The Loves of Harry Dancer (9 page)

Briscoe lets her go. He sits there, scrubbing his scalp with his knuckles. “I don’t like it,” he tells Yama. “She’s lying. I think she may be getting personally involved.”

“Sally?” the case officer says. “Never! You know her record. How long she’s been in the field. She hasn’t failed yet.”

“There’s always a first time,” Briscoe says. “There’s a lot riding on this, Yama; we can’t be too careful. I want you to—” He stops suddenly. “No,” he says, “that’s all right; I’ll handle it myself.”

He finds Herman K. Tischman in his office. The private detective is on the phone. He hangs up. Turns to Briscoe. Face blanched.

“My little girl is sick,” he says. “Very high fever. That was my wife on the phone. She says the doctor wants to put Mary Jane in the hospital.”

“Tough,” Briscoe says. “Where’s Dancer?”

“In his office. He never leaves before six.”

“You’ll pick him up then?”

“Well, uh, I want to get over to the hospital. For a while. But yeah, I’ll pick him up at six.”

“Okay. Now, two things…First, when you report to Glitner, I don’t want you to say anything about Sally Abaddon. As far as you’re concerned, Dancer isn’t seeing her anymore.”

The PI peels cellophane from a fresh cigar. Bites down on it. “Won’t Glitner think that’s funny?”

“What’s funny about it? He’ll figure Abaddon is a tramp. Dancer had a few one-night stands with her, and then gave her the brush. It makes sense.”

“What the hell is going on here?” Tischman cries.

Briscoe glares at him. “You like the money, don’t you? You need the money—your little girl in the hospital and all. So don’t ask questions. The second thing is this: I want Dancer’s home wired. Bugs in the phones that’ll pick up calls and interior conversations. Especially the bedroom. You know any techs who could do that?”

“Well, yeah, I know a couple of guys. But it’ll cost.”

“I didn’t figure on getting it free. I want it as soon as possible. Like tomorrow.”

“I’ll try,” Tischman says.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Briscoe says. “Get it done.”

Two days later, the condition of Mary Jane Tischman has worsened. She isn’t responding to antibiotics. She is aflame with fever. She is packed in ice, but doctors cannot control the fire. They no longer say: “Serious.” Now they say: “Critical.”

Anthony Glitner arrives at Tischman’s office just as the investigator is leaving.

“I can’t talk to you now,” the detective says.

“I’ve got to get to the hospital.”

“The hospital? What’s wrong?”

“My little girl. She’s very sick.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What is it?”

“You think anyone knows?” Tischman says. “Those smart high-priced doctors, they can’t do a thing. She’s dying, and all they can say is, Let’s try this or let’s try that. Nothing works. Jesus! Mary Jane is twelve years old. If she goes, my wife’s life is down the drain. And mine, too.”

“That’s terrible,” Glitner says. “Listen, if the doctors give up on your little girl, give me a call. I know a man who’s had amazing success with cases like that.”

“No kidding? A doctor?”

“Not exactly. He doesn’t have a degree. Can’t practice medicine. He calls himself a healer. A faith healer. But it really works.”

“What does he do?”

“He’ll just put a hand on Mary Jane’s forehead and say a prayer. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it works. Besides, what have you got to lose?”

“Yeah, you’re right. Let me talk to my wife about it. This guy charges?”

“Not much. You’ll be able to handle it. Easily.”

Next morning, Glitner gets a frantic call from Herman K. Tischman. The investigator is weeping.

“She’s going,” he reports. “In a coma. My Mary Jane. The docs can’t do nothing. Could you bring that guy of yours around? The healer?”

“We’ll be right there,” Glitner promises.

Willoughby is a tall man. Thin. Gangling.

Lumpy Adam’s apple. Wearing black suit, white shirt, black string tie. Carries a Bible under his arm. He smells faintly of incense.

“Let him in,” the resident physician says. “Let them all in. Whatever gives them comfort.”

Tischman, his wife, Glitner, Willoughby—all cluster about Mary Jane’s bed. Staring down at that still form. The healer places his palm against the child’s forehead.

“Lord God,” he intones, “listen to my prayer.”

His lips move. They all stand silently. Heads bowed. After a few moments, Willoughby takes his hand away. Lowers the Bible to press it against Mary Jane’s parched lips.

“It is done,” he says.

Glitner and Willoughby sit patiently in the waiting room. One hour. Almost two. Then Herman K. Tischman comes rushing in. Face alight.

“Her temperature’s down!” he shouts. “She’s going to make it.” He grabs up their hands. Won’t let go. Then he embraces Willoughby. Begins crying. “She’s all right. The docs say she’s going to be all right. The fever has broken. Thank you, thank you, thank you. How can I ever repay you?”

“I’ll tell you,” Anthony Glitner says.

23

T
he Chairman of the Department, in Cleveland headquarters, follows developments in the Harry Dancer case with intense interest. Tischman is still on the job. So the Chairman assumes the leak in the Southeast Region really has been plugged by the elimination of Jeremy Blaine.

That is good. What is bad is Briscoe’s uncertainty about Sally Abaddon. The Chairman knows full well the importance of the field agent. He or she is the essential pivot on which the whole operation turns. If Sally has been compromised—by the Corporation or her own weakness—the Dancer campaign is lost.

The Chairman approves the expenditure for the bugging of Dancer’s home. Smart move. It should prove or disprove the validity of Briscoe’s doubts. Apparently all is going well. But the fat man cannot rid himself of the irritating suspicion that he is being outmaneuvered by that belching bastard in Corporation headquarters.

He is angered by his distance from the scene of action. Having been in the field so many years himself, he knows how often operational reports are falsified, exaggerated, or just incomplete. The agent knows what is happening. The case officer learns a portion of that. And headquarters is informed of a part of that. Intelligence dribbles away as it moves up the chain of command.

The Chairman, seated before the war map in his reinforced throne, pulls at his rubbery lips and ponders the case of Harry Dancer. Then he snaps his fingers for the floor supervisor.

He sends a coded message to the Director of the Southeast Region. He requests a report on anything unusual, puzzling, or unexpected in the personal lives of people involved in the Dancer action.

It is not much, the Chairman acknowledges.

But it is all he can do at the moment to calm his fears. Cover all bases. If he is to lose, it will not be from lack of trying. He does not wish to report failure, due to inaction, to his superiors. He knows the consequences.

24

I
f Harry Dancer cannot understand Sally Abaddon, he has company: she cannot understand herself.

She recognizes what she is risking. Eternal youth. Beauty. The excitement of evil. But something is stirring. A want she can’t define. Vague longing. A wish for—what?

She searches Dancer’s face. Trying to find the answer there. He is handsome. But she has known handsomer men. He is a good lover. But she has known better. He is kind, gentle, considerate. She has corrupted a hundred men with the same qualities. So what is it?

She doesn’t know. Can’t label it. Gives up trying. But the chemistry is there. Seducing her. Warm softness. A hint of something better. Not thrilling, but satisfying. And dangerous.

She wonders if it may be just boredom. Weariness with the sameness of her life. Perhaps, before endangering herself, she should ask for a transfer. Even a vacation. Would that renew her resolve? She doubts it. She is conscious of slow, deep movement. A fault slipping. And then the earthquake. A holiday could not stop it.

She is aware of Briscoe’s doubts. That cold man suspects something is happening to her. She takes precautions. In bed at the motel, she puts her mouth close to Harry Dancer’s ear, whispers, “I love you.” Knowing it will not be overheard and recorded by those voyeurs in the parking lot.

“I love you,” she whispers. And when he starts to respond, she puts a soft finger on his lips.

The scenario calls for his sexual enslavement. Old plot. High success rate. But this time she finds the script offensive. Not so much what his total subjugation will do to him, but what it will do to her. Crushing the thing she feels growing, moving.

But then fear arises. If she tempers her passion, can she hold him? Keep him? Not for the Department, but for herself. For the first time in her long life she is unsure. Riven. Sex has always been her weapon. Now it becomes a snare.

“I love you,” she whispers. Running a palm over his naked body. Feeling pound of heart. Surge of blood. Touching muscle. Probing secret, shadowed corners. She would like to be in him. Completely. Enveloped and gone. Disappeared in his tissue. A part of him.

She sits astride. Bends to stare into his eyes. Her hair falls around. A tent. She holds his face within her hands.

“Darling,” she whispers. “Sweetheart. I love you.”

Treachery. She knows it.

25

T
he Fatal Illness ploy is a complete success. Herman K. Tischman is tripled. Anthony Glitner reports that the PI, in gratitude for the life of his daughter, agrees to inform the Corporation of Harry Dancer’s activities before telling Briscoe. And will censor the intelligence passed to the Department as Glitner dictates.

Tischman’s first revelation is that Dancer is now keeping Sally Abaddon. Seeing her two or three times a week. And the Department has wired Dancer’s home. With the capability of overhearing and recording telephone calls and interior conversations.

The Chief of Operations is pleased with the turning of Tischman. He is not so pleased to learn of Dancer’s closer relationship with Sally Abaddon. And he is puzzled by the bugging of the subject’s home. With the Department apparently succeeding in the debauching of Harry Dancer, what is the need? The Chief doesn’t know.

He makes certain case officer Glitner informs his agent of this new development. That whatever she says, and does, in Dancer’s house will be shared by the Department. Then the Chief retires to his hideaway. Kneels at his antique prie-dieu. Prays for enlightenment.

Evelyn Heimdall, being informed, cajoles Harry Dancer into coming back to her apartment after a sinfully fattening dinner of grilled sweetbreads and bratwurst with bacon.

“We could go to my place,” he offers.

“Not after that dinner,” she says. “I must have gained five pounds. I want to get into something loose and flowing before I start popping buttons.”

“It was good, wasn’t it? We should have skipped the Key lime pie, but I couldn’t resist it.”

They sit on the balcony. Groaning with content. Watch a shimmering moon track. And far out, bobbing lights of fishing boats.

“This place is like a travel poster,” she says. “And I’m right in the middle of it.”

“Glad you came here, Ev?”

“I never want to live anywhere else.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Some people can’t adjust. The tropical heat. The indolence. The manana philosophy. They think it’s corrupting.”

“Do you think it is?”

“Lord, no! I work as hard down here as I did in Manhattan. But I relax more—when I get the chance.”

They lie on adjoining couches. She reaches for his hand.

“Maybe I feel a teensy-weensy bit of corruption,” she says. “But I prefer to think of it as thawing. It’s as if I’m learning what pleasure and joy are like—after all these years.”

“You never felt pleasure or joy before?”

“Of course I did. But it was planned. Structured. We’ll go to a Broadway play on Thursday night. We’ll have a picnic on Saturday. We’ll drive to the shore on Sunday. That was pleasure and joy—usually. But they were brief incidents. Here it becomes your whole life. You begin to understand that you can be continually happy. I don’t mean there aren’t disappointments and aggravations. But they seem so minor, really meaningless, compared to the sun, sand, sea. Or a night like this. Am I making any sense at all, Harry?”

“Sure you are. You’re well on your way to becoming a lotus-eater.”

“Oh, Harry!”

“I recognize the symptoms,” he says. “I live on the beach; I see what happens. Women come down here from up north, and for the first six months they wear a one-piece bathing suit with ruffles and a skirt. Then they switch to a two-piece suit. Navel covered, of course. Within a year they’re wearing the tiniest bikini they can find.”

She laughs. “I bought one today. I’m afraid to wear it in public.”

“You’ll wear it,” he assures her. “My friend, Jeremy Blaine, died recently. Since then his widow has been wearing nothing but black bikinis. Florida mourning. But the size of your bathing suit is just an outward indication of what’s going on inside. As you said, a thawing. A more animal approach to life. Learning to loosen up. Completely. Taste food. Enjoy drinks. And discovering how to avoid hassles. Or ignore them.”

“Did all that happen to you?”

“Sure it did. Until Sylvia died, and I was jerked back into the real world.”

“I don’t know…” she says. “I’m getting to the point where I’m not sure what the real world is. Is it sorrow and pain and suffering, or is it what we have right now?”

“Good question. I wish I had the answer, but I don’t.”

“I just feel sexier,” she says. “Does that shock you?”

“Of course not. Delighted to hear it.”

She is silent. Realizing she isn’t following the scenario. Tony Glitner will be furious. But at the moment her case officer’s anger seems unimportant. She just doesn’t want to proselytize. Suddenly faith is a foreign language.

“I have the makings of a brandy stinger,” she says.

“That’ll do it. You’ll never get me out of here.”

“That’s the idea.”

In her bed, she leans over him and says, “You are a nice man. A nice, nice man.”

“That’s the stinger talking.”