The Loves of Harry Dancer (7 page)

While she’s gone, he takes off his jacket. Tie. Lies contentedly on a lounge. Drink held on his chest. Stares up at the tilting sky. Stars in their dance. He tells himself he is feeling no pain. No pain. Wonderful!

She comes back in a loose white terry robe. Buttoned down the front. She is barefoot. Nudges him with a knee.

“Skooch over,” she says.

He moves to one side. She lies down on his lounge. Close to him.

“We’ll fall off,” he warns.

“So?” she says. “Who cares?”

He laughs. Puts his drink down on the tiles. Pulls her closer to him.

“Not if we cuddle,” he says. “Do you like to cuddle?”

“I love to cuddle. My favorite sport.”

“After tennis?”

“Before tennis.”

He kisses the tip of her nose. Thinking that sometimes it’s grand to be foolish.

“Full moon,” he says. “Almost.”

“Do you sprout fangs? Thick hair on the backs of your hands? Howl?”

“How did you know?”

She presses closer. They are on their sides. Entwined. Stares locked. Enraptured. Suddenly, without warning, he begins to weep. Silently. Tears plop from his eyes. He tries to pull away. She will not release him.

“Sorry,” he says. Voice choked.

“It’s all right, Harry,” she soothes.

He reaches down for his brandy. Takes a deep belt. Inhales.

“What brought that on?” he asks. “I don’t know.”

She strokes his face. Wipes away tears with a knuckle.

“I did it all the time,” she says. “At first. After a while it stops.”

“I feel like an idiot.”

“No. Just human. You’re not a werewolf after all.”

He smiles. Holds her face. Kisses her forehead. Cheeks. Nose. Closed eyes. Her lips.

“Oh…” he breathes, “you’re so good for me, Ev.”

“Yes,” she says. “And you for me.”

“Partners in sorrow.”

“Partners in hope.”

He unbuttons the top of her robe. Her breasts are full. Tanned. Pinkish nipples. He bends his head. Tongue busy.

“You don’t like the other one?” she asks.

He laughs. “You’re too much. I love the other one.”

Proves it.

“Harry,” she says, “what are you doing with all your clothes on?”

“Out here?” he asks.

“Why not? No one can see.”

“Except God,” he says. Undressing.

“He’ll approve,” she says.

18

I
n Cleveland, the Department’s comptroller, a viperish man, is examining regional vouchers. Sees immediately that the Southeast Region is over budget. Reviews their expenditures. Finds that the Harry Dancer operation accounts for most of the overrun.

He finally locates the Chairman in the War Room. Planted before a national map on a Plexiglass wall. Lights indicate ongoing actions. Operators sit at a battery of consoles, updating intelligence. An oversized digital counter shows number of current campaigns, and daily, weekly, monthly, annual failures and successes.

“A moment of your time, sir,” the comptroller says. Bending to whisper.

“What?” the Chairman says. Jerking his leonine head around. “Oh, very well. What is it, Acheron?”

“The Southeast Region is dreadfully over budget, sir. Mostly due to a single campaign. Harry Dancer.”

The Chairman snaps his fingers at the floor supervisor.

“Nick,” he calls, “bring me an update on Harry Dancer. Southeast Region.”

In a moment the supervisor comes running. Trailing a long computer printout. The Chairman scans it swiftly.

“Progressing well,” he says. “Let it run.”

“You approve the expenditures, sir?” the comptroller says. Nervously.

The Chairman looks at him. “I approve. Do you wish a written and signed authorization?”

“Oh no, sir, that won’t be necessary. I would just like to call the Chairman’s attention to our current cash-flow problem.”

“Don’t tell me we’re going broke?”

“Ha-ha,” the comptroller tries to laugh. Cracking his face in a bleak smile. “Nothing like that. Our endowment is more than adequate. And current contributions are on target. It’s just that we’re a bit strapped for cash at the moment.”

“That’s your problem, isn’t it, Acheron?” the Chairman says. “I know I can depend upon you to solve it in your usual efficient manner. I can depend on you, can’t I?”

“Oh yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. Get on it right away.”

The comptroller scuttles off. The Chairman rereads the printout on Harry Dancer. Interesting case. Makes him recall his career as field agent, case officer, and the Department’s chief executive officer. Before he rose to his present preeminent position.

There are a few things he might do differently. But generally, he feels, the Regional Director is running a good chase. Eliminating Jeremy Blaine apparently closed the leak. Turning Herman K. Tischman was a real coup. And Sally Abaddon has never failed. Plus Briscoe.

Still, the Chairman is troubled. Something is not quite kosher. He knows that fussy little Chief of Operations in Corporation headquarters. He has fought him before. Knows how dangerous it would be to underestimate him.

He goes back to the printout again. Studies the moves. Countermoves.

The Chairman is a grossly obese man. Sitting in a thronelike chair reinforced with steel braces. He moves as little as possible. He requires assistance to stand up. But no fat around his brain. That is lean, hard, precise.

He beckons the floor supervisor again.

“Nick,” he says, “I want to speak to the Director of the Southeast Region. Set it up.”

Five minutes later the phone is brought to him.

“The Regional Director is on the line, sir,” Nick says.

“Scrambled?”

“Of course, sir.”

The Chairman waits until Nick is out of earshot. He trusts no one.

“Director?” he says.

“Here, sir,” a tinny voice, scrambled and unscrambled, comes back.

“What did we eat the last time we met?”

“Broiled quail, sir.”

“Good,” the Chairman says. Fat face creasing with pleasure. “I just wanted to be certain I am not talking to an imposter.”

“Very wise, sir.”

“Director, you are over budget.”

“I am aware of that, sir. I believe the importance of the Dancer operation justifies it.”

“I agree. But try to keep your expenditures as modest as possible. You’re convinced that the elimination of Jeremy Blaine plugged your leak?”

“I am, Chairman.”

“I am not. Humor an old man, Director, but I’ve been around a long time. I have a feeling we’ve been blindsided. I want you to try another ploy. Who knows that the Corporation’s private detective has been turned?”

“Tischman? Only Briscoe and I know about that, sir.”

“Good. I want you to inform all personnel with knowledge of the Dancer operation that Tischman has been turned. Let’s see what happens.”

Silence.

“Director? Are you still there?”

“I’m here, sir. You feel we may still have a leak?”

“I believe it’s possible.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll do as you suggest.”

“Not suggest, Director. Order.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And watch those expenses,” the Chairman says. “Your only justification will be success.”

The Regional Director knows a threat when he hears one.

“I understand, sir,” he says.

19

“I
don’t like that Briscoe,” Sally Abaddon says. “He’s a sod.”

“Well…yeah,” Shelby Yama says. “He’s a heavy. But that’s his job. And he’s good at it.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at me. Keep him away from me, Shel.”

“I’ll try, baby. But the guy swings a lot of weight. He and the Director are buddy-buddy. To tell you the truth, I don’t like the way he looks at me. I guess it’s just his style; he’s suspicious of everyone.”

“You think he’s working for Internal Security?”

“Could be. But we’ve got nothing to worry about, have we?”

Sally Abaddon has something to worry about. But unless Briscoe is a mind reader, he’s never going to find out.

They’re in Sally’s motel room. Yama is helping her dress for an evening with Harry Dancer.

Her first date with him had been a disaster. She had worn a short, slinky shift of blue-green sequins. Cut low. Pumps with hooker heels. Long blond hair tousled about her shoulders. Thick makeup. She had seen in his eyes that it was all a mistake. After dinner, he drove her home and dropped her. Pleading an early morning business meeting.

“You came on too strong,” Yama tells her at the debriefing. “He thinks of you as the nude dancer from the Tipple Inn. A whore. That’s okay, he’ll go along with that—in private. But in public, he wants a lady. The guy’s known around here; he’s got a reputation to uphold. What if he meets some of his blue-nosed clients while he’s having dinner with an obvious bimbo two months after his wife died? They’d have pulled their accounts the next morning. We’ve got to dress you like a goody-goody. First, he won’t worry about being embarrassed if he’s seen with you. Second, he’ll remember what’s under the Miss Prim costume, and he’ll get more excited.”

“You know, Shel,” she says, “you’re not bad.”

They spend two hours preparing her. Long hair up in braids. Minimal makeup. Billowy gown of printed chiffon. High at the neck. Loose, flowing skirt. White pantyhose. Demure shoes with low heels.

Yama inspects her.

“Fantastic,” he says. “You look like you’re going to a prom. All you need is a wrist corsage. Baby, you’re just right. You’ll knock him dead.”

“I’ll try to bring him back here,” she says. Then, casually, “You’re going to record tonight?”

“I don’t see any point in it,” Yama says. “But Briscoe insists on it. We’ll be waiting in the parking lot.”

“Have fun,” she says.

When Dancer shows up in his silver BMW, she looks for his reaction. Sees that Yama is right on target.

“You’re beautiful!” Dancer bursts out. “I was going to suggest a rib joint. But not with you dressed like that. Let’s go to the club; I want to show you off.”

On the drive up to Boca Raton, he keeps talking about how marvelous she looks. How happy he is to be with her. How impressed his friends will be.

“They’ll think I’m robbing the cradle,” he says. Laughing.

She smiles. Puts a hand on his knee.

The club’s dining room is all shadows. Dark wainscoting and red velvet. Lighted candles, fresh flowers on the tables. Hushed chamber with tiptoeing waiters, quiet whisper of voices. “Good evening, Mr. Dancer. Nice to see you again, sir. Yes, Mr. Dancer. Of course, sir. Right this way, please. Is this table satisfactory, Mr. Dancer?”

He waves to several acquaintances. Sally is conscious of the stir she is causing. People turn to stare. Women put on glasses to get a better look.

“We’re giving them something to talk about,” Dancer says.

“So I notice. Does it bother you, Harry?”

“Bother me? You kidding? I’m proud of you.”

They order Beefeater martinis, up. Touch rims.

“Here’s to—what?” he asks.

“Us,” she says.

“I’ll drink to that.”

They study the menus. Bound in plush with golden cords.

“They have Maine lobster,” Dancer says. “Broiled, if you like. Interested?”

“Why don’t you order for us, Harry? I like everything.”

“What would you say to a steak salad? It’s cold, charcoal-grilled sirloin cut into thin slices. With hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, cukes, radishes, mushrooms, capers, croutons, and a lot of other swell stuff. Bibb lettuce. Want to try it?”

“Sounds devilishly good,” she drawls. Imitation of English accent.

He laughs. “Then that’s what we’ll have. With a bottle of new Beaujolais.”

They order. And have another martini. A friend drops by. Dancer introduces Sally Abaddon. Then two men. A couple. Two women. They are all introduced. Chat a moment. Sally is treated cordially.

“You’re lovely, child,” an elderly lady says.

“Thank you,” Sally says. Casting her eyes downward.

“You’re a success,” Dancer tells her.

“Shall I take off all my clothes and dance naked on our table?”

He rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be wicked? What a scene that would be! Want to do it?”

“Later,” she says. Groping him under the table. “A private performance only for you.”

They stay at the table for almost two hours. Have coffee. Then move to the oak bar. Dancer orders green Chartreuse.

“Try it,” he urges.

She sips. “What is it?”

“Good for what ails you. It’s made by monks.”

“Monks? I think I’ll skip. Will you finish mine?”

“Sure. What would you like instead?”

“I’d like a Devil’s Tail. If the bartender doesn’t know how. I’ll tell him how to mix it.”

She does. Rum, vodka, lime juice, grenadine, and apricot brandy. Blended with crushed ice. Served in a champagne glass with a lime wedge.

“That I’ve got to taste,” Dancer says. Then: “Wow! If I had two of those you’d have to call the paramedics. Where did you hear about it?”

“Oh…” she says. “I forget who told me.”

They wander out. Holding hands. Valet brings the BMW around. Overcast night. Rumble of thunder to the south. Daggers of lightning.

“I think we’re in for it,” Harry says. “But it probably won’t last long. Just a squall.”

“I love storms,” Sally says. “Don’t you? All that crashing. The world cracking apart.”

“You’re a strange one. I thought you like hot sun and white beaches.”

“I do. But storms are nice, too. I dream of wandering out in a storm naked. Wind against my skin. Getting drenched.”

“And getting zapped by a bolt of lightning.”

“Not me,” she says. “I’m indestructible.”

They drive in silence. Rain begins spattering.

“Where to?” he asks.

She considers a moment. Thinking of Yama and Briscoe in the parking lot.

“Not my place,” she says. “How about yours? I’ve never seen it. Okay?”

“Sure,” he says. But he isn’t sure. In his bed? Sylvia’s bed? “Let’s go,” he says.

By the time they get to his beachfront home the streets are flooded. Lightning is crackling overhead. Thunder snaps a whip all around them. He drives into the carport.

Across A1A, Herman K. Tischman pulls his ratty car onto the spongy verge. Cuts lights and engine. Opens the window a crack. Strips the wrapper from a cheap cigar. Begins to chew. Watching the house.