The Loves of Harry Dancer (3 page)

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Of course. Would you like a brandy?”

Now, on the dark beach with his iced gin, he tries to think about it. But cannot. He cannot conceive of any explanation or any reason. Only chance. Accident. Senselessness.

If life is without meaning or purpose…Well then? Well then? Intelligent men gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Is there any other choice?

Gin finished, he struggles to his feet. Plods back to his empty home. Phone begins to ring the moment he steps inside.

“Hey there, old buddy,” Jeremy Blaine says. “Blanche is having one of her famous headaches. How about you and me wandering out to the Tipple Inn and inspecting the beavers?”

“All right,” Harry Dancer says.

They sit at the same tiny table. Order beers. Dancer looks around at the gyrating girls on the three stages.

“Looking for someone?” Blaine asks. Grinning.

“Just checking the action.”

“Uh-huh. How about that brunette on the right? She’s got a tattoo on her tush. Can you believe Ml”

Drink bottled beer for almost an hour. Shifts of nude women come and go. Girls, really. All young. Firm-bodied. With bikini tans. Something piquant there, Dancer decides. Light and dark. Like marble cake.

Finally Sally comes on. Golden girl. No bikini marks. Overall glow. And long wheaten hair that could be a wig but looks natural. Her total shaved nakedness provokes. She has a soft sheen. Frenzied oscillations. But graceful for such a big women. Choreographed.

“Let’s have her over again,” he says.

“Sure,” Blaine says, “go ahead. I’ve got to trot out to the trough for a minute.” He leaves.

Set ends. Dancer stands. Waves. Sally sees him. Smiles. Comes over.

“Another private performance?” she asks.

He tucks two twenties into her garter. Helps her up onto the table. Her flesh is whipped cream.

“Can we meet?” he asks. Suddenly.

“Sure,” she says. “You got wheels?”

“Not tonight. We came in my friend’s car.”

“I don’t do doubles,” she says. “Want me to get another girl for your friend?”

“No.”

“Then call tomorrow. Ask for Sol. He’ll give you my number.”

“I’ll do that. Thank you, Sally.”

“You’re welcome,” she says. And starts dancing.

Seated, he looks up at her foreshortened body. Thighs and breasts seem immense. She caresses her belly and buttocks. With secret delight.

“You like?” she asks.

“Yes. Very much.”

He catches the burnt scent again. Exciting.

“You’ll call?” she says. Staring at him.

“Oh yes.”

“I’ll be good for you.”

He thinks so, too. And wants to tell her. But then Jeremy Blaine comes back to the table. “Hey, hey!” he says.

8

N
orma Gravesend sends another message to Corporation headquarters via Leonard. The Chief of Operations studies the transcription. Summons Anthony Glitner back to Washington. They talk in a soundproofed room, wired to prevent electronic surveillance.

“Tony, we’ve got problems,” the Chief says. Slips a Turns into his mouth. “In addition to Sally Abaddon, the field agent, and Shelby Yama, the case officer, the Others are bringing in Briscoe from Atlanta. He’s the man who terminated our agent on the Miller case.”

“Damn!” Glitner says.

“Watch your language,” the Chief says. Sharply. “It’s an indication of the importance they attach to this Dancer action. I think we better counter with some muscle of our own.”

“Chief, we’ve got no one like Briscoe,” the case officer says.

“I know that. I suggest you hire a local. A mercenary.”

“You think that’s wise?”

“I think it’s necessary. He’ll be an Other, of course, but it’ll be divine justice to defeat them with one of their own. Tell the muscle as little as possible about the assignment. Make it sound like a drug deal or a divorce case or something. I’m sure you’ll be able to con him.”

“HI get on it as soon as I get back.”

“Good. Now our second problem is this: The Department is aware that we learned of the Dancer thing through a leak in their Regional organization. Our mole there reports they have begun an Internal Security search.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Are you going to pull the mole?”

“No. She’s too valuable; we need her there. She knew the danger when she turned. But that isn’t what worries me so much as this: If the Department knows of our interest in Dancer, there must be a leak here, in this building. I have alerted Counterintelligence, and they have started an investigation. Tony, be very, very careful. The Others are probably aware by now of your presence, and your team’s, in Fort Lauderdale. They’ll stop at nothing; the Miller case proved that. So watch your back. And warn your people. And keep your communications to a minimum.”

“I’ll do that, Chief. Now I understand why you feel we should hire a muscle.”

They sit in silence for a moment. Brooding. The Chief puts a knuckle to his lips to stifle a small belch.

“Tony, do you think Evelyn Heimdall is going to work out? She seems to be moving slowly.”

“Following the game plan,” Glitner says. “She’s right on schedule. She’s made contact. Spent a day with Dancer. Started her pitch. Today she’s at his office, going over her investment planning. I expect her to meet him again for lunch or dinner or whatever. Chief, she is a very talented, sincere, and persuasive woman. She believes in what she’s doing. I have faith in her.”

“I hope you’re right. What kind of a man is this Harry Dancer?”

“Big. Handsome in a craggy kind of way. Athletic. He’s still shook from his wife’s passing. Hurt. Confused. Uncertain. He’s become moody—which is understandable. He was married for nine years, and now he’s alone. Evelyn is providing sympathy and companionship. She’s a very solid woman, and there’s no doubt he’s attracted to her. He’s drowning, and she’s offering a life preserver. I’m very confident of the outcome.”

But on the plane back to Fort Lauderdale, Anthony Glitner admits to himself that he isn’t all that certain.

He is a tall, attenuated man with the big hands of a basketball player. Charmingly ugly. Scimitar of a nose. Wide mouth. Enormous, floppy ears. But it all comes together when he smiles. Joyous smile.

He knows that people devoured by sorrow sometimes act in eccentric and unpredictable ways. Abruptly change their lifestyle. Discard habits. Take on a new persona. The meek become bullies. Bullies weep. And all seek excess as a blanket on their anguish.

Glitner fears Dancer may be falling into that trap: forgetfulness through intemperance. If that is happening, the case officer isn’t sure that Heimdall’s life preserver will be grasped—or even welcomed.

He meets with her in Lauderdale that evening. She reports on her meeting with Harry Dancer.

Nothing significant. Dancer is cordial, speaks vaguely about another tennis game, another dinner, a possible visit to the track. But makes no commitment.

Glitner tells Evelyn about the Chief’s warnings. Cautions about her personal safety. Then he tells her of his anxieties concerning Dancer’s emotional stability.

“He may go off the deep end,” he says. “A common enough reaction to grief. I think you better press a little harder. The Department is fielding a tough, experienced team. We’ve got our work cut out for us. Can you get together with Dancer in, uh, an intimate setting?”

“If I press too hard,” Heimdall says, “I may turn him off. I’m sure widows and divorcees are after him. Either directly or through friends. Well, all right, Tony, suppose I invite him over for dinner at my place. He can’t very well refuse; I’m a new client of his. I’ll lighten up a little, and we’ll see what happens.”

“It couldn’t hurt,” Glitner says.

9

C
ase officer Shelby Yama had been a theatrical producer when the Department recruited him. But “recruited” is inaccurate. Yama volunteered.

He is an “—ish” man: shortish, plumpish, youngish. And hyper. Confreres think he is on something, but he is not. Just his own adrenaline. He cannot sit still. Cannot contemplate his navel.

No mantra for him. He must be doing.

The Harry Dancer campaign is his first important assignment. He doesn’t mean to fail. He knows the penalty for failure. The Department never forgives. Punishment is eternal.

Because of his background and training, he sees the quest for Harry Dancer as theater. There must be scripts, sets, costumes, props. And, of course, heavy analyses of the actors’ motivations. Shelby Yama already knows the plot. With luck, the denouement will be his.

He requisitions a motel suite in Pompano Beach leased by the Department. He redecorates it as a three-room boudoir. Mirrors on the ceiling over the waterbed. Swagged silken drapes. Plump pillows everywhere. On the walls, portrait nudes in oil and pastel. Pornographic cassettes for the VCR.

“This is where you’ll bring him,” he tells Sally Abaddon. Showing her around. Demonstrating the devices in the bathroom.

“He’ll laugh,” she says.

“Sure he will,” Yama agrees. “He’s an intelligent man. He’ll laugh to show his superiority to all this sexy kitsch. But it’ll get to him, doll. Believe me, it will. He’ll say to himself, Well, why the hell not? He’ll surrender to it. And to you. It’ll make him forget. That’s what he wants at the moment: oblivion.”

“He seems nice,” Sally says. Sadly.

“So? Does that change anything?”

“I guess not.”

“Just do your job, and we’ll win this one. There are enough mikes in here to wire Radio City Music Hall. The TV cameras start when he comes in and you flip the wall switch to turn on the overhead light. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“There’s grass and coke in the top drawer of the bedside table if he’s so inclined. I don’t think he will be. He’ll go for the booze; I’ll bet on it. There’s plenty in the sideboard, and wine in the refrigerator.”

“You’ve thought of everything.”

“I hope so,” Shelby Yama says. “If I haven’t, this show is closing after one performance. I’ll be in the parking lot with Briscoe. Black Mercedes. If anything goes wrong, you know where to find us.”

“What could go wrong?”

“Nothing. I hope. Just don’t be too eager. I mean, play it cool. Don’t lean on him. He can stay as long as he likes. Set his own pace. You go along with anything he wants to do.”

“Are you trying to tell me my business?” Sally Abaddon demands.

“No, doll. I know your credits. I just want it to go right.”

“It will,” she promises.

Harry Dancer shows up promptly at nine o’clock. Carrying a bottle of champagne.

“Greeks bearing gifts,” he says. Grinning foolishly.

“Are you a Greek?” she asks. Switching on the overhead light.

“No. It’s just an expression. May I come in?”

She is wearing a long, black velvet hostess robe. Covering her from neck to ankles. Wide zipper down the front. Long sleeves. Shelby Yama insists on it.

“Look, doll,” he says, “the guy has seen you naked. Now you’re covered up. It kills him. He imagines. Sexual tension grows. The longer you keep the robe on, the more frantic he gets.”

“Teasing?” Sally says.

“Right. Teasing. You’ll have steam coming out his ears. All he’ll be able to think about is how to pull down that zipper. Play him. Like a fish.”

“Wow!” Harry Dancer says. Looking around at the apartment. Laughing. “Talk about your love nests!”

“You like it?”

“Well…it’s different. Who posed for the paintings? Not you.”

“Friends. And friends of friends. How about a drink?”

“Splendid idea.”

“The champagne?”

“No, that’s warm. Do you have any gin? Or vodka?”

“Both. Which?”

“A gin on the rocks would be nice. Are you having anything?”

“Of course.”

She goes into the kitchenette. He looks around again. Feels muffled. Suffocated. Air conditioning is on, but the apartment seems warm, steamy. All that silk. Ruffles. Nudes on the walls. Soft drapes. Everything overstuffed. Chotchkas without end.

What am I doing here? he asks himself. What am I doing?

He is swallowed by an armchair. So plump and deep he seems to be supine. She brings his drink. Coils onto the floor at his feet. Gracefully. She has a glass of white wine. Raises the glass. Puts a warm hand on his knee.

“Here’s to nothing,” she says.

“I’ll drink to that,” he says. Smiling bravely.

He sips. Reaches to touch her long, flaxen hair.

“Yours?” he asks.

“Every bit. Want to tug and see?”

“No. I believe you.”

“And natural. My collar and cuffs match.”

“But you’re shaved. Doesn’t it itch when it grows back in?”

“Sure it itches,” she says. Laughing. “Want to scratch?”

This intimate talk inflames him.

“How long do I have?” he asks her.

“As long as you want. I don’t have a meter.”

“How much?”

“As much as you want to give.”

“That’s not fair,” he protests. “Not fair to you, not fair to me.”

“We’ll decide later,” she says. Hand moving higher on his thigh. “I trust you.”

He looked up at her when she danced on his table at the Tipple Inn. Now he is looking down at her. Sees pellucid complexion. Clear features. Wide, denim-blue eyes. Innocence. Youth.

“How old are you?” he asks.

“Two hundred and forty-six,” she says.

“No, seriously, how old are you?”

“Getting close to the big three-oh.”

“I don’t believe it,” he says. “You look nineteen.”

“Thank you, sir,” she says. “That’s because my heart is pure.”

“I’ll buy that,” he says. Leaving her to decipher his meaning. “Sally, I’m uncomfortable. Would you mind if I moved to a harder chair?”

“The waterbed is hard enough,” she says. “Gel. And take off your jacket, kick off your shoes. Make yourself at home. How about some music?”

“Whatever you like.”

She puts on a cassette. Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter. Dancer looks at her in astonishment.

“How did you know? That’s my favorite.”

“Mine too.”

“You’re too young for Fitzgerald and Porter.”

She smiles.

Out in the parking lot, in the black Mercedes, Shelby Yama and Briscoe listen to the conversation on their receiver.