The Loves of Harry Dancer (21 page)

“Then what are our options?”

“Let’s think about it,” Angela says. Taking the bottle of cooler from Sally’s hands. Placing it on the floor. “Let’s talk about it. Later. Right now, let me show you how much you mean to me.”

“Yes,” Sally says. “I’d like that. Lover.”

54

T
he Chairman of the Department, with the assistance of the floor supervisor, rises slowly from his reinforced throne in the War Room. Leaning on a blackthorn cane as thick as a cudgel, he makes his way laboriously to his private office. Carrying with him the latest intelligence on the Harry Dancer case.

Alone, he collapses into a club chair upholstered in bloodred leather. Reviews the most recent reports and computer printouts. Pulls fretfully at his thick lower lip.

The Dancer thing started out so simply. Now it is a can of worms. Human passions are distasteful to the Chairman. He is at home dealing with black sins and white virtues. But this grayish swamp of steamy emotions dismays him. Good or bad he can handle. Vagaries are troubling. And sometimes defeat his most precise planning.

Take this matter of case officer Shelby Yama, running the field agent in the Dancer campaign. According to Internal Security, Yama has had repeated unauthorized contacts with an individual identified as a Corporation agent. In addition, he has been observed passing material to that agent. Query from Southeast Region: Will you approve termination of Shelby Yama?

The Chairman ponders that decision. Yama has a good record. Not brilliant, but good. However, there is some evidence of erraticism. Perhaps due to his theatrical background. Or maybe the mercurial nature of the man himself. He seems to be drama-oriented. Not the strongest, most dependable employee on the Department’s roster.

The Chairman, reasoning, reflects on the possibilities open to him. One: Remove Shelby Yama from the Dancer case. Replace him with another case officer. Who would require a period of orientation. Resulting in a further slippage of the schedule, and an added drain on the budget.

Two: Bring Yama in for stiff interrogation. Using state-of-the-art truth drugs. But how could he possibly justify his recent activities vis-a-vis a Corporation agent? In any event, the questioning, regardless of its outcome, would damage his confidence and erode the morale of his staff.

Three: Terminate Yama. Forthwith.

The Chairman sighs heavily. Buzzes for his male secretary. Dictates a message to the Director of the Southeast Region. Authorizing the immediate elimination of case officer Shelby Yama. By means to be determined by the Director.

The Chairman then considers the problem of a replacement. He decides on Briscoe.

“The right man at the right place at the right time,” he tells his secretary.

55

H
arry Dancer is confused. And aware of it.

He is confused by the wild libertinism of Evelyn Heimdall. In a period of weeks, she has shed her image of a cool, steady, disciplined woman. Become profligate. Tropical climate and Florida’s physicality cannot account for the change. She is new. To him and, he suspects, to herself.

“Why not?” has become her constant refrain. After he rebuffs outlandish proposals. She wants more of everything. Insatiable and demanding. He can’t keep up with her. Admits he finds her abandon daunting. And frightening.

“Calm down,” he tells her. Trying to smile. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

“How do you know?” she challenges. “Tomorrow may never come.”

He has no answer to that.

He is confused by the metamorphosis of Sally Abaddon. That butterfly seems to be folding her wings. Withdrawing into herself. Reentering a cocoon.

“Is anything wrong?” he asks her. “What’s troubling you?”

“Nothing,” she answers. “Everything is fine. What would you like to do tonight? I’ll do anything you say.”

But he senses an unfamiliar reserve. He recalls the old folk saying: “You can’t really know anyone until you go to bed with them.” In bed, Sally goes through the motions and pleases. But a vital part of her is detached and gone. He is left with a professional actress playing a role. Too long, too often.

But most of all, Harry Dancer is confused about himself. Memories of Sylvia…He tries very hard to keep reality and fancy distinct. But boundaries blur. He finds it increasingly difficult to separate actuality and dreams.

Frantically he digs out old letters, postcards, menus, programs, photographs, birthday cards-all the memorabilia of their life together. Seeking clues to what they did. When. Where. He needs evidence to reassure him. Anchors to the real.

He sits on the bedroom floor. Surrounded by the detritus of a shared life. Trying to re-create a vanished time. Thoughts go whirling away…

One of Harry’s wealthier clients sends him an invitation to a posh dinner. Really a command. A thousand dollars a couple. For a worthy charity.

“Did you ever hear of an unworthy charity?” he grumbles to Sylvia.

It is a black-tie affair. Held in an enormous tent erected on the grounds of a Palm Beach mansion. Harry digs out his conservative dinner jacket. White shirt. Black tie and cummerbund.

“You look like a daddy penguin,” Sylvia says. “A splendid daddy penguin.”

She wears a slinky sequined sheath. All glittering green and gold. Diamond stars pinned into her hair. Bare, tanned shoulders and arms. Face alight with eager anticipation.

“You look good enough to eat,” he tells her.

“Well?” she says.

It is a stunningly opulent home. Mizner-de-signed. Formal gardens. Two swimming pools. Stable and six-car garage. Forecourt paved with Italian tiles. Ballroom in the main house. Fourteen bedrooms.

“Let’s buy it,” Sylvia says.

“What on earth would we do with fourteen bedrooms?”

“You know.”

“Sex fiend,” he says.

“I plead guilty, your honor.”

There are two bands for dancing. An enormous buffet table that almost justifies the thousand-dollar “contribution.” Three bars are busy. Catering personnel circulate with trays of champagne. There are gold compacts for the ladies; cigarette lighters for the gentlemen.

Sylvia and Harry saunter about. Carrying champagne glasses. Stop to chat with the few people they know. Visit the ballroom to dance a few sets to old Irving Berlin melodies. Come out again to fill plates at the buffet. Take them up to the terrace of the main house where cast iron tables and chairs in Victorian filigree have been set out.

Resplendent night. Calm and creamy. Modest crescent moon and scented breeze. They dig into crystal pots of caviar, sip champagne, listen to muted strains of “They Say It’s Wonderful” coming from the ballroom.

“Happy?” Dancer asks his wife.

“Not yet,” she says. “When I finish this filet, I will be. What are these things?”

“Japanese mushrooms. Delicious.”

“And this?”

He samples. “Slices of black truffle.”

“Gee, professor, you know everything.”

“I know you’re the most beautiful woman here tonight.”

“And you’re the handsomest man. But let’s not tell anyone; it’ll be our secret.”

They finish their dinner in record time.

“Super,” Sylvia says. Sitting back. “Another five pounds—but I don’t care. Do we have to wash our own dishes?”

“That I doubt. Would you like dessert? Coffee?”

“Not yet.”

“I noticed cognac at the bar. How about a balloon of that?”

He brings the brandies.

“Let’s go exploring,” she suggests. “I’d like to see the gardens. They’re lighted.”

Carrying the oversized snifters, they stroll down flag walks to inspect precise beds of flowers. Copses of ornate palms. Topiary in bizarre animal shapes. They come to a wall of box hedge at least seven feet high, with a narrow opening. Posted sign reads:
THE DEVIL’S MAZE. ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK
.

“Let’s try it,” Sylvia says. “Maybe we’ll get lost and have to spend all night.”

Harry is dubious. “Are you sure, Syl? It’s getting late.”

“Come on, grumps,” she says. “Take a chance. Live a little.”

They stroll into the maze. Trying to remember directions, false turnings, blank walls of hedge. They pass other couples meandering about. Giggling. Calling to each other.

“This way,” Sylvia says. Taking his hand. “We’re getting close to the center. Trust me.”

“Haven’t I always?”

They find the middle of the maze. A little pergola with a stone bench. They rest gratefully. Sip cognac. Listen to shouts and cries of other explorers, still straying about.

“I hope they stay lost,” Sylvia says. “This place is ours.” Leans forward to kiss her husband. “Let’s make love. Right here.”

“On a stone bench? Thanks, but no, thanks.”

“We should, you know,” she says. Looking down at the little puddle of brandy in her glass.

He has a pang of something awry. “Syl, is anything wrong?”

She turns a bright, smiling face. “What could be wrong? It’s a heavenly night. I’m glad we came—aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll remember it,” she says. “Always.”

He catches melancholy. So foreign to her. “Let’s get back,” he says. “I’d like another dance before the band starts playing ‘Auld Lang Syne.’”

She seems suddenly listless. This time he takes her hand, leading. But they wander hopelessly. Lost. Continually coming up against blank walls of hedge. It is funny. At first. But frustration grows. Wee touch of panic. They hear other voices. Meet other wayless strangers. They are caught. Doomed to wander forever.

No longer joking. Desperation. Imprisoned and erring. It is almost twenty minutes before they stumble upon the exit. Their brandy long gone. Both trembling. Sylvia clutches his arm tightly.

“Let’s go home,” she says.

“Yes,” he says, “I think so.”

They are silent on the drive back. Finally…

“As soon as we get in,” he says, “I’m going to mix us the biggest shaker of plasma we’ve ever had. We deserve it.”

“And then we’ll go to bed,” Sylvia says, “and make love, and you’ll hold me.”

“You better believe it.”

In their own home, with drinks, naked in bed, they wait for dread to ebb. But it does not. They cannot shake the memory of their fear in the maze. Helplessness.

Later, when he is drowsing, almost off, she tells him softly about her illness. He rushes to the bathroom and vomits. Champagne, caviar, mignon, brandy. All. Future. Life.

He kneels before the toilet bowl. Head bowed. Sylvia comes in to sponge his face with a damp cloth. Strokes his hair.

“It’s not so bad,” she croons. “Really, darling, it isn’t.”

Was that the way it happened? Exactly? It’s the way he remembers it. Splendor turned to pain. Triumph to defeat in a few short hours. Started with jazz. Ended with a dirge.

He sits on the littered bedroom floor. Staring at the engraved invitation to the charity dinner. Trying desperately to recall details. Did so much occur in one evening? Or is his jumbled brain combining events of several nights? Making a mishmash of history. A fantasy.

“Sylvia?” he says. Aloud. “Help me, honey.”

There is no answer.

56

T
he three men meet in the Director’s office. Door closed and locked. Norma Gravesend has not been called in to take notes.

The Director waves a flimsy. “An authorization from the Chairman to delete Shelby Yama. As soon as possible. In a manner of our choosing.”

“All right, sir,” Ted Charon says. “I’ll take care of it.”

Briscoe can’t let that happen. Shelby Yama may talk before he is eliminated. Reveal that Briscoe is aware of the reason for his contacts with Willoughby. That the material he passed to the Corporation agent was merely the Department’s recruiting brochure.

“Director,” Briscoe says, “I feel a personal responsibility for what’s happened. Yama was case officer, true, but you ordered me to ride herd on him. I failed to prevent his defection.”

“You’re not to blame,” the Director says. “The man was obviously flawed.”

“I know that, sir, but if I had been more alert, I might have been able to prevent it. I’d like the assignment of terminating him. I feel it’s my duty.”

The Director looks at Charon. “Ted, do you have any objections?”

“None, sir. I can understand how Briscoe feels.”

“All right then,” the Director says, “we’ll do it that way. Briscoe, after Shelby Yama is, ah, out of the picture, the Chairman suggests you take over as case officer on the Harry Dancer action. I concur.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And I urge you to bring this Dancer campaign to a successful conclusion as soon as possible.”

“I can promise you that, Director.”

“Good. One final detail…This Corporation agent who was trying to turn Yama—what’s his name? Willoughby?”

“Yes, sir,” Charon says. “Willoughby.”

“Perhaps he should be punished as well,” the Director says. “I don’t like the idea of the Corporation attempting to convert our personnel.” “I’ll handle it,” Briscoe says.

57

E
velyn Heimdall concedes her life is becoming disheveled. She loses all sense of order. For the first time, she knows the pleasure of whim. She explores a ruleless world. Marveling that she could have wasted dear existence on discipline and dedication.

She is conscious of her dissolution in so many ways. Renouncing vows. Ignoring rituals. Mocking sacred myths. All these sins wither when she grapples the satiny body of Martin Frey. Presses close. As good and evil suffer meaning, sensation becomes a faith.

She is converted, with the excessive passion of the new believer. She, in her turn, wants to proselytize the world. So that all may share her discovered joy. Martin Frey is her first recruit. His betrayal of the Corporation is as complete as hers.

Their shared treachery is an added spice. Guilt spurs them to wilder intemperance. Remembering what they are betraying, kisses are sweeter. They couple with the franticness of the condemned.

Lying naked, cooling, on the tiles of Evelyn’s balcony. Staring blearily at a wavering sky with tilting stars. Their world tipped. They feel themselves sliding off.

“Can you stop time?” she asks.