The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  “What is this?” the detective says. “The place is soaked.”

  “Yeah,” Briscoe says. “And look at that.”

  He points a thick forefinger at the wastebasket. It bursts into fire. Blue flames flicker upward.

  “My God!” Herman K. Tischman cries. “What’s going—”

  “And that,” Briscoe says. Aiming his forefinger at the drapes. Couch. Rug. “And that. And that.”

  The office roars. Conflagration spreads. The detective turns to flee. Briscoe grapples him with heavy arms. Flings him into the swivel chair. Tischman’s clothing ignites. Body lurches upward. Briscoe slams him down. Pours the remaining vodka over him.

  The office is an inferno. Flame. Smoke. Crackling. Things snapping. Tischman, mouth wide, writhes slowly. Hands opening and closing. Eyes melting. Clothes burning away. Flesh charring.

  Briscoe waits patiently. Standing amidst the fire. Untouched. Then, when he sees Tischman is still, a black crisp, he walks out of the office calmly. He sees people running toward the blazing office. But he saunters back to his parked car. Fresh air is an offense. He relishes the scent of burning things. And ash.

  28

  Sally Abaddon is no dummy. She reports the anonymous phone call to Shelby Yama and Briscoe.

  “What the hell is going on?” she asks. “Nothing,” Briscoe says. “Forget it.” “Is Dancer’s home really bugged?” “You have no need to know,” Briscoe says. Later, when they’re alone, Yama asks him, “What is this? You checking up on her?”

  “Yeah,” Briscoe says. Staring at the case officer. “Any objections?” “No, no,” Yama says. “Can’t be too careful.” “Uh-huh,” Briscoe says. Giving him a wisenheimer grin.

  It limits Sally. She knows her place is tapped.

  And now Harry’s home is covered. She considers what she might do: Rent another motel room without informing the Department. Or take Dancer to a different hot-pillow joint every time she sees him.

  She realizes neither will work. Briscoe will demand to know where she went with the subject. What they said. What they did. And why wasn’t it on tape?

  She and Dancer go to the jai alai matches at Dania. Lose a few bucks. Then have dinner at a funky rib joint on Federal Highway. Drive home through thin traffic. The season is over; snowbirds have gone.

  “You feel like a little tender, loving care?” she asks him.

  “Why not?” he says. “Where?”

  “Your place. Outside. On the patio or beach. I want to look at the stars. How many are there?”

  He has no shame at repeating a good line.

  “Six hundred million,” he says, “four hundred and thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and fourteen.”

  She laughs. Puts a hand on his thigh. “You’re crazy,” she says.

  “True.”

  They take cans of Michelob encased in plastic foam coolers. Start walking south on the beach. Few people about. Lovers. Jogger. Woman searching for shells with a flashlight. Man surf-casting. Patiently. Hopelessly.

  There are no stars. A thick night roofed with clouds. Air is still, heavy. Far to the south, around Pompano, they see lightning flickering. Dimly.

  But the fishing boats are out. In a cluster of lights.

  “Something must be running,” Dancer says. “Is it season for blues?”

  “Blues?”

  “Bluefish. You ever go fishing?”

  “No,” she says. Thinking that is not strictly accurate. “I did once, but didn’t catch anything and got an awful sunburn. My nose peeled for days.”

  “There’s so little I know about you,” Dancer says. “I know you’re not from Florida. At least you don’t talk like a native.”

  “New England,” she says. “Originally. Salem, Massachusetts.”

  “Oh-ho! Where the witches come from.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you a witch?”

  “I try,” she says. Laughing.

  “Well, you succeed. You’ve bewitched me.”

  “Have I? Have I really, Harry?”

  They stroll with linked hands. Sometimes dashing up onto dry sand when a big wave comes in, white froth clawing for them.

  “How long did you live in Salem?” he asks her.

  “Not long. My father was a traveling salesman. We were always moving around the country as he got transferred from one region to another.”

  “Oh? What did he sell?”

  “Fire insurance. Mostly to farmers. He never got rich at it, but he made a good living.”

  “And I suppose you got switched from one school to another.”

  “That’s right. More than I can remember. I finally graduated from high school in Hadesville, Texas. You know where that is?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lucky. Harry, let’s turn back. This soft sand is tough to walk in.”

  They plod back to Dancer’s home.

  “Then what?” he asks her. “After high school.”

  “I went to New York. I was runner-up in a beauty contest and thought I could become a fashion model. But I just wasn’t the type. Too big all over.”

  “Not for me. Did you ever do any nude modeling? For men’s magazines?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “You have the body for it; I thought you might have.”

  “As a matter of fact I did. But it’s a sleazy business and doesn’t pay all that much. Then I sort of drifted—here, there, and everywhere. And ended up in Florida.”

  “Lucky me,” Harry Dancer says. “Well, here we are. Tired?”

  “A little. Can we sit on the patio?”

  “Of course. Another beer?”

  “That would be nice.”

  He brings out cold beers. Closes the sliding glass door to the living room to preserve the air conditioning. Sally can’t believe the Department’s mikes will pick up voices on the patio.

  “Do we need that light?” she asks.

  “It’s supposed to keep bugs away,” he says, “but I’ll turn it off if you like.”

  “Please,” she says. “The darkness is nicer. More intimate.”

  “Intimate,” he repeats. Tinny laugh. “I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you and I were as intimate as a man and woman can get.”

  “We are. Physically. Sexually. I don’t think I’ve ever been more intimate with a woman. In that way.”

  “But…?”

  “But the other day I was wondering if I’m capable of anything more than that. Since my wife died, I seem to have a fear of intimacy. Of really getting close to someone. It scares me.”

  Sally Abaddon sets her beer aside. Rises. Comes over to perch on the edge of Dancer’s lounge. Puts a cool palm to his flushed face.

  “Harry,” she says, “are you talking about love? Is that what you mean?”

  “I guess so. I guess that’s what I mean. Fun in bed is one thing. I like that—as you well know. But I don’t know if I can handle anything more.”

  “You’re trying to tell me something, aren’t you? Warn me off?”

  “Oh no, darling,” he says. Lifting her hand from his cheek to kiss the palm. “I just want you to know that right now you’re dealing with an emotional cripple. Don’t expect too much. Lately I’ve been getting the feeling that the games we play aren’t enough for you. That you’re looking for something else. A more—a more permanent relationship. More meaningful. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” she says. Low voice. “You’re right. I feel it. I didn’t know it showed.”

  “It does to me. Sally, I just don’t want you to get hurt. I’m being as honest as I can. I’m disturbed that you might become too—too intense.”

  “That’s not your problem,” she says. “It’s my problem. I haven’t asked for anything from you, have I? Other than the five bills a week for fun and games. But have I asked for any emotional commitment from you?”

  “No,” he admits, “you haven’t. What I’m trying to tell
you is that right now I’m not capable or willing to make any commitment.”

  “Don’t worry it, Harry. I’m a big girl, and I’ve been around the block twice. If I make mistakes, they’ll be my mistakes. I won’t blame you. Except for being such an adorable shithead.”

  They both laugh, and it’s all right.

  He pulls her close. “What happened to that tender, loving care you promised?”

  “Whatever you want, Harry. You call it.”

  “Should we go upstairs?”

  “Let’s stay out here,” she whispers. “It’s dark. No one will see.”

  “We’re liable to get rained on.”

  “I’d love it. Wouldn’t you?”

  Giggling, they undress. He bundles up their clothing, shoes, takes them into the living room. Then stealthily returns, sliding the glass door slowly so it won’t squeak. He finds her lying on the patio tiles. Shining up at him. He lies down alongside.

  “We’ll get dusty,” he warns. “Plus bruises.”

  “Do you care?”

  “Not really.”

  She moves closer. Insinuates a knee between his thighs. Nudges. Gently. “Harry, what we were talking about before. Love. What is it?”

  “All kinds and varieties. Affection. Friendship. Devotion. Attraction. Physical love. Emotional love. Intellectual love. Admiration. Loyalty. Religious love. Passion or tenderness. I could go on and on. It’s like a big thermometer. Different degrees.”

  “So I can love you in one way, and you can love me in another?”

  “Yes, that’s possible. Probable, in fact.”

  “That’s all right then. I accept that. Don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “We each do our thing.”

  “Well…” he says, “it doesn’t always work out so neatly. The lover usually wants the same degree of love in return. Or more. And when he or she doesn’t get it, there’s trouble in paradise.”

  “Not in our paradise,” she says. “I’ll take what I can get—whatever you give me—and be happy.”

  He doubts it, but says nothing. He kisses her closed eyes. Nibbles ears. Draws an eager tongue down her neck. The hollow. Shoulder. Presses one of her breasts into his eye.

  “Blind me,” he says.

  She stirs on the hard tile. Tugging him tight.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asks. “Tell me.

  “Just be you.”

  He is all over her. Voracious.

  “Shh,” he whispers. “Shh. The neighbors…”

  They feel a light spattering. Rain drips, drizzles, drives. Big drops. Warm. Tile slickens. They skid. Slow motion. Laughing through their kisses. There is lattice overhead, but the rain comes through. Drenching.

  Harry Dancer rolls away. Thrusts his erection at the glowering night sky.

  “You were right,” he says. “Pins and needles. Wonderful!”

  They play with each other. Wet puppies. Rolling. Sliding on the skim. Rain streams from them. They do nothing. He does not penetrate her; she does not envelop him. But they cleave in joy.

  “You told me,” she says. “All kinds of love.”

  “Oh yes,” he says. “Oh my. yes!”

  Rain lasts for ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. They lie supine. Opening mouths to drink it in. Spreading legs wide to feel it. Rolling. Biting. Licking.

  It mists away. They are left spread-eagled on the wet. Fingertips touching. Through the lattice they see scudding clouds. Patch of clear.

  “A star!” Sally Abaddon cries. “I saw a star. And there’s another one!”

  “You and me,” Dancer says. “One for each of us.”

  She turns onto her side to bend over him. Sodden hair falls onto his face. He does not brush it away.

  “Let me love you, Harry,” she says. “The way I want to. And you love me in your way.”

  “Yes,” he says. “All right. That’s fair.”

  29

  Both sides disregard budgets and assign additional personnel to the Harry Dancer action. The Corporation, having lost Tischman. brings in an operative to tail the subject while Willoughby follows Sally Abaddon. The Department counters with agents ordered to cover Dancer and Evelyn Heimdall. The two case officers coordinate the activities of their staffs. Arrange schedules. Devise codes and passwords. Collate intelligence. Submit daily reports to their superiors. Always optimistic.

  The wild card in this farrago of espionage and counterespionage is Briscoe. He is running two campaigns: trying to thwart the Corporation and to search out any evidence of chicanery in Department personnel. He believes Shelby Yama is stupid and inept. But not a traitor. Briscoe is not so certain of Sally Abaddon.

  She claims that Dancer wants to couple on his patio, the beach, in his car. All places beyond electronic surveillance. Briscoe doesn’t like it. He tells the Director of his suspicions.

  “She says that Dancer insists on this and insists on that,” he reports. “But she’s supposed to be doing the insisting; that’s her job. She swears she’s got him hooked. I’m not so sure.”

  “I can’t believe she’s softening,” the Director says. “She’s an old hand at this game. She’s never been anything but one hundred percent loyal.”

  “I know all that, sir, and I admit I have no hard evidence that she’s thinking of defecting. But I’m an old hand, too, and I tell you something doesn’t smell right here.”

  “What do you suggest? Shall I talk to her? Remind her of the penalties for betrayal?”

  “No, Director, not yet. I don’t want her to know we’re suspicious. Let me see if I can devise some kind of test. See how she reacts.”

  “All right, do it your way. Incidentally, according to Yama’s most recent report, the man assigned to Evelyn Heimdall says she is acting, quote, In an erratic manner for a Corporation agent, unquote. I’m not quite sure what he means by that, but I’ve contacted Intelligence in Cleveland, requesting a complete dossier on Heimdall.”

  They look at each other.

  “Yes, Briscoe,” the Director says, “I know what you’re thinking. We may have two field agents here who are considering turning. A very chancy situation. I would love to switch one of the Corporation’s best. But not at the expense of losing one of ours. There’s no profit in an equal trade. Move very cautiously on Abaddon. I’d hate to lose her and get nothing in return. Meanwhile, talk to the man covering Heimdall and see if you can find out why he thinks she’s acting erratically. If he’s correct, we might be able to push her a bit.”

  30

  Evelyn Heimdall comes off the court, sweating and laughing. Slides into a chair at Harry Dancer’s table. Under a big, fringed umbrella. He has a vodka gimlet waiting for her.

  “Well done,” he says. “You creamed her.”

  “It wasn’t that easy. She was lobbing me crazy. You’re not playing today?”

  “Woke up this morning feeling a mite peakish.” Gestures at his Bloody Mary. “But after two of those I’m bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.”

  “Glad to hear it. You look beautiful. You should wear white more often. By the way, I’m taking you to lunch.”

  “You are? What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion,” she says. Secret smile. “I just feel reckless.”

  He looks down at her smooth, tanned legs. “And where are you taking me to lunch?”

  “My place,” she says. “I have a Caesar salad already made. And a cold bottle of Frascati.”

  “I’m your man.”

  “I hope so,” she says. “I think it’s called a matinee. Or is it called an orgy?”

  “Can two people have an orgy?” he asks.

  “We can try,” she says.

  While he’s setting the table and opening the wine, Evelyn goes in to shower. After she’s soaped and rinsed, washed her hair, she stands under the lukewarm spray. Looks down at her streaming body. Rivulets and rivers. Bikini tan marks. Lower half of her breasts white. And a shoestring band across her hips.

  She is seeing a ne
w body. Or seeing her body in a new way. Something vibrant. Full of promise. Excitingly sensitive. Now so tender that she responds physically to colors, scents. The lilt of Harry’s laugh.

  “I just feel reckless.” Had she said that? She had. She tries to estimate the limits of her novel adventurousness. Then, with a shiver of fearful delight, acknowledges there are no limits.

  “Hey,” Harry Dancer calls, “are you drowning in there?”

  Yes, she is drowning.

  She dries, pulls on her white terry robe. Dancer is wearing white linen, white shirt, white bucks. They lunch at a white table set with white. Cobwebby white drapes billow in from the opened balcony door. White light suffuses the room. They float in a globe of milk.

  There is easy talk, teasing, laughter. Evelyn Heimdall is conscious of the delicate mood of the moment. And the insubstantial bond between her and this resplendent man. More, she knows suddenly the evanescence of life. Brightening, brightening, and then lost in opaque whiteness.

  Dancer is telling her an amusing story of a client who erred on the name of a security he insisted on buying, and made a bundle. She listens, smiling, nodding.

  But not really hearing. Devouring him with her eyes. Tanned hands. The slow, purposeful way he moves. Rugged features. Blue, pained eyes. Crow’s-feet of paled laugh lines. Jut of jaw. Graying, sun-bleached hair. The masculine solidity of him. She sees his naked body. Suede skin. And between his legs…

  She realizes he has stopped talking. “That’s marvelous,” she says. “It should only happen to me. More salad?”

  He laughs, jerks his chin at the empty salad bowl.

  “Oh…” she says. Confused. “I can mix some more.”

  “Don’t you dare. That was just right.”

  “There’s some of your Frangelico left,” she says. “I could pour it over ice cream.”

  “Maybe later,” he says. “I’m satisfied right now.”

  “Are you?” she says. “Completely?” And marvels at her boldness.

  “I must pay for my lunch?” he asks. Mock-solemn.

  “You must,” she says. Surrendering to the new her.

  In bed, naked, he touches the marks of her bikini tan.

  “I told you so,” he says.

  “Yes. So you did. I thought people would stare. But they don’t—which is worse. Would you like me all chocolate, or chocolate and vanilla? I can go down to the pool or tan on the balcony.”