The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  He is aware of a curious phenomenon. When he is with her—only with her—his body chemistry seems to change. His body odor is altered. He feels sweat trickling down his ribs, and the scent is foreign to him. Pheromones? Is he reacting to her bold sexuality?

  “How much do you make at the Tipple?”

  “On a good week I can clear a thousand.”

  He is silent.

  “I can live on a lot less than that,” she offers. “It would be worth it if I didn’t have to deal with those slobs.”

  “Let me think about it,” he says. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “It would be wonderful. We could spend more time together.”

  “And I’d end up in Intensive Care.”

  “No,” she says. Laughing. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Only as much as you can take. And then just a little bit more. Would you like a matinee? Right now?”

  “Thank you, Sally, but I don’t think so. I’m still shook from that funeral. God, his wife—his widow couldn’t stop crying. And I really should get to the office for a while.”

  “You’ve got a few more minutes, haven’t you? Come in and talk to me while I shower.”

  He sits on the closed toilet seat. He watches her naked body behind frosted glass. Water streams. Flesh sparkles. He sees her bend, arch. Golden. It is a fogged dream.

  “I’m off tomorrow night,” she calls. “Can we do something?”

  “Sure. There’s a new Italian restaurant on Federal. Supposed to be good. Want to try it?”

  “Of course. Whatever you want. It’ll give me a chance to dress. You’ve never seen me all dolled up. You won’t be disappointed.”

  She turns off the water. Slides the door back. Steps out on to the chenille mat. Dripping. Hands him a towel.

  “Dry me,” she says. “Please.”

  It’s like polishing a statue. He is slow, tender. When he bends to wipe her legs, she puts her hands on his shoulders.

  “Everywhere,” she says.

  He is close to her. So close. Feels her sun warmth. Her palms cradle his face.

  “Harry,” she says, “I…”

  “What?” “Nothing.”

  “I could call the office,” he says. “Tell them I’m not coming in.” “You do that,” she says.

  16

  Herman K. Tischman is sitting out in the parking lot. In his battered, six-year-old Plymouth. Windows down. But he’s sweating. Figures Dancer is good for another hour. At least. What a morning. First the funeral, now this.

  A guy comes up on the passenger side. Chunky. Hair cut in a Florida flattop. He’s holding an unlighted cigarette.

  “Got a match, buddy?” he asks. Gravelly voice.

  Tischman digs into his jacket pocket. While he’s doing that, the stranger opens the passenger door. Slides in beside him.

  “Hi, there,” he says.

  The investigator bites down on his cold cigar.

  “What the hell is this?” he demands. “Get the—”

  “You’re Herman K. Tischman,” the guy says. “Tailing Harry Dancer. Who right now is inside banging a ripe piece named Sally Abaddon.”

  Tischman takes the cigar out of his face. “Tell me more. Tell me who the hell you are.”

  “The name is Briscoe.”

  “Yeah? Were you in a black Mercedes the other night?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You a PI?”

  “Sort of.”

  “You working this Dancer thing, too?”

  “Sure. I think we can do business together.”

  Tischman is crowded into his corner of the front seat. This hard guy is pressing him. The ex-cop thinks he can take him. But he isn’t certain.

  “I’m listening,” he says.

  “You’re working for a guy named Glitner,” Briscoe says. “I figure you’re clipping him for a bill a day. Maybe two. Whatever. No skin off my nose. You keep on working for Glitner just the way you have been. But I’ll slip you a hundred a day extra if you report to me first.”

  “That’s unethical,” Tischman says.

  Briscoe laughs. Not a pleasant sound. “Yeah, isn’t it. Also, when you report to me first, there may be some things I won’t want you to tell Glitner.”

  “That’s worth more than a hundred.”

  “Sure it is. But a hundred is all you’re getting.”

  “No deal,” Tischman says.

  “That’s a cute kid you’ve got,” Briscoe says. “What’s her name—Mary Jane? Blond curls. Waits on your corner for the school bus every morning. Pretty. And healthy.”

  “You prick,” Tischman says. Fear bubbling.

  “Is it a deal?”

  The detective doesn’t hesitate. “How do I contact you?”

  “I’ll be in touch,” Briscoe says. Climbs out of the car. “Ta-ta.”

  Briscoe finds a phone booth. Calls the office. Gives his ID number and the day’s code word. He finally gets through to the Regional Director.

  “I’ve got Tischman, sir,” he reports. “He’s ours.”

  “Good work,” the Director says. “And I like the way you handled the Blaine problem. Where is Dancer now?”

  “In Sally’s motel.”

  “Then everything’s going according to plan.”

  “So far,” Briscoe says.

  “You sound a little unsure. Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing definite, Director. Just a vague feeling I have about Sally Abaddon. I think she may be weakening.”

  “Oh? That would be a sad development. I’d hate to lose her after all these years.”

  “Just the way I feel, sir.”

  “Well, keep an eye on her, and keep me informed.”

  “Will do.”

  The Regional Director hangs up. Turns slowly in his swivel chair. Stares through the darkly tinted picture window at the towers and beacons of Fort Lauderdale. Murky world. Even the sun is muted.

  He stands. Paces up and down in his chairman-of-the-board suit. Below him, he knows, computers are humming. Teletypers chattering. Monitors glowing. Machinery of an efficient organization. Information, communications, intelligence, projections, estimates—everything his for the asking.

  But all that is nothing. The Department depends for its success on people with the passion and will to carry out its policies and philosophy. And people are not machines. They are frail, imperfect, irrational. They remain loyal only as long as it is in their self-interest.

  Take Sally Abaddon, for instance. Faithful. Experienced. Capable. But subject to all the vagaries of humankind. She might desert at any moment. Turn. Put her skills to work for the Corporation. It is possible.

  It is even possible, the Director muses, that he himself might defect. He cannot imagine under what circumstances that could conceivably happen. But he is certain his superiors in Cleveland acknowledge the possibility and have devised a contingency plan.

  Meanwhile, the Regional Director is running about twenty cases with at least a hundred of the Department’s most skilled operatives involved. All those ambitions. Needs. Wants. Greeds. Desires. Vices. And he must be aware of them all. Rewarding the strong. Punishing the weak. Alert always to the potential for betrayal. Even amongst the strongest.

  He tugs down his waistcoat. Smooths his jacket. Straightens his rowel-woven tie. He hunches over his desk. Snaps on the intercom.

  “Norma,” he says, “could you come in for a moment, please.”

  His secretary enters, pad in hand.

  “Close the door,” he tells her.

  She looks at him. Sees. “Shall I lock it, Director?” she asks.

  “Yes,” he says. “Lock it.”

  17

  Anthony Glitner knows that in his business, zeal is never enough. After many years as a field agent, and a decade as a case officer, his fervor has been tempered by recognition of the stubborn recalcitrance of most subjects. Enthusiasm for the Corporation’s cause is essential, but rarely sufficient to get the job done.

  It is a ta
sk calling for patience, subtlety, sympathy for the subject’s plight. It sometimes also requires Machiavellian tactics. Many hours of the Corporation’s training course are devoted to whether or not, and under what conditions, the end justifies the means.

  Glitner’s attitude toward that problem is almost wholly pragmatic. Although he would never adopt the methods of the Others—pandering to the subject’s coarser instincts—he is willing to take advantage of the subject’s weaknesses, faults, and defects to achieve the end that completely justifies all means.

  He is aware of Harry Dancer’s loneliness. Periods of anomie and despair. Glitner believes Evelyn Heimdall will provide a palliative for those painful anxieties. At the same time, the case officer knows the Department is hard at work. Not to provide its own palliative, but to overwhelm Dancer’s miseries by senseless profligacy—in the person of Sally Abaddon.

  It is not only a clash of passions and faiths; that exists in all the struggles between Corporation and Department. But in Dancer’s case, there is also a battle of techniques: whether appealing to a subject’s best or worst impulses is the most effective way of winning.

  What the Dancer action comes down to, Anthony Glitner reflects, is a test of the ancient question: Does a human being respond more readily to fear of punishment or promise of reward?

  While the case officer is pondering the philosophical implications of his current operation, the subject is suffering a special kind of anguish.

  It is true that his grief has frayed around the edges. It is no longer a constant pain that haunts all his hours. Awake or asleep. But his brief bouts of happiness with Evelyn Heimdall and Sally Abaddon have resulted in a fresh affliction. Guilt.

  Regret and remorse walk hand in hand. Had he said “I love you” enough times? Had he touched Sylvia enough? Kissed her enough? Done anything enough?

  He had not.

  But now, scarcely two months after her death, he is holding the hands of two strange women. Kissing. Rolling about lubriciously on sweated sheets. He has not yet said, “I love you.” But he is thinking it.

  “What kind of a man are you?” he says aloud. Angrily.

  A stiff gin-and-tonic helps. Plasma. Then he prepares for his date with Evelyn Heimdall. Taking as much care as a houri. Bathing, shaving, scenting, dressing. Another gin. Straight this time. And he sallies forth. Humming a merry tune.

  She is waiting for him. A knockout! All in white linen. Long skirt sashed in blue. Big picture hat. No makeup, but a glow to her. She looks happy.

  “Smashing!” he says. Kisses her cheek.

  “Off to the races!” she says. “How handsome you look.”

  On the drive south, on I-95, he tells her about Jeremy Blaine.

  “Oh, Harry,” she says. “How awful. Was he a good friend?”

  “No. I’m being honest; he wasn’t a good friend. But he was my closest neighbor, and you try to get along with your neighbors. I’m not even sure I liked him, but I endured him. He could be coarse at times. And was always calling me ‘old buddy.’ But I must admit he was very sympathetic and attentive after Sylvia died. Well…let’s talk about something cheerful. What have you been doing with yourself?”

  Chatting easily. Laughing frequently. Listening to music from his tape deck. Recalling lyrics from old songs. She knows all the words to “With a Song in My Heart.” Sings them in a pleasing but not strong soprano. They try a duet on “Nice Work If You Can Get It,” and give up. Giggling.

  Souffle of a day. Soft and creamy. Pearlescent sky. They drive with the windows down. Smell sweet growing things. Traffic is unexpectedly light. They are at the track before the first race.

  “There’s a colt in the fourth named Harry’s Chance,” she says. “I usually don’t bet more than two dollars, but I’m going to plunge on Harry’s Chance. Ten dollars.”

  “You’ll lose,” he tells her.

  “I don’t think so,” she says. Smiling.

  She doesn’t lose. The horse pays a little more than a hundred.

  “I buy dinner,” she says.

  “No, you don’t,” he says. “Who do you like in the sixth? Sally’s Folly?”

  “Oh no. Came up lame last time out.”

  “I’m going to try five dollars.”

  “You’ll be sorry,” Evelyn says.

  He is.

  They have luncheon in the clubhouse. Caesar salad for both. Bottle of chablis. They don’t bet on the last three races. Just sit there. Looking about. Enjoying the scene.

  “You’re the most beautiful woman here,” he says. “Every man who looks at us is envious of me.

  She puts a hand on his. “Tell me more,” she says. Laughing. “Don’t stop now.”

  They rise after the last race.

  “I’m not hungry yet,” he says. “Are you?”

  “After that lunch? I should say not.”

  “What say we drive back to Boca and have dinner up there? I know a place with great steaks and a big salad bar.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  Which is, he recalls, exactly what Sally Abaddon said to him the last time they were together.

  The Kansas City Steak House is on Al A. North of Lighthouse Point. Harry slips Sol, the head-waiter, a pound. They get a corner table. Dim. Secluded.

  “Very nice,” Evelyn says. Looking around. “Not too bright. Not too noisy. Is that garlic I smell?”

  “I hope it isn’t the busboy. Do you like daiquiris?”

  “Love them.”

  “They make a marvelous frozen strawberry daiquiri. In a glass as big as a fishbowl. You game?”

  “For anything,” she says. Looking at him.

  Leisurely dinner. Crabmeat cocktail. Rare mignons. Baked potato skins with sour cream and chives. Fresh spinach with crumbled bacon from the salad bar. Bottle of St.-Emilion. And with the filets, in the Florida style, a thin slice of cold watermelon.

  Harry Dancer finds himself relating the story of his life. Indiana farm boy. Purdue. Harvard for an MBA. On to Merrill Lynch in New York. Then to Chemical Bank. Transferred to the trust department in Florida. Decision to strike out on his own. Dancer Investment Management, Inc. A success.

  “I met Sylvia at the tennis club in Boca,” he says. Finishing. Dabbing lips. Sitting back. “Where you and I played. We were married—what was it—about six months later. Oh God, I must be boring you out of your skull. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she says. Not telling him that she already knows all that. And more. “I like to hear people’s histories. Every one of them different.”

  “What about yours?”

  “Oh, no you don’t,” she says. Laughing. “I’m not ready to confess. Not yet. Besides, it’s dull, dull, dull. You know what I’d like to do?”

  “What?”

  “Have coffee, and then go to the bar. I want to buy you a brandy. After all, I did win on Harry’s Chance.”

  “I accept,” he says.

  The bartender, Cuban, is solicitous. Ice water on the side. Clean ashtray. Little mats for their brandy snifters. He pours Remy Martin with a flourish. Waits.

  “Hokay?” he says.

  “Divine,” Evelyn Heimdall says.

  They sit close together on high stools. Knees touching. Looking into each other’s eyes in the silvered mirror behind the bar.

  “Want to go on?” Dancer asks. “Music? Dancing?”

  “No. Let’s go back to my place. Take off our shoes and relax. Have another brandy on the balcony. Listen to what the wild waves are saying.”

  “Sounds good to me,” he says.

  In her apartment, she brings small glasses of cognac out to the terrace. Excuses herself.

  “I really am going to kick off my shoes,” she says.

  While she’s gone, he takes off his jacket. Tie. Lies contentedly on a lounge. Drink held on his chest. Stares up at the tilting sky. Stars in their dance. He tells himself he is feeling no pain. No pain. Wonderful!

  She comes back in a loose white terry robe. Buttoned
down the front. She is barefoot. Nudges him with a knee.

  “Skooch over,” she says.

  He moves to one side. She lies down on his lounge. Close to him.

  “We’ll fall off,” he warns.

  “So?” she says. “Who cares?”

  He laughs. Puts his drink down on the tiles. Pulls her closer to him.

  “Not if we cuddle,” he says. “Do you like to cuddle?”

  “I love to cuddle. My favorite sport.”

  “After tennis?”

  “Before tennis.”

  He kisses the tip of her nose. Thinking that sometimes it’s grand to be foolish.

  “Full moon,” he says. “Almost.”

  “Do you sprout fangs? Thick hair on the backs of your hands? Howl?”

  “How did you know?”

  She presses closer. They are on their sides. Entwined. Stares locked. Enraptured. Suddenly, without warning, he begins to weep. Silently. Tears plop from his eyes. He tries to pull away. She will not release him.

  “Sorry,” he says. Voice choked.

  “It’s all right, Harry,” she soothes.

  He reaches down for his brandy. Takes a deep belt. Inhales.

  “What brought that on?” he asks. “I don’t know.”

  She strokes his face. Wipes away tears with a knuckle.

  “I did it all the time,” she says. “At first. After a while it stops.”

  “I feel like an idiot.”

  “No. Just human. You’re not a werewolf after all.”

  He smiles. Holds her face. Kisses her forehead. Cheeks. Nose. Closed eyes. Her lips.

  “Oh…” he breathes, “you’re so good for me, Ev.”

  “Yes,” she says. “And you for me.”

  “Partners in sorrow.”

  “Partners in hope.”

  He unbuttons the top of her robe. Her breasts are full. Tanned. Pinkish nipples. He bends his head. Tongue busy.

  “You don’t like the other one?” she asks.

  He laughs. “You’re too much. I love the other one.”

  Proves it.

  “Harry,” she says, “what are you doing with all your clothes on?”

  “Out here?” he asks.

  “Why not? No one can see.”

  “Except God,” he says. Undressing.

  “He’ll approve,” she says.