinis like this?”

  “Not dry enough?”

  “You kidding? Just right. Did you do a lot of entertaining when your husband was…”

  “Quite a bit, yes. I love to cook. How are you getting along with meals since your wife…”

  “I manage. Simple things. Steak and a baked potato. Salad. Stuff like that.”

  “Lonely, Harry?” she asks. Looking at him curiously.

  “Oh yes. You?”

  She nods. “It comes with the territory.”

  “I guess. Planning or hoping to remarry?”

  “Not right away. Not until I get my life together.”

  “You’re joking. Ev, you’re the most together woman I’ve met in a long, long time. May I have another martini?”

  “Of course. Let’s finish the pitcher. Want more ice?”

  “I’ll get it—if I may. Let me wait on you.”

  “A pleasure,” she says.

  He brings the pitcher back from the kitchen. “I lifted the skillet cover and smelled. Dee-licious!”

  “There’s a bottle of chablis in the fridge, and a green salad.”

  “I saw it, and stole a leaf of endive.”

  He swirls the pitcher. Fills her glass. His. They finish the crab claws.

  “Lovely night,” she says. Staring up. “How many stars are there?”

  “Six hundred million, four hundred and thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and fourteen. I counted.”

  “I think it’s eight hundred and fifteen,” she says.

  “Then another one’s been added.”

  “Your wife,” she says.

  He picks up her hand. Kisses the fingertips. “Thank you,” he says. “That was a sweet thing to say.”

  Candlelight dinner. White tapers flickering in hurricane lamps. They sit close. Eating. Talking. Laughing. Easy with each other. Comfortable.

  “Will you marry again?” she asks. “You asked me. Tit for tat.”

  “Watch your language,” he says. “Maybe. Someday. Not for a while.”

  “That’s wise. Don’t rush into anything. While you’re lonely and vulnerable. I mean, don’t try to duplicate what you had. Wait awhile.”

  “Good advice. And good food. I’m making a pig of myself.”

  “Please, let’s finish everything. No dessert, but we can have coffee and your Frangelico on the terrace.”

  “Perfect,” he says. “Perfect evening. And you’re perfect.”

  “No one’s perfect, Harry.”

  “You come as close as anyone I know.”

  Outside, they sit in armchairs of white plastic webbing. Sip their coffee. Hazlenut liqueur.

  “You loved her very much?” she asks.

  “Very. Remember Carole Lombard? A fey spirit. Sylvia was like that. Always up. She was so good for me. I’m inclined to be a grouch. She used to call me ‘Grumps.’ It’s true; I get moody at times. She could always get me out of it. She was the light of my life. Sounds like a pop song, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I never heard her whine or complain. Even when she was dying and knew it. A very courageous woman. I’m not sure I could be that brave. I must be boring you to tears.”

  “Of course you’re not, Harry.”

  “Let’s go to the track,” he says. “How about Saturday? Make a day of it. Dinner in Miami. It won’t be as good as what we just had, but we’ll manage.”

  “I’d love to go. Just tell me the time.”

  “Give you a call.”

  Then they sit in silence. Content. He takes her hand. Holds it. They look at the spangled sky with wonder. Kissing breeze. Perfumed air. Hissing of the sea. Darkness whirls. Drone of airliner, light flashing.

  “Thank you, Ev,” he says.

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  It is time for him to leave. They stand reluctantly. Move slowly through the ghostly apartment to the door. Turn to face. He stares.

  “Am I so like her?” she asks. “You said I was.”

  “Were. I don’t see her in you anymore. I see you.”

  “I like that better.”

  “So do I.”

  He kisses her. Once. On the lips. Warm pressing. Their bodies tight. He touches her cheek.

  “Sweet,” he says. “So sweet.”

  “I’ll see you Saturday?”

  “Of course.”

  “Don’t go away from me, Harry,” she begs. “Don’t drop me.”

  “I won’t,” he vows. “Can’t.”

  She looks into his eyes. “Promise?”

  He raises a palm. “I swear by God Almighty.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” she says.

  11

  He goes home to his empty house. Stares at himself in the foyer mirror. No change. Strange; he had expected to be completely changed. He isn’t, but his skin is sallowish. Tan fading. “Got to get some sun,” he says aloud. That’s another thing: he’s talking to himself. It bothers him; he tries to control it. He could, he supposes, get a dog or a cat for daily companionship. But what if he starts talking to the pet? “Hey, Rover, let’s have hamburger tonight.” “How do you like my new shirt, Tabby?” That’s what happens to lonely people: they start talking to themselves, animals, goldfish, birds, plants. Otherwise the voice gets rusty. And the brain.

  He pours himself a small cognac. Takes it out onto the patio. Lies on an upholstered lounge. Waits for despondency to overwhelm him. But it doesn’t. He is shocked by his contentment. Can’t believe it.

  He reviews the evening. What he said. What Ev said. Wonders if he can go to bed with her. Does he want to? Does she want to? Oddly, it doesn’t seem important. Just being with her is important. Holding hands. Kissing or not kissing. Being with her…

  Because of Sally, he guesses. She can handle all his sexual needs—and more. He gave her a hundred, and she seemed genuinely appreciative. So he is paying for a service—is he not? Except…Except…

  What is it? Her physical beauty, of course. Incredible. Unearthly. And her uninhibited sensuality. A fever in his blood. He did things with her he had never done before. Not even with Sylvia. And Sally has promised more treats. Hinting at arcane tricks that will dissolve him.

  He finds himself preening. Cock of the walk. Two beautiful women. Sultan of an exclusive harem.

  Then he realizes it is more than just fucking. Reality or promise. He has made contact. Two women he can talk to. Laugh with. Tease and be chivied in return. Intimacy. Yes, that’s what it is. What he has missed since Sylvia’s death.

  What would his life be without it? That tension. Push-pull electricity. Conflict that gives savor to living.

  He cannot get it straight. Physical or emotional intimacy? Or both? He cannot define his own needs. Both women seem put-together. Certain and definite. While he churns. Seeking to know himself.

  He groans. Comic despair. Tells himself he has everything. And tells himself he doesn’t know what he wants. Can’t decide. His mind as cluttered as Sally’s motel room. Cuckooland.

  But despite his inchoateness, there is satisfaction. Life is more than T-bills, commodity futures, and project notes. It is an intricate circuit of human relations. And he feels he is plugged in again. For better or for worse.

  12

  A meeting is held in the Regional Director’s conference room. Present are the Director, case officer Shelby Yama, Briscoe, agent Sally Abaddon, Chief of Internal Security Ted Charon. And secretary Norma Gravesend taking shorthand notes of the proceedings.

  “Ted?” the Director asks.

  “Nothing definite yet, sir. We’ve checked all employees of the
Department with knowledge of the Dancer operation. They appear to be clean. We’re digging deeper, of course, but at the moment Jeremy Blaine, the informant, seems to be our best bet. He knows about the action. He knows Sally Abaddon is assigned. And he’s a very unstable character. It’s quite possible he’s been turned. I’d like permission to put a twenty-four-hour tail on him.”

  “Instead of that,” Briscoe says, “why don’t you set a trap and see if he walks into it? Feed him disinformation. If the Corporation reacts, we’ll know Blaine is theirs.”

  “Excellent idea,” the Regional Director says. “But what kind of disinformation? Any suggestions? From anyone?”

  Silence.

  “How about this,” Shelby Yama says. “We tell Blaine that Sally has herpes or AIDS. If he’s a double, he’ll get word to the Corporation, and they’re sure to warn Dancer.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Sally Abaddon says.

  “That’s garbage, Yama,” Briscoe says. Roughly. “Your nonsense may prove Blaine is a double, but it also takes Sally out of the campaign. And that we don’t need.”

  “Oh…yes,” Yama says. Confused. “I didn’t think of that.”

  “How about this,” Ted Charon says. “We know the Corporation is aware of Sally. They know where she’s living. We tell Jeremy Blaine she’s got heavy drugs on the premises. If the cops show up to search, we’ll know Blaine either tipped the cops himself or reported to the Corporation, who informed the cops.”

  “One thing wrong with that,” Sally says. “There are drugs on the premises.”

  “No problem,” Briscoe says. “We’ll take them out before we tell Blaine. I like it. Simple. Neat. If the cops show up, Sally, let them tear the place apart. They won’t find any drugs, but we’ll know Blaine has been turned.”

  “What about those freaky TV cassettes?” Sally asks. “And the other kinky stuff?”

  “We’ll take it all out,” Briscoe says. “Temporarily. If the cops don’t show up, it goes back in. And if they do show up, search, and find nothing, then it goes back in after they leave. We can’t lose.”

  “Fine,” the Director says. “Let’s go ahead with it. Sally, can we have a progress report?”

  “I think Dancer is hooked,” she says. “I’m seeing him tomorrow afternoon. On his lunch hour! I’m beginning to complain to him about working at the Tipple Inn. I want him to come up with the funds. To keep me. I’m moving cautiously; I don’t want to spook him. If he goes for it, and agrees to pay the bills, he’ll want to see me a lot more often—to get his money’s worth. Then I think we’ll reel him in. That’s the scenario.”

  “It’ll work,” Shelby Yama says. “It’s been done before. The Blue Angel. Emil Jannings crowing like a rooster and painting Marlene Dietrich’s toenails.”

  They sit in silence. Awaiting the Director’s reaction. He stares straight ahead. Not seeing them. Snowy hair in artful waves. Black suit with razor creases. Milky eyes revealing nothing.

  “All right,” he says. “Proceed along those lines. But remember, this is not a simpleton we’re dealing with. Dancer is an intelligent, complex man. While his wife was alive, he believed in the verities. Now he feels his life has no foundation; he’s skating on Jello-O. He’s confused, temporarily without faith. We’ve got to give him a faith—or nonfaith. Now I want to tell you what we’re up against. The Corporation has fielded an extremely strong team. Case officer Anthony Glitner, an experienced man. Agent Evelyn Heimdall—very capable. A cut-out and a communications man. And recently Glitner has taken on a hired gun: a private detective named Herman K. Tischman. I don’t like that. I want him turned or eliminated. Briscoe, you should be able to handle it. He’s an ex-cop running a two-bit operation in Pompano.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a serious problem, Director. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Good. Anything else? No? Then let’s get to work. Norma, dear, will you type up a report to be coded and sent to Cleveland? By tonight, if possible. They’re very interested in this action. Briscoe, could you wait a moment, please.”

  Others file out. The Director closes the double doors behind them. Comes back to the long conference table. Takes the chair next to Briscoe. Stares at him.

  “What’s your personal take on Shelby Yama?” he asks.

  “A lightweight,” Briscoe says. “He’s treating this whole thing like a TV sitcom or a paperback novel. He doesn’t realize the importance.”

  “It’s the first big campaign he’s handled.”

  “I think he’s going to blow it.”

  The Regional Director considers that.

  “You might be right,” he says. “I don’t want to lose this one. He’ll remain in nominal command, but I authorize you to overrule him whenever you feel it’s necessary. He’ll retain the title of case officer, but the final responsibility will be yours. If we succeed, you’ll be suitably rewarded. You understand?”

  “Yes, Director. But it may become necessary to, ah, remove Yama. For the good of the Department.”

  The Director nods. “Check with me first,” he says.

  13

  The Chief of Operations in Corporation headquarters in Washington is given wide latitude by his superiors. They are interested only in results. Bottom-line mentalities. They get weekly computer printouts: successes and failures. They are not concerned with methods or excuses. Only numbers.

  So the Chief, on his own, makes life-and-death decisions every day. Swigs Maalox, pops Turns, prays and asks forgiveness for hubris and errors. He is acutely aware of the importance of his duties. Indigestion, he acknowledges, is a small price to pay.

  A case in point is the latest communication from Norma Gravesend. Because of the leak in Corporation headquarters, the Chief has tightened security precautions. Leonard flies up to Washington. Hand-delivers Gravesend’s message to the Chief in clear. Bypassing radio—and the Corporation’s code clerks.

  The Chief reads the report three times. Several disquieting things there. One, that the Department is aware of the personnel of the Corporation’s Dancer team. Two, they have already learned of the hiring of Herman K. Tischman. And are moving to neutralize him.

  But the most urgent intelligence, the Chief feels, is the Department’s search for the leak in their organization. Suspicion has fallen upon Jeremy Blaine, the informant. A trap has been laid. If Blaine comes up clean, the search will continue. In time, Norma Gravesend may be compromised. The Chief cannot let that happen.

  He considers what he must do. Moral judgment. Sacrifice one of theirs to save one of ours. Does he have the right? It is an ethical choice. All his choices are.

  It doesn’t take long to decide. He knows the Corporation cannot abide inaction. Succeed or fail. But do something.

  He sends a coded message to Anthony Glitner: Sally Abaddon has heavy drugs in her residence. Inform local police anonymously.

  14

  Briscoe. No one knows his first name. If he has one. Sullen man. Hunched and brutish. Glowering eyes. Hair trimmed like a Marine recruit. Absolute loyalty to the Department. Loyalty up, and loyalty down. He has never failed. He is compensated. But that is not important. His job is his life.

  He tells Shelby Yama how to handle Jeremy Blaine. Yama has lunch with Blaine. Hands over a small bonus for Blaine’s “remarkable work” in bringing Harry Dancer and Sally Abaddon together. Mentions casually that Sally has plenty of drugs in her motel suite. Hopes to hook Dancer. Jeremy nods brightly.

  Meanwhile, Briscoe cleans all the junk out of Sally’s place. Two days later the cops show up. They’re polite but insistent. No warrant, but Sally lets them in. A half-hour later they’re gone. Apologizing.

  “All right,” Briscoe says. “It’s got to be Blaine. He’s corrupted. You phone him, Yama, and tell him to expect a call from me. A new assignment.

  More money. I’ll take it from there.”

  Jeremy Blaine is eager. A new assignment? More money? Sounds good. Briscoe calls, then picks him up at his home. At midnight. Heads north o
n I-95. Driving a three-year-old Honda.

  “Best place to talk,” Briscoe says. “In a car. No chance of a tap if the car’s been swept.”

  “Yama said something about a new assignment.”

  “That’s right. A big job. We think you can handle it.”

  “Hey,” Blaine says, “you better believe it. I delivered Harry Dancer, didn’t I? The whole thing was my idea.”

  “That’s right,” Briscoe says. “The Department values your work highly.”

  He gets the Honda up to seventy. Watching for his chance. He sees it coming. A big tractor-trailer heading south, in the left-hand lane, making speed. Briscoe wrenches the wheel. Plunges across the medium. Jeremy Blaine has time to shout, “Hey!”

  Briscoe crashes the truck head-on. The Honda is crumpled. Then bursts into flame. Blaine is killed instantly. In the confusion, Briscoe walks away into the darkness. Unhurt.

  The Department takes care of its own.

  15

  “You remember him,” Harry Dancer says to Sally Abaddon. “The guy I was with when I met you at the Tipple Inn.”

  “Vaguely. Paunchy? With a wild tie?”

  “That’s the man. Well, no one can figure what he was doing driving north on I-95 after midnight. In a Honda. It wasn’t his car. He drove a Caddy.”

  “Maybe he was drunk.”

  “Maybe. But what was he doing there? In a Honda? The funeral was this morning. What a way to start the day.”

  “You better have a belt.”

  “Thank you,” he says. Gratefully. “Double gin on the rocks, please. How are you?”

  She doesn’t answer until she brings him the gin. They’re in her motel. Two o’clock in the afternoon. She’s just in from the pool. Glistening with oil. Wearing a crocheted bikini. Hot pink.

  “I’m okay,” she says. “I guess.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “That place I work. It’s a drag. The money is good, but I can’t stand the slobs. Maybe I should move on. Try another city.”

  “No,” he says. “Don’t do that.”