The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  But then fear arises. If she tempers her passion, can she hold him? Keep him? Not for the Department, but for herself. For the first time in her long life she is unsure. Riven. Sex has always been her weapon. Now it becomes a snare.

  “I love you,” she whispers. Running a palm over his naked body. Feeling pound of heart. Surge of blood. Touching muscle. Probing secret, shadowed corners. She would like to be in him. Completely. Enveloped and gone. Disappeared in his tissue. A part of him.

  She sits astride. Bends to stare into his eyes. Her hair falls around. A tent. She holds his face within her hands.

  “Darling,” she whispers. “Sweetheart. I love you.”

  Treachery. She knows it.

  25

  The Fatal Illness ploy is a complete success. Herman K. Tischman is tripled. Anthony Glitner reports that the PI, in gratitude for the life of his daughter, agrees to inform the Corporation of Harry Dancer’s activities before telling Briscoe. And will censor the intelligence passed to the Department as Glitner dictates.

  Tischman’s first revelation is that Dancer is now keeping Sally Abaddon. Seeing her two or three times a week. And the Department has wired Dancer’s home. With the capability of overhearing and recording telephone calls and interior conversations.

  The Chief of Operations is pleased with the turning of Tischman. He is not so pleased to learn of Dancer’s closer relationship with Sally Abaddon. And he is puzzled by the bugging of the subject’s home. With the Department apparently succeeding in the debauching of Harry Dancer, what is the need? The Chief doesn’t know.

  He makes certain case officer Glitner informs his agent of this new development. That whatever she says, and does, in Dancer’s house will be shared by the Department. Then the Chief retires to his hideaway. Kneels at his antique prie-dieu. Prays for enlightenment.

  Evelyn Heimdall, being informed, cajoles Harry Dancer into coming back to her apartment after a sinfully fattening dinner of grilled sweetbreads and bratwurst with bacon.

  “We could go to my place,” he offers.

  “Not after that dinner,” she says. “I must have gained five pounds. I want to get into something loose and flowing before I start popping buttons.”

  “It was good, wasn’t it? We should have skipped the Key lime pie, but I couldn’t resist it.”

  They sit on the balcony. Groaning with content. Watch a shimmering moon track. And far out, bobbing lights of fishing boats.

  “This place is like a travel poster,” she says. “And I’m right in the middle of it.”

  “Glad you came here, Ev?”

  “I never want to live anywhere else.”

  “I’m happy to hear that. Some people can’t adjust. The tropical heat. The indolence. The manana philosophy. They think it’s corrupting.”

  “Do you think it is?”

  “Lord, no! I work as hard down here as I did in Manhattan. But I relax more—when I get the chance.”

  They lie on adjoining couches. She reaches for his hand.

  “Maybe I feel a teensy-weensy bit of corruption,” she says. “But I prefer to think of it as thawing. It’s as if I’m learning what pleasure and joy are like—after all these years.”

  “You never felt pleasure or joy before?”

  “Of course I did. But it was planned. Structured. We’ll go to a Broadway play on Thursday night. We’ll have a picnic on Saturday. We’ll drive to the shore on Sunday. That was pleasure and joy—usually. But they were brief incidents. Here it becomes your whole life. You begin to understand that you can be continually happy. I don’t mean there aren’t disappointments and aggravations. But they seem so minor, really meaningless, compared to the sun, sand, sea. Or a night like this. Am I making any sense at all, Harry?”

  “Sure you are. You’re well on your way to becoming a lotus-eater.”

  “Oh, Harry!”

  “I recognize the symptoms,” he says. “I live on the beach; I see what happens. Women come down here from up north, and for the first six months they wear a one-piece bathing suit with ruffles and a skirt. Then they switch to a two-piece suit. Navel covered, of course. Within a year they’re wearing the tiniest bikini they can find.”

  She laughs. “I bought one today. I’m afraid to wear it in public.”

  “You’ll wear it,” he assures her. “My friend, Jeremy Blaine, died recently. Since then his widow has been wearing nothing but black bikinis. Florida mourning. But the size of your bathing suit is just an outward indication of what’s going on inside. As you said, a thawing. A more animal approach to life. Learning to loosen up. Completely. Taste food. Enjoy drinks. And discovering how to avoid hassles. Or ignore them.”

  “Did all that happen to you?”

  “Sure it did. Until Sylvia died, and I was jerked back into the real world.”

  “I don’t know…” she says. “I’m getting to the point where I’m not sure what the real world is. Is it sorrow and pain and suffering, or is it what we have right now?”

  “Good question. I wish I had the answer, but I don’t.”

  “I just feel sexier,” she says. “Does that shock you?”

  “Of course not. Delighted to hear it.”

  She is silent. Realizing she isn’t following the scenario. Tony Glitner will be furious. But at the moment her case officer’s anger seems unimportant. She just doesn’t want to proselytize. Suddenly faith is a foreign language.

  “I have the makings of a brandy stinger,” she says.

  “That’ll do it. You’ll never get me out of here.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  In her bed, she leans over him and says, “You are a nice man. A nice, nice man.”

  “That’s the stinger talking.”

  “No, that’s me talking.”

  She is a robust woman. Sturdy. Heavy breasts. Narrow waist. Hips flowing like a lyre. Strong, tapering legs. A scent to her flesh like incense. Dressed, she resembles his wife. Naked, she is totally different.

  She is engrossed with his body.

  “Men have nipples, too,” she says. “Don’t they?”

  “That’s right. Two of them.”

  “Your skin is like suede, Harry.”

  “Good or bad?”

  “Good. So good. Close your eyes and pretend to sleep. Let me do things.”

  He closes his eyes. Feels her mouth. Lips. Tongue.

  “Ev…“he says.

  “Shh. I’m thawing. What you said—a more animal approach to life. I do believe I’m becoming an animal.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. Troubled. “I don’t know how to handle it.”

  “You want to let go? Surrender?”

  “Yes,” she says, “that’s what I want. To let go. Do everything.”

  She explores him with wonder. He is part of a new world she is just beginning to glimpse. She forgets limits. Not forgets, but disregards. It lures her. She thinks he will be her passage. All things are possible. Complete freedom. Liberty.

  “Enough,” he says. “Please.”

  “More,” she begs. Listening to herself. Not believing.

  At the debriefing, she says, “I think it’s going well, Tony. We had a long talk into the wee hours of the morning. I really think he’s coming around.”

  “Fine,” Glitner says. “Now tell me what he said, and what you said.”

  She concocts the whole thing. Cleverly. Faltering at times. Not too glib. Spinning a tale of the conversion of Harry Dancer. She admits they made love; that is sanctified. But she comes down hard on Dancer’s doubts, her answers, his equivocation, her insistence.

  “Sounds good,” the case officer says. “But don’t press him too hard. We don’t want to scare him away. Slow and easy. We know what the Others are doing. We want to offer Dancer a more attractive alternative. You’ve got to be steady, positive, absolutely sure. You’ve done this before; you know the drill. I can do so much. Headquarters can do so much. But essentially it’s up to you, Ev.
We’re depending on you.”

  When she is alone, she wanders onto the balcony. Grips the railing. Looks out at a roily sea stretching to nowhere. Wants to weep but cannot. Squinches her eyes shut. Sees suede skin. Tastes it. Remembers what they did. Shudders with bliss.

  26

  Harry Dancer admits he has become a weather vane. He twists in the wind. Adopts the opinions and philosophy of the last person he speaks to. Seems incapable of independent judgment. But in his confusion, he can recognize the confusion of others. It takes one to know one.

  He cannot understand Sally Abaddon. She has made no pretense of being anything but a venal woman. Her body purchasable—if the price is right. Now she talks of love. Hinting she seeks a deeper, more permanent relationship. He recognizes her dissatisfaction, but can’t define it.

  He cannot understand Evelyn Heimdall. That strong, faithful, steady woman is becoming wildly passionate. With an appetite for the spiced and exotic. She acts like one throwing off shackles. Everything about her—speech, dress, actions-signifies a new freedom. Self-indulgence.

  And Harry Dancer cannot understand himself. He had thought his affairs with Sally and Evelyn would soothe the pain of Sylvia’s death. Turn him toward the future rather than the past. Exorcise, finally, those haunting memories.

  It has not happened. Instead, the intimacy with both women has, somehow, re-created Sylvia. Texture of their skin. Warm breath. The sweetness of the secret places of their bodies. All the glories of physical love recall vanished splendors.

  The way Ev shakes her head to fling her short hair into place. The way Sally soaps her breasts: serious and intent. Both painting toenails. Shaving legs. Touching him. Curling up to sleep. Trimming wisps of pubic hair. Padding about in bare feet. Wearing his shirts—and nothing else.

  All these intimate physical details recall for him a life that was, and is no longer. Sylvia did all those things. He remembers, and can see her plainer every day. How to account for that—new loves reviving an old? They are resurrecting something he thought dead and gone.

  He cannot comprehend. Is it that love exists by itself? Is all love one—a generic feeling needing no special object? Would any man or any woman do as well as any other? With only the emotion itself having meaning? Like patriotism. What difference does the nation make? Only the devotion is significant.

  All this puzzles him. Troubles him. He feels caught up in a struggle he cannot identify.

  “What’s going on?” he asks aloud. And realizes, with a pang, he is not talking to himself. He is speaking to Sylvia.

  27

  Plot—counterplot…

  The Chief of Operations summons Anthony Glitner to Washington. They confer in the safe room.

  “That business about wiring Dancer’s home…” he says to the case officer. “What do you think the Department is up to?”

  “The usual, I suppose,” Glitner says. “Raw material for blackmail—if it’s ever needed.”

  “Perhaps,” the Chief says. Chewing on a Tums. “But I believe there may be another reason. I’m guessing they don’t trust their own agent.”

  The case officer is startled. Then considers. “It’s possible, sir. A way to check up on her when she’s with Dancer. Yes, that makes sense. Chief, you don’t think we could turn her, do you? What a coup that would be!”

  “I asked Intelligence for a complete dossier on Sally Abaddon. She’s been with the Department a long, long time. A splendid record—from their point of view. Remember that Secretary of State we lost? She’s the one who debased him. There’s not a single hint in her file of the slightest infidelity of the Others’ creed. But this bugging of Dancer’s home is curious. Maybe she’s burning out—or perhaps just bored. It could be a number of things. But we’d be remiss not to follow up on it. Give her a nudge—if she’s really thinking of defecting.”

  “How do we do that, sir?”

  “You know, Tony, sometimes we try to be too clever by far. We neglect the simple and obvious solutions. In this case, I believe the most effective thing we can do at the moment is to make an anonymous telephone call to Sally Abaddon. Just tell her that Harry Dancer’s home is bugged, and hang up. If she’s still true-blue to the Department, it won’t mean a thing to her. If she’s beginning to doubt, she’ll change her way of operating. You’ll have to put someone on her to observe. How about Willoughby? He did a good job acting the faith healer.”

  “I think he can handle it,” Glitner says. “You want her followed?”

  “As closely as possible. When you get back to Florida, brief Willoughby, and then make that phone call to Abaddon. Let’s see what happens.”

  At the same time, the Chairman of the Department, in Cleveland, is reviewing a report from the Director of the Southeast Region. This is the intelligence he requested on anything unusual, puzzling, or unexpected in the personal lives of people involved in the Dancer action.

  The Chairman finds what he’s looking for in a short paragraph on Herman K. Tischman. It states that the detective’s daughter suffered a sudden and inexplicable illness. Was given up by attending doctors. Staged a miraculous recovery, and is now in good health.

  Miraculous indeed! the Chairman thinks. And immediately recognizes what has happened: the Department’s hireling has been switched.

  He puts through a call to the Regional Director on a scrambler line.

  “You fool!” he says. “You’ve been duped. That private detective of yours has been turned. His daughter’s illness was staged.”

  The Director begins stammering.

  “Shut up!” the Chairman says. “Briscoe recruited him, didn’t he? Then let Briscoe clean up the mess. Feed this Tischman disinformation. If the Corporation reacts, you’ll know I’m right. Then let Briscoe take it from there. I expect results within forty-eight hours.”

  The Director calls in Briscoe. Repeats the Chairman’s orders.

  “Son of a bitch,” Briscoe says. “I thought I had that idiot in my hip pocket. The guy’s a whirling dervish. You mean his daughter’s fever was a Corporation scam? That was smart. And it cost them nothing.”

  “I’m not interested in how smart the Corporation is,” the Director says. “You have forty-eight hours to take care of this. The Chairman wants it proved out before we take extreme action. I think it would be best for both of us if you deliver.”

  They stare at each other.

  “Yes, sir,” Briscoe says.

  He concocts a complex plot. It contains elements of truth he is unaware of. He will tell Tischman that Harry Dancer has become sexually obsessed with Evelyn Heimdall. The two are planning to leave the country together. To live in sin in some foreign place.

  Briscoe reckons that if Tischman has been tripled, he will inform the Corporation of this development. And the Corporation will pull Heimdall off the case and assign a new field agent.

  But before Briscoe has a chance to put this outlandish scheme into operation, he receives evidence of the detective’s guilt from another source. A voice-actuated tape recorder in Sally Abaddon’s motel picks up an anonymous phone call.

  “Miss Abaddon?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Let’s just say a friend. I think you should know that Harry Dancer’s home is wired. All the phones are bugged, picking up and recording phone calls and interior conversations. For the benefit of your employers.”

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me, Miss Abaddon.”

  “Who are you?”

  Click!

  Briscoe listens to this tape twice. Then considers…Only he, the Director, Tischman, and the techs who installed the bugs know of the electronic surveillance of Dancer’s home. But the techs have no knowledge of Sally Abaddon. And, of course, Briscoe eliminates the Director and himself. That leaves Herman K. Tischman.

  The Chairman is right; the detective has been twisted. He snitched to the Corporation, who set up the anonymous call. Briscoe tells the Director.

  “Terminate him, sir?”
he asks. “Extreme prejudice?”

  “Yes,” the Director says. “Immediately. An accident.”

  “Of course,” Briscoe says. Miffed because the Director thinks it necessary to tell him how to do his job.

  At 6:00 P.M. that evening he finds Tischman. The detective is slouched in his rusted Plymouth outside Harry Dancer’s office. Briscoe parks his own car. Gets out. Strolls over to the Pi’s heap. Leans down to speak through the opened window.

  “Any action?” he asks.

  “He had lunch with the Heimdall dame,” Tischman reports. “Then they went to her place. Long enough for a matinee. That’s all.”

  “You and I have got to talk.”

  “About what?” Tischman says. Chewing on a wet cigar.

  “A new assignment. More bucks. You can use the loot, can’t you? The hospital bills for your little girl and all.”

  “Well, yeah, sure. Climb in, and we’ll talk.”

  “Not here. Too public. Knock off early tonight. I’ll see you at your office at nine. Okay?”

  “You’re the boss.”

  “That’s right,” Briscoe says.

  He gets to Tischman’s office a half-hour early. Parks a block away. Walks back. Carrying two liters of cheap vodka in a brown paper bag. He uses a surgeon’s scalpel on the door lock and presses with his knee. Door pops open. He goes in. Closes the door. Switches on a desk lamp.

  He pours a liter of vodka into the littered wastebasket. Over the upholstery of a garish couch. The rug. He wets the drapes. Rolls the empty bottle under the desk. Uses half of the second bottle to make a puddle beneath Tischman’s swivel chair. Then he waits. Sitting.

  Tischman shows up a little after nine o’clock. He is shocked to see Briscoe behind his desk.

  “How the hell did you get in?” he demands.

  “The door was open,” Briscoe says. Rising.

  “Bullshit it was. I always make sure to lock up. My God, this place smells like a brewery.”

  “I’ve been having a few,” Briscoe says. Grinning. Holding up the half-empty bottle. “Want a shot?”