The Loves of Harry Dancer (2 page)

Dancer doesn’t answer.

Smells. Cheap perfume. Sweat. Stale beer. Urine. Eye-watering disinfectant.

“Hey, old buddy, let’s have one. Our very own naked lady. How about that blonde on the center stage? I like the shaved pussy.”

“Whatever turns you on,” Dancer says.

Music stops. Blaine stands. Waves at the blonde.

She threads her way through the tables. Breathing hard. Glistening.

“How do, gents,” she says. Smiling. “Private performance? Twenty minimum.”

“You bet,” Blaine says. Takes out his wallet.

Tucks a twenty into her garter. “You’re a big one.

“The bigger they are,” she says, “the harder they fall.”

They help her onto the table. Waitress brings another round without being asked. Music starts again. Their nude dancer begins to snap her fingers. Writhes. Pumps her pelvis. Shakes her breasts.

They sit drinking. Looking up at her with silly smiles. She looms over them. An amazon. Spreads her legs. Pushes shaved pubes close to Harry Dancer’s face. Strange, stirring scent. Almost like ash. Dead fire. Burnt odor.

Dances frenetically. Flings her body into fierce contortions. Abandoned. Blaine reaches.

“Look but don’t touch,” she says. Gasping.

Music ends.

“Another set, gents?” she asks. Hands on hips. Legs apart. Staring at Harry Dancer.

“Sure,” he says. Reaches for his wallet. “What’s your name?”

“Sally,” she says.

5

A
gents from the Corporation arrive in Fort Lauderdale on April 20. Led by case officer Anthony Glitner. He organizes things. Apartment and ID for Evelyn Heimdall. Motel suite for cutout and communications man. No need for a safe house. Yet. Glitner flies back to Washington. Reports to Chief of Operations. They go over Harry Dancer’s biog. Their game plan. Looks good. To them. But the Chief is uneasy. Swigs Maalox.

“Tony, it’s a killing job,” he says. Skittish man.

“Got to be done,” Glitner says. He returns to Lauderdale.

On April 25, Evelyn Heimdall calls Dancer Investment Management, Inc. Asks to speak to Mr. Harry Dancer.

“May I ask who’s calling, please?” receptionist says.

“My name is Mrs. Evelyn Heimdall. Mr. Dancer doesn’t know me, but you might tell him that the Reverend Perry Stone suggested I call.”

(Reverend Stone has been alerted that he may be contacted by Dancer. Case officer Glitner knows the drill.)

“Just a moment, please.”

Click.

“Harry Dancer. May I help you?”

“Mr. Dancer, my name is Mrs. Evelyn Heimdall. The Reverend Perry Stone suggested I call you.”

“Oh, yes. How is the Reverend?”

Laugh. “Still smoking those vile cigars. He said to give you his best. Mr. Dancer, my husband passed away six months ago, and I have just moved to Fort Lauderdale from New Jersey. I’m in the process of shifting my assets down here, plus what my husband left me. I’m trying to understand all the financial things, but I must admit I find myself confused. What on earth is a Ginnie Mae, for example? I was wondering if we might meet and discuss the possibility of your advising me.”

“Of course, Mrs. Heimholtz. You could—”

“Heimdall.”

“Heimdall. I beg your pardon. You could come to our office, Mrs. Heimdall, but I’d prefer an informal meeting at first—if that’s all right with you. Just to get acquainted. Could we have lunch, do you think?”

“I’d like that. But I’m a stranger in town, Mr. Dancer. Can you suggest some nice place?”

“Do you have a car?”

“Oh yes.”

“Well, there’s an interesting beachfront restaurant on A1A in Pompano Beach. It’s called the Sea Watch. Could you meet me there at twelve-thirty tomorrow?”

“Sea Watch. Al A. Pompano Beach. At twelve-thirty tomorrow. I’ll be there. Thank you, Mr. Dancer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Heimdall.”

Intelligence Section has done its usual efficient job. Using the dossiers provided, Glitner briefs Heimdall for hours. Concentrates on Dancer’s deceased wife, Sylvia.

“Dark lady,” he says. Reading from the document stamped
TOP SECRET
. “Marvelous tan. Brown hair cut short. Brown eyes. A tennis buff.”

“Like me,” Heimdall says.

“Why do you think you were selected? Here’s the only photo we could locate. Taken when she won Women’s Singles at her club. Published in the
Sun-Sentinel
.”

“Good legs,” Heimdall says. Studying the blow-up.

“So do you. I’ve noticed. You’re about the same height and weight. You’ve got a little more up front than she had, but that’s all to the good. Your hair is longer than hers. Can you have it shortened?”

“Of course. And I’ll have it styled like hers. A gamine cut.”

“Fine. She liked vodka gimlets. Had a thing for Caesar salads and romance novels. Wore little makeup. Always bare legs. Smoked long Benson and Hedges menthols. Are you getting all this?”

“I’m getting it. What did she wear?”

“Mostly designer things. Other people’s names on practically everything she owned.”

“Ugh. Well, I suppose I can do it. Right-handed or left?”

“Right. You mean you can do either?”

“Tony, I have talents you haven’t even guessed.”

“I believe it. You may have an opportunity to exhibit them. This Sylvia Dancer was reputed to be a tiger in the bed department.”

“Now how on earth did Intelligence get onto that?”

“Easy. Harry Dancer’s personal physician is one of ours. He reports that Harry had some worries about keeping up with his wife. He was taking B-12 shots.”

“Was taking? Recently?”

“No. The worries date back a few years. Oh, one other thing—Sylvia Dancer liked the horses. Apparently she wasn’t a degenerate gambler; just two-dollar bets. But she loved to see them run at Calder, Hialeah, Gulf Stream—wherever. She owned a pony when she was a kid; maybe that started it.”

“Anything else?”

“Background stuff. Parents, education, and so forth. But at the moment I want you to concentrate on your first meeting with Harry Dancer. Let’s go over it again.”

Evelyn Heimdall dresses carefully for the Sea Watch luncheon. Pale linen Halston sheath. Hair shortened. Lightened slightly. Bare legs. Minimal makeup. Benson and Hedges in her Mark Cross handbag. She has managed two hours in the sun that morning. Skin a bronzy tan.

It all works. When the hostess brings her over to Dancer’s table, she sees the shock in his face as he stumbles to his feet.

Small table. Small talk. Both face the ocean at an angle.

“What’s across?” she asks. Gesturing at the shimmer. “If you sail directly east, what do you hit?”

“Portugal,” he says. “I think.”

She thinks it’s West Africa, but doesn’t say so. Takes the long menthol cigarettes from her handbag. He snaps a lighter. Holds it in a hand that trembles.

Waitress hovers. “Cocktails?”

“Vodka gimlet,” Heimdall says. “With a piece of lime, please.”

He orders a gin martini straight up. When it comes, he drains half in a gulp. She sympathizes. Silently.

“What would you like?” he asks. Studying the menu. Not looking at her. “Their seafood is good. And a really big hamburger.”

“I wonder if I could get a Caesar salad?”

“Of course,” he says. Strained voice. Then orders another martini.

She doesn’t want to hit him too hard too quickly. Turns the talk to her finances. Says she has approximately eight hundred thousand. How should she handle it?

“Play it cool,” he advises. “At least forty or fifty percent in fixed-income investments. I’ll have to know something about your tax situation, dependents, living expenses, and so forth. I’m conservatively oriented. I wouldn’t put you into high-risk things.”

She smiles.

They discuss his fees, problems of transferring assets, tax-exempts versus zero-coupon bonds, insurance. He is very knowledgeable. So is she. But doesn’t let him know it.

Pleasant luncheon. Iced black coffee and Baileys Irish Cream later. Lazy talk about South Florida. Her reactions. Places to go. Things to see.

“I’ve got to get out to the tracks,” she says. “I love racing. I’m not a heavy bettor. I just enjoy the scene.”

He hangs his head. “You’re so like my wife,” he says. So low she can hardly hear him.

“Oh? I’d like to meet her.”

“She passed away.” Raises his head to stare at her. “About a month ago.”

“Oh my God,” she says. Stricken. Reaches to cover one of his hands with hers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I went through it six months ago. It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Hard.”

“The worst thing,” she says, “the absolute worst, is that gradually the pain goes. You’re convinced you’re going to suffer for the rest of your life. But slowly the sorrow dulls. Even your memories fade. And that seems so shameful that you can hardly live with it.”

“Yes,” he says. Looking at her wonderingly. “That’s the way it is.”

He signs the check. Pays with plastic. While they’re waiting for the receipt, she decides to give him a final jolt.

“By the way,” she says. Lightly. “I’m a tennis nut. Can you suggest a court? Some place nearby?”

Before they part, they’ve made a date to play at his club in Boca the next day. Saturday. Heimdall gives him her address and phone number.

“I’ll reserve as soon as I get back to the office,” he promises. “I’ll call you. I imagine everything is booked for the morning. If we play in the late afternoon, perhaps we could have dinner later.”

“Love it,” she says. “How shall I dress?”

“For dinner,” he says. Happy. “Bring your tennis things in a bag. You can change there. I’ll pick you up.”

“Sounds like fun,” she says.

He presses her hand.

Back in the motel suite, Anthony Glitner debriefs her. Takes her over the entire meeting. What did he say? What did you say then? What cocktail did you order? What did he have? What did you eat? What did he? How did he look? What’s your take on him?

“I like him,” Evelyn Heimdall says. Slowly. “Very much. Right now he’s vulnerable. It can go either way.”

6

T
he Department has two moles in Corporation headquarters in Washington, D.C. One is the night code-clerk. The Department turned him by getting him hooked on cocaine. Now on a daily ration. Enough to keep him wired, but not so much that he can’t function.

When the transmission comes in from Leonard concerning Harry Dancer, the night code-clerk makes a duplicate of the transcription. Passes it along to his coke contact. He, in turn, hands it over to the Department’s Resident in Washington. That agent forwards it via microfilm to the Department’s headquarters in Cleveland.

There the information is printed, evaluated, added to the computerized file. An alert is immediately sent to the Director of the Southeast Region in Fort Lauderdale.

This process takes almost a week. By the time the Regional Director receives the intelligence, he knows the Corporation’s team of agents is already in place, zeroing in on Harry Dancer.

That fact doesn’t disturb him half as much as the question of how the Corporation learned of the Department’s interest in Dancer. The only answer to that is a leak, a serious leak, within Regional headquarters. The Director calls in his Chief of Internal Security. Ted Charon.

They huddle in the Director’s office, make a list of all personnel with knowledge of the Dancer operation: The Director himself. Secretary Norma Gravesend. Agent Sally Abaddon. Case officer Shelby Yama. And a dozen others: computer operators, file clerks, aides who set up Sally’s employment at the Tipple Inn.

“And Jeremy Blaine,” the Director adds. “Don’t forget him. He tipped us to Dancer, but maybe he’s playing a double game. Check him out.”

“Yes, sir,” Charon says. “I have a feeling the leak is at a low level, but we’ll cover everyone. Do you have any idea how large a team the Corporation has sent down?”

“I’ve asked Cleveland to query our moles in Corporation headquarters. Nothing yet, but we’ll be getting names and numbers shortly. The Washington Resident knows his job. But while we’re waiting for intelligence, I’m bringing Briscoe down from Atlanta.”

“Briscoe? Isn’t he the one who terminated the Corporation’s agent in the Miller case?”

“That’s the man.”

“I don’t know, Director,” the Chief of Internal Security says. Frowning. “The guy’s supposed to be a hothead. A real pistol.”

“We may need a pistol before this is over,” the Regional Director says. He shows his tombstone teeth. “When you’re in this business, anything goes.”

7

S
unday nights are the worst. When Sylvia was alive, they were the best. Just idling. Soft laughter and light rump slaps. Cold dinner. Shrimp or Florida lobster or crabmeat salad. A bottle of something chilled. Teasing each other. They’d eat on the patio. Sometimes they’d take the remainder of the wine, two plastic cups, and wander down to the beach. Sit on sand still warm from the sun. Watch the moon come up. Listen to susurrus of waves. Smell salt tang. Content.

Then, later, arms about each other’s waist, back to the house. Slow climb to the bedroom. Slow lovemaking. Everything drowsy and right. Pillow talk. Finally, sweet sleep.

All gone.

Harry Dancer tries. On that Sunday night he makes himself a chef’s salad. With slices of garlicky salami. Opens a jug of California chablis. Planning the routine. Then puts the salad in the refrigerator. Trades his wine for a double gin on the rocks. Takes his plastic cup to sit on the beach. Looks up at a cloud-clotted sky. Then hangs his head.

Thinks of the previous day. Mrs. Evelyn Heimdall. Lovely woman. Perceptive. And so like Sylvia he can’t stop staring. Good tennis player. Great legs. Great body.

Her husband has died; she has been through it. At dinner they talk about grief and what it does to you.

“You learn,” she says, “that all the old platitudes are true. ‘Life goes on.’ ‘Time heals all wounds.’ And so forth. But even knowing all that, you’re left with an emptiness. A big void in your life. Not knowing how to fill it. But you try.”

“What do you do?” he asks. Hopefully.

“Religion helps. Faith. Are you a religious man?”

“Not especially.”

“Well, what works for me may not work for you. But it’s something to think about. If you’re looking for an explanation. Not a reason, but an explanation. Think about it.”