The Loves of Harry Dancer
Page 6
18
In Cleveland, the Department’s comptroller, a viperish man, is examining regional vouchers. Sees immediately that the Southeast Region is over budget. Reviews their expenditures. Finds that the Harry Dancer operation accounts for most of the overrun.
He finally locates the Chairman in the War Room. Planted before a national map on a Plexiglass wall. Lights indicate ongoing actions. Operators sit at a battery of consoles, updating intelligence. An oversized digital counter shows number of current campaigns, and daily, weekly, monthly, annual failures and successes.
“A moment of your time, sir,” the comptroller says. Bending to whisper.
“What?” the Chairman says. Jerking his leonine head around. “Oh, very well. What is it, Acheron?”
“The Southeast Region is dreadfully over budget, sir. Mostly due to a single campaign. Harry Dancer.”
The Chairman snaps his fingers at the floor supervisor.
“Nick,” he calls, “bring me an update on Harry Dancer. Southeast Region.”
In a moment the supervisor comes running. Trailing a long computer printout. The Chairman scans it swiftly.
“Progressing well,” he says. “Let it run.”
“You approve the expenditures, sir?” the comptroller says. Nervously.
The Chairman looks at him. “I approve. Do you wish a written and signed authorization?”
“Oh no, sir, that won’t be necessary. I would just like to call the Chairman’s attention to our current cash-flow problem.”
“Don’t tell me we’re going broke?”
“Ha-ha,” the comptroller tries to laugh. Cracking his face in a bleak smile. “Nothing like that. Our endowment is more than adequate. And current contributions are on target. It’s just that we’re a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”
“That’s your problem, isn’t it, Acheron?” the Chairman says. “I know I can depend upon you to solve it in your usual efficient manner. I can depend on you, can’t I?”
“Oh yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Get on it right away.”
The comptroller scuttles off. The Chairman rereads the printout on Harry Dancer. Interesting case. Makes him recall his career as field agent, case officer, and the Department’s chief executive officer. Before he rose to his present preeminent position.
There are a few things he might do differently. But generally, he feels, the Regional Director is running a good chase. Eliminating Jeremy Blaine apparently closed the leak. Turning Herman K. Tischman was a real coup. And Sally Abaddon has never failed. Plus Briscoe.
Still, the Chairman is troubled. Something is not quite kosher. He knows that fussy little Chief of Operations in Corporation headquarters. He has fought him before. Knows how dangerous it would be to underestimate him.
He goes back to the printout again. Studies the moves. Countermoves.
The Chairman is a grossly obese man. Sitting in a thronelike chair reinforced with steel braces. He moves as little as possible. He requires assistance to stand up. But no fat around his brain. That is lean, hard, precise.
He beckons the floor supervisor again.
“Nick,” he says, “I want to speak to the Director of the Southeast Region. Set it up.”
Five minutes later the phone is brought to him.
“The Regional Director is on the line, sir,” Nick says.
“Scrambled?”
“Of course, sir.”
The Chairman waits until Nick is out of earshot. He trusts no one.
“Director?” he says.
“Here, sir,” a tinny voice, scrambled and unscrambled, comes back.
“What did we eat the last time we met?”
“Broiled quail, sir.”
“Good,” the Chairman says. Fat face creasing with pleasure. “I just wanted to be certain I am not talking to an imposter.”
“Very wise, sir.”
“Director, you are over budget.”
“I am aware of that, sir. I believe the importance of the Dancer operation justifies it.”
“I agree. But try to keep your expenditures as modest as possible. You’re convinced that the elimination of Jeremy Blaine plugged your leak?”
“I am, Chairman.”
“I am not. Humor an old man, Director, but I’ve been around a long time. I have a feeling we’ve been blindsided. I want you to try another ploy. Who knows that the Corporation’s private detective has been turned?”
“Tischman? Only Briscoe and I know about that, sir.”
“Good. I want you to inform all personnel with knowledge of the Dancer operation that Tischman has been turned. Let’s see what happens.”
Silence.
“Director? Are you still there?”
“I’m here, sir. You feel we may still have a leak?”
“I believe it’s possible.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll do as you suggest.”
“Not suggest, Director. Order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And watch those expenses,” the Chairman says. “Your only justification will be success.”
The Regional Director knows a threat when he hears one.
“I understand, sir,” he says.
19
“I don’t like that Briscoe,” Sally Abaddon says. “He’s a sod.”
“Well…yeah,” Shelby Yama says. “He’s a heavy. But that’s his job. And he’s good at it.”
“I don’t like the way he looks at me. Keep him away from me, Shel.”
“I’ll try, baby. But the guy swings a lot of weight. He and the Director are buddy-buddy. To tell you the truth, I don’t like the way he looks at me. I guess it’s just his style; he’s suspicious of everyone.”
“You think he’s working for Internal Security?”
“Could be. But we’ve got nothing to worry about, have we?”
Sally Abaddon has something to worry about. But unless Briscoe is a mind reader, he’s never going to find out.
They’re in Sally’s motel room. Yama is helping her dress for an evening with Harry Dancer.
Her first date with him had been a disaster. She had worn a short, slinky shift of blue-green sequins. Cut low. Pumps with hooker heels. Long blond hair tousled about her shoulders. Thick makeup. She had seen in his eyes that it was all a mistake. After dinner, he drove her home and dropped her. Pleading an early morning business meeting.
“You came on too strong,” Yama tells her at the debriefing. “He thinks of you as the nude dancer from the Tipple Inn. A whore. That’s okay, he’ll go along with that—in private. But in public, he wants a lady. The guy’s known around here; he’s got a reputation to uphold. What if he meets some of his blue-nosed clients while he’s having dinner with an obvious bimbo two months after his wife died? They’d have pulled their accounts the next morning. We’ve got to dress you like a goody-goody. First, he won’t worry about being embarrassed if he’s seen with you. Second, he’ll remember what’s under the Miss Prim costume, and he’ll get more excited.”
“You know, Shel,” she says, “you’re not bad.”
They spend two hours preparing her. Long hair up in braids. Minimal makeup. Billowy gown of printed chiffon. High at the neck. Loose, flowing skirt. White pantyhose. Demure shoes with low heels.
Yama inspects her.
“Fantastic,” he says. “You look like you’re going to a prom. All you need is a wrist corsage. Baby, you’re just right. You’ll knock him dead.”
“I’ll try to bring him back here,” she says. Then, casually, “You’re going to record tonight?”
“I don’t see any point in it,” Yama says. “But Briscoe insists on it. We’ll be waiting in the parking lot.”
“Have fun,” she says.
When Dancer shows up in his silver BMW, she looks for his reaction. Sees that Yama is right on target.
“You’re beautiful!” Dancer bursts out. “I was going to suggest a rib joint. But not with you dressed like that. Let’s go to the club; I want to show you off.”
“They’ll think I’m robbing the cradle,” he says. Laughing.
She smiles. Puts a hand on his knee.
The club’s dining room is all shadows. Dark wainscoting and red velvet. Lighted candles, fresh flowers on the tables. Hushed chamber with tiptoeing waiters, quiet whisper of voices. “Good evening, Mr. Dancer. Nice to see you again, sir. Yes, Mr. Dancer. Of course, sir. Right this way, please. Is this table satisfactory, Mr. Dancer?”
He waves to several acquaintances. Sally is conscious of the stir she is causing. People turn to stare. Women put on glasses to get a better look.
“We’re giving them something to talk about,” Dancer says.
“So I notice. Does it bother you, Harry?”
“Bother me? You kidding? I’m proud of you.”
They order Beefeater martinis, up. Touch rims.
“Here’s to—what?” he asks.
“Us,” she says.
“I’ll drink to that.”
They study the menus. Bound in plush with golden cords.
“They have Maine lobster,” Dancer says. “Broiled, if you like. Interested?”
“Why don’t you order for us, Harry? I like everything.”
“What would you say to a steak salad? It’s cold, charcoal-grilled sirloin cut into thin slices. With hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, cukes, radishes, mushrooms, capers, croutons, and a lot of other swell stuff. Bibb lettuce. Want to try it?”
“Sounds devilishly good,” she drawls. Imitation of English accent.
He laughs. “Then that’s what we’ll have. With a bottle of new Beaujolais.”
They order. And have another martini. A friend drops by. Dancer introduces Sally Abaddon. Then two men. A couple. Two women. They are all introduced. Chat a moment. Sally is treated cordially.
“You’re lovely, child,” an elderly lady says.
“Thank you,” Sally says. Casting her eyes downward.
“You’re a success,” Dancer tells her.
“Shall I take off all my clothes and dance naked on our table?”
He rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be wicked? What a scene that would be! Want to do it?”
“Later,” she says. Groping him under the table. “A private performance only for you.”
They stay at the table for almost two hours. Have coffee. Then move to the oak bar. Dancer orders green Chartreuse.
“Try it,” he urges.
She sips. “What is it?”
“Good for what ails you. It’s made by monks.”
“Monks? I think I’ll skip. Will you finish mine?”
“Sure. What would you like instead?”
“I’d like a Devil’s Tail. If the bartender doesn’t know how. I’ll tell him how to mix it.”
She does. Rum, vodka, lime juice, grenadine, and apricot brandy. Blended with crushed ice. Served in a champagne glass with a lime wedge.
“That I’ve got to taste,” Dancer says. Then: “Wow! If I had two of those you’d have to call the paramedics. Where did you hear about it?”
“Oh…” she says. “I forget who told me.”
They wander out. Holding hands. Valet brings the BMW around. Overcast night. Rumble of thunder to the south. Daggers of lightning.
“I think we’re in for it,” Harry says. “But it probably won’t last long. Just a squall.”
“I love storms,” Sally says. “Don’t you? All that crashing. The world cracking apart.”
“You’re a strange one. I thought you like hot sun and white beaches.”
“I do. But storms are nice, too. I dream of wandering out in a storm naked. Wind against my skin. Getting drenched.”
“And getting zapped by a bolt of lightning.”
“Not me,” she says. “I’m indestructible.”
They drive in silence. Rain begins spattering.
“Where to?” he asks.
She considers a moment. Thinking of Yama and Briscoe in the parking lot.
“Not my place,” she says. “How about yours? I’ve never seen it. Okay?”
“Sure,” he says. But he isn’t sure. In his bed? Sylvia’s bed? “Let’s go,” he says.
By the time they get to his beachfront home the streets are flooded. Lightning is crackling overhead. Thunder snaps a whip all around them. He drives into the carport.
Across A1A, Herman K. Tischman pulls his ratty car onto the spongy verge. Cuts lights and engine. Opens the window a crack. Strips the wrapper from a cheap cigar. Begins to chew. Watching the house.
“Made it,” Harry Dancer says. “Just. Another five minutes and we’d have been bogged down. I hope the power isn’t out.”
“It isn’t,” she says.
It isn’t. He switches on a lamp in the living room. She looks around.
“Beautiful,” she says. “I may move in.”
“Please do,” he says. As lightly as he can. “My wife decorated it. She had good taste.”
“She surely did. Where do those glass doors lead to? A swimming pool?”
“No, I don’t have a pool. It seems silly when you’re a hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean. That’s the patio out there. And the garden.”
She presses her nose against the glass. Stares into windswept darkness. Rain rattles against doors.
“Close neighbors?” she asks.
“Not too close. Plenty of privacy. Bushes and dwarf palms on both sides.”
“They won’t see me then.”
“See you what?”
“Prance naked in your garden.”
“Oh my God,” he says, “you were serious.”
“I want to, Harry. Please let me.”
“Sure,” he says. Not happy about it. “Go ahead. But don’t expect me to join you.”
“I’ve got to get out of these clothes. I’m wearing a girdle. Can you believe it? And it’s killing me.”
She begins taking down her hair. He goes into the kitchen. Takes the Tanqueray bottle from the freezer. Pours himself a stiff jolt. Sips it standing at the sink. Wondering what is happening to him. Doubting what he is doing.
Brings the remainder of his drink back to the living room. She is at the glass doors, fumbling with the lock. Blond hair cascading down her muscled back. Naked, she looks twice as large. Everything about her vital and bursting.
He works the lock for her. Slides back the door. She darts into the storm. Yelping. He closes the door. Stares out. All he can see is a cavorting wraith. Hair streaming in the wind. Pale specter in the black. She is here, there, everywhere. Then gone.
A crack of thunder makes him start. Howitzer shot right over his home. His garden. In the following stab of lightning he sees her planted. Arms outstretched. Face raised to the downpour.
“Nut,” he says. Aloud.
Goes into the downstairs bathroom. Gets towels and Sylvia’s heavy terry robe. Monogram SD on the pocket. He comes back to the glass doors and waits.
She finally dashes across the patio. He slides the door open for her. She comes in. Squealing with delight. Hair sodden. Body dripping. He wraps towels about her. Begins to rub her dry. Then gets her into the robe. She uses a towel on her hair.
“Cold?” he asks her.
“It was super,” she says. Still bubbling. “Just super. The rain felt like pins and needles.”
“You better have a drink,” he says. “Brandy?”
“Whatever.”
He pours her a small Courvoisier. And another gin for himself. When he brings the drinks back to the living room, she is seated on the floor. Bare legs spread. Still tousling her hair. He sits on the couch near her. Holding their drinks.
“You’re a wild one,” he says.
“An hour ago you called me a strange one.”
“So you are. Strange and wild.”
“I guess I was,” she says. Grinning up at him. “When I was young.”
> “When you were young? Ho-ho. And what are you now—ancient?”
“You’d be surprised,” she says.
She rises. Tosses the towel aside. Curls up on the couch close to him. Takes her drink. The robe falls open. He looks down.
“Nice?” she asks.
“Very nice,” he says. Sliding an arm about her shoulders.
“Harry, have you been thinking about it?”
“About what?” he says. Knowing.
“Taking me out of the Tipple Inn.”
“I can’t go for a thousand a week, Sally.”
“I didn’t expect you to. Five hundred?”
Looking down at her…
“All right,” he says, “let’s try it. Either of us can cancel at any time without giving any reason. Okay?”
“Sure,” she says, “I’ll go along with that. You want me to move in here?”
“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t look right. Stay where you are.”
“But I can stop over here, can’t I? Occasionally.”
“Of course.”
“Like tonight?”
Her ashy scent is stronger. Sweet char.
“Yes,” he says. “Like tonight.”
“Good brandy,” she says. Sipping. “Want a taste?”
She dips a forefinger into her glass. Smears her nipples. Pulls his head down.
“Taste,” she commands.
He obeys.
“What’s upstairs?” she asks.
“Bedrooms.”
“Well?”
They go up the stairs slowly. Hand in hand. He pulls blanket and sheet down on his bed. Sylvia’s bed. Then closes the blinds.
“Leave the light on,” she says. “I like to watch.” Then: “Let me do the work tonight. All right?”
“No, I want to do the work.”
“We’ll both do the work.”
“Me first,” he says. Laughing.
“No, me first,” she says.
She crouches over him. Drifts her damp hair back and forth over his body. Feathering him. Watching his reaction. He reaches up for her. Pulls her down atop him. Unexpectedly she kisses him on the lips. Soft. Tender. Then moves away.
“Harry,” she says, “I think I’ve got a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“I love you.”
20
The Corporation’s Chief of Operations has a private chamber adjoining his office. Not much larger than a walk-in closet. Austere. Furnished only with an antique prie-dieu. It is rumored he naps in there.