The Loves of Harry Dancer (8 page)

“Made it,” Harry Dancer says. “Just. Another five minutes and we’d have been bogged down. I hope the power isn’t out.”

“It isn’t,” she says.

It isn’t. He switches on a lamp in the living room. She looks around.

“Beautiful,” she says. “I may move in.”

“Please do,” he says. As lightly as he can. “My wife decorated it. She had good taste.”

“She surely did. Where do those glass doors lead to? A swimming pool?”

“No, I don’t have a pool. It seems silly when you’re a hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean. That’s the patio out there. And the garden.”

She presses her nose against the glass. Stares into windswept darkness. Rain rattles against doors.

“Close neighbors?” she asks.

“Not too close. Plenty of privacy. Bushes and dwarf palms on both sides.”

“They won’t see me then.”

“See you what?”

“Prance naked in your garden.”

“Oh my God,” he says, “you were serious.”

“I want to, Harry. Please let me.”

“Sure,” he says. Not happy about it. “Go ahead. But don’t expect me to join you.”

“I’ve got to get out of these clothes. I’m wearing a girdle. Can you believe it? And it’s killing me.”

She begins taking down her hair. He goes into the kitchen. Takes the Tanqueray bottle from the freezer. Pours himself a stiff jolt. Sips it standing at the sink. Wondering what is happening to him. Doubting what he is doing.

Brings the remainder of his drink back to the living room. She is at the glass doors, fumbling with the lock. Blond hair cascading down her muscled back. Naked, she looks twice as large. Everything about her vital and bursting.

He works the lock for her. Slides back the door. She darts into the storm. Yelping. He closes the door. Stares out. All he can see is a cavorting wraith. Hair streaming in the wind. Pale specter in the black. She is here, there, everywhere. Then gone.

A crack of thunder makes him start. Howitzer shot right over his home. His garden. In the following stab of lightning he sees her planted. Arms outstretched. Face raised to the downpour.

“Nut,” he says. Aloud.

Goes into the downstairs bathroom. Gets towels and Sylvia’s heavy terry robe. Monogram SD on the pocket. He comes back to the glass doors and waits.

She finally dashes across the patio. He slides the door open for her. She comes in. Squealing with delight. Hair sodden. Body dripping. He wraps towels about her. Begins to rub her dry. Then gets her into the robe. She uses a towel on her hair.

“Cold?” he asks her.

“It was super,” she says. Still bubbling. “Just super. The rain felt like pins and needles.”

“You better have a drink,” he says. “Brandy?”

“Whatever.”

He pours her a small Courvoisier. And another gin for himself. When he brings the drinks back to the living room, she is seated on the floor. Bare legs spread. Still tousling her hair. He sits on the couch near her. Holding their drinks.

“You’re a wild one,” he says.

“An hour ago you called me a strange one.”

“So you are. Strange and wild.”

“I guess I was,” she says. Grinning up at him. “When I was young.”

“When you were young? Ho-ho. And what are you now—ancient?”

“You’d be surprised,” she says.

She rises. Tosses the towel aside. Curls up on the couch close to him. Takes her drink. The robe falls open. He looks down.

“Nice?” she asks.

“Very nice,” he says. Sliding an arm about her shoulders.

“Harry, have you been thinking about it?”

“About what?” he says. Knowing.

“Taking me out of the Tipple Inn.”

“I can’t go for a thousand a week, Sally.”

“I didn’t expect you to. Five hundred?”

Looking down at her…

“All right,” he says, “let’s try it. Either of us can cancel at any time without giving any reason. Okay?”

“Sure,” she says, “I’ll go along with that. You want me to move in here?”

“No,” he says. “It wouldn’t look right. Stay where you are.”

“But I can stop over here, can’t I? Occasionally.”

“Of course.”

“Like tonight?”

Her ashy scent is stronger. Sweet char.

“Yes,” he says. “Like tonight.”

“Good brandy,” she says. Sipping. “Want a taste?”

She dips a forefinger into her glass. Smears her nipples. Pulls his head down.

“Taste,” she commands.

He obeys.

“What’s upstairs?” she asks.

“Bedrooms.”

“Well?”

They go up the stairs slowly. Hand in hand. He pulls blanket and sheet down on his bed. Sylvia’s bed. Then closes the blinds.

“Leave the light on,” she says. “I like to watch.” Then: “Let me do the work tonight. All right?”

“No, I want to do the work.”

“We’ll both do the work.”

“Me first,” he says. Laughing.

“No, me first,” she says.

She crouches over him. Drifts her damp hair back and forth over his body. Feathering him. Watching his reaction. He reaches up for her. Pulls her down atop him. Unexpectedly she kisses him on the lips. Soft. Tender. Then moves away.

“Harry,” she says, “I think I’ve got a problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I love you.”

20

T
he Corporation’s Chief of Operations has a private chamber adjoining his office. Not much larger than a walk-in closet. Austere. Furnished only with an antique prie-dieu. It is rumored he naps in there.

He does not. But within that soundproofed hidey-hole, he meditates. Plays chess games in his mind. Planning moves to keep him ahead of the Others. Sometimes, checkmated, he accepts defeat. Or settles for a draw.

But not in the case of Harry Dancer. Not yet.

Latest intelligence has been puzzling. Norma Gravesend reports that all personnel assigned to the Dancer operation have been informed that Herman K. Tischman, the Corporation’s muscle, has been turned.

In his closet, kneeling painfully, the Chief ponders the significance of that. He can understand the twisting of Tischman. It makes sense to double one of your opponent’s players. But why announce the corruption publicly? Such victories are usually revealed only on a “need to know” basis.

The Chief tries to put himself into the devious mind of the fat Chairman of the Department. What is that evil elephant up to? What does he hope to gain by informing so many people of Tischman’s defection?

Of course! The Chairman is not satisfied that the leak in his Southeast Region has been closed with the elimination of Jeremy Blaine. He is setting a trap. Now, if Tischman is taken out, the Chairman will know a traitor still exists in Regional headquarters. Their Interior Security will take up the search again.

So, to protect Norma Gravesend, it will be necessary for the Chief to ensure that Herman K. Tischman continues to function. How to do that? The answer seems obvious: Tischman has been turned once; he can be turned again. Double and triple-agents are not all that uncommon. When a man has defected once, he can be whirled like a windmill. Revolving to the strongest pressure.

He summons Anthony Glitner to Washington. The case officer is shocked to hear of Tischman’s betrayal. The two men discuss how to handle the private investigator.

“Let’s dump him,” Glitner suggests. “His reports on Dancer’s activities are valuable, but if he’s been taken, we can’t trust him. He may be feeding us disinformation.”

“Undoubtedly,” the Chief agrees. “But if we eliminate him, we endanger our mole in the Department. How do you think they turned Tischman?”

“Money,” the case officer says. “The man is greedy.”

“I suspect you’re right. But our budget is stretched thin as it is; we can’t afford to keep upping the ante.”

“Well, then…?”

“Does this Tischman have a family?”

“Yes, sir. Wife and little girl. About twelve years old. Mary Jane.”

The Chief fumbles with a roll of Turns. Trying to tear it open. “There is a ploy we’ve used in the past on cases like this. High success rate. It’s called Fatal Illness. Have you ever worked it?”

“No, Chief. I don’t know what it is.”

“I’ll explain. You may think it cruel, even immoral. But no one gets hurt. Although there is a certain amount of, ah, discomfort. I think it may bring Mr. Tischman back into the fold.”

He outlines to Glitner exactly how Fatal Illness is played. The case officer takes notes.

When the Chief finishes, Glitner snaps his notebook shut. “As you say, sir, it is a little on the scurvy side. But I’m willing to give it a try.”

“Could one of your people act the healer?”

“Willoughby, our communications man, could do it. He’s been asking for a more active role. I think he could handle it.”

“Fine. Tell him if he does well on this, it will go on his record. He wants to be a field agent?”

“That’s his ambition.”

“Here’s his chance. Get the scenario rolling as soon as you return to Florida. Tony, are you satisfied with Evelyn Heimdall’s performance?”

“Absolutely, Chief.”

“Good. Keep me informed. I want to win this one.”

“So do I, sir.”

21

S
ylvia’s death has left him numb. Feelings jumbled. Thoughts fleeting. He believes himself a rational man and resolves to make no determinations concerning his personal life while pain corrodes and emotions churn. He knows he is temporarily incapable of linear thinking, of even imagining what his future might be like.

But now Sally Abaddon and Evelyn Heimdall have appeared. He does not believe that only loneliness is driving him to embrace them. It is true they are a refuge. But they are also escape. And a challenge to reflect on how he wishes to order his remaining years.

It is not a decision, he feels, that must be made immediately. He cautions himself to wait, consider, ponder, judge. To think.

At the same time, a worm of doubt gnaws. Is the temporizing because of fear? Fear that another close, personal, permanent relationship might end as tragically as his love for Sylvia? At 3:00 a.m., wide awake, he listens to the waves turning on the strand and wonders if he is burned-out. Emotions depleted. Unable ever again to feel deeply.

He tries to hint something of this to Sally Abaddon.

She looks at him. “You’ve got the jimjams,” she says. “The willies. You spend too much time alone. Brooding. Harry, you’ve got to start living. Having fun. I know just what you need.”

She is practiced in all the sensual arts. Which buttons to press. Which triggers to pull. Slowly, patiently, she leads him into a netherworld of delights. He follows gladly. For there are no doubts there. No questions. Just physical exhaustion and blessed oblivion.

He doesn’t know if it is pleasure or pain. Sometimes her passion seems excessive. Verging on hysteria. He can’t believe she is faking it, playing her whore’s trick. Whores don’t dissolve in tears and cling desperately. He tries to understand her, but cannot.

When he mentions his inner confusion to Evelyn Heimdall, she listens attentively. But prescribes no quick fix.

“Don’t judge yourself too harshly,” she advises. “You are going through a very difficult period of readjustment. Right now you don’t know what you want. Or who you are, for that matter.”

“I can’t seem to get my act together,” he says. “I don’t want to whine, but I’m at sixes and sevens. Nothing definite. No foundation.”

“You’ll come out of it,” she says. “I really believe that. Remember what I said about faith? It does help, Harry.”

“How do I get started?” he asks. With a foolish laugh.

“Let’s take a walk on the beach. It’s such a lovely evening. We’ll just talk.”

“All right,” he says. “Maybe it’ll help me unwind.”

She is steady, thoughtful. What she tells him makes sense. He had always thought of faith as blind acceptance.

“It’s a game, Harry,” she says. “Or, if you wish, it’s theater. A part to play. Faith is like civility. Make-believe. It’s very difficult to be polite and courteous to strangers. Or to people you dislike and can’t respect. But without civility, life becomes vile and brutish. And without faith it becomes nothing. Meaningless. Just putting in your time. Like a prison sentence.”

“I don’t think I could pretend a faith. In anything.”

She smiles. “You’d be surprised. It becomes a habit. Like breathing. Unconscious. Automatic. After a while, when you stop questioning, you just accept. Then it’s always there.”

“Are you proselyting me?”

“I guess you could call it that. You’re obviously unhappy. I want you to be happy. Is that so awful?”

“Of course it’s not awful,” he says. Taking her hand. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.”

“I’m going to keep nagging you,” she warns.

“Do that. You’re the sweetest nagger I’ve ever met. Getting tired? Shall we turn back?”

“I think so.”

“We can have a cold drink on the patio,” he offers.

“And then?”

“We’ll let nature take its course.”

“Excellent idea,” she says. “Would you like me to stay over?”

“Please. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You won’t be. Ever.”

22

T
he debriefing goes badly. Briscoe is a pit bull; he keeps snapping.

“Why did you go to his place?” he asks Sally Abaddon. For the third time. “Why didn’t you take him to your motel? You knew Yama and I were waiting in the parking lot. We wanted it all on tape.”

“I told you,” she says. “He insisted we go to his home. If I had fought him, the evening would have come to a screeching halt right then.”

“That makes sense,” Shelby Yama says.

“No,” Briscoe says, “it does not make sense. Sally, you claim that you’ve got Dancer hooked, that he’ll follow your lead. So?”

“What difference does it make?” Sally says. “He wanted to go back to his place. We went. I fucked his brains out. And got a commitment from him to take me out of the Tipple Inn. Keep me. Five hundred a week. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Briscoe stares at her. “If Tischman hadn’t reported, we wouldn’t have known where you were. We’d have been sitting in that damned parking lot all night. From now on, you obey orders—exactly.”

She throws him a mock salute. “Yes, sir!” she says. Then: “I’m seeing him tonight, and I’ve got to get dressed. Can I leave now?”