The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

“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

  Case 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.

  “I think it’s going well,” Yama says. “Don’t you?”

  “So far,” Briscoe says.

  “I have some wild TV cassettes,” Sally Abaddon tells Dancer. “Would you like to watch? Put you in the mood.”

  “No,” he says. “Thanks. I don’t need them. I’m in the mood.”

  “I thought you were,” she says. Unbuttoning his shirt.

  “Hey,” he says, “let me do the work.”

  “Whatever turns you on,” she says. Rubbing knuckles lightly on his cheek.

  He unzips her. Slowly.

  “Oh!” he says. “My!”

  “You like the merchan
dise?”

  “I love the merchandise!”

  Puts his drink aside. Bows his head. Touches his lips to her breasts.

  “Manna,” he says.

  “Don’t be afraid to hurt me,” she says. “I won’t break.”

  “Why would I want to hurt you?”

  He stands shakily. Undresses. She wriggles out of her opened robe. Falls back on the gently heaving bed. Splays her long hair over two pillows. Inspects him.

  “Look what’s happening to you,” she says.

  “Sorry about that.”

  She smiles lazily. “Never apologize for that. You’re sure you want to do the work?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Do I get my turn later?”

  “If you like. We’ll see.”

  He finds what he seeks in her body. Grief is banished. Memories fade. Her flesh narcotizes him. One erect nipple becomes a universe. He wants to dwell in her.

  “What perfume are you using?” he asks.

  “Something special. Do you like it?”

  “It’s different. Exciting.”

  “Smell here,” she says. Moving his head down with her palms. “There. I doused myself. Good?”

  “Oh yes,” he says. Not sure. A troubling scent.

  He is a tender lover. Wanting to give her joy. She moves gently with content.

  “Sweet,” she says. “So sweet. I love you.”

  “Is that in the script?” Briscoe demands in the parking lot.

  “Well…no,” case officer Yama admits. “Not exactly. But she has permission to improvise. She’s an old hand at this. She knows what she’s doing.”

  Briscoe doesn’t reply.

  “Roll over,” Harry Dancer says. “Let me kiss your beautiful back.”

  He straddles her. Softly massages neck, shoulders.

  “Magic hands,” she murmurs. Eyes closed.

  He bends down to drift lips along her spine, ribs.

  “You’re too much,” she says.

  He has learned from Sylvia. Sylvia—his dead wife. He knows the places. The touches. He kisses. Kisses. And caresses.

  “Oh…” she breathes. “Where have you been all my life?”

  “Your two hundred and forty-six years?” he asks. Thinking her reactions are faked. Whore’s talk.

  “That’s right. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I don’t like this,” Briscoe says. Listening in the black Mercedes. “She’s deviating too far from the scenario.”

  “Give her time,” Shelby Yama says. “She’s just going along with him.”

  “I don’t like it,” Briscoe repeats. “I believe she’s losing control.”

  “I think now would be a good time,” Harry Dancer says. “Don’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” she says. Rolling over to face him. “Please.”

  Her arms are strong about his back. Muscled thighs clasp him. Close, they stare into each other’s eyes.

  Technique deserts him. He is free and soaring. Outside his rational self. Finding the oblivion he needs.

  She holds his face in her palms. Making no effort to kiss his lips. Her body becomes inflamed. Scent stronger. She moves in anguished thrusts. Eyes closed.

  He is dimly conscious of her heat. Searing fire. Looking down, he sees her flesh harden. Become rigid. She changes before his eyes. Quintessential passion. Lips drawn back from gleaming teeth. Breasts flinty. Vaginal muscles pulling at him.

  He is suddenly fearful. Death is here. He surrenders with a sob. She rises to meet him. Their sharp yelps…

  “Got him,” Shelby Yama says. With satisfaction. Glances at his watch. “A little over a half-hour. He’ll never be the same. Right, Briscoe?”

  “We’ll see,” the other man says. “This is just the start.”

  Dancer doesn’t move away. He lies atop her. Strokes her hair. Face. Nuzzles her neck.

  “Sally,” he says. “Sally.”

  She opens her eyes. Flesh of face and body softening. Death’s-head gone. Looks at him with wonderment.

  “Are you really you?” she asks.

  He laughs. “No, I’m Jack the Ripper. Of course I am me. What kind of a question is that to ask?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Are you all right?” he says. Anxiously.

  “If I felt any better I’d be unconscious.”

  “May I take a shower now?”

  “No,” she says. “Let me give you a tongue bath.”

  The two men in the parking lot listen to the talk and sounds for another hour. Then, when Dancer leaves, Shelby Yama switches off the receiver.

  “Good, good, good,” he says. Rubbing his palms. “He’s hooked. He’ll be back again.”

  “I don’t know…” Briscoe says. “The tone was off. Something wrong there.”

  “Wrong? What could be wrong? She followed orders, didn’t she?”

  “Oh yes. She did her job. But some of her responses bother me. What did she mean by, ‘Are you really you’?”

  “I don’t know,” Yama says. Puzzled. “That bothered me, too. I’ll ask her about it.”

  “You do that,” Briscoe says. “I’d hate to lose that lady.”

  10

  Case officer Anthony Glitner finds his heavy by the simple expedient of looking up “Detective Agencies” in the Pompano Beach Yellow Pages. The first three he visits are unsatisfactory: their organizations are too large, too legitimate. They are more interested in providing security services than personal investigations. And they’re not hungry enough.

  On the fourth try, he finds the man he wants. Herman K. Tischman. Retired New Jersey cop. But young enough that Glitner figures he has been nudged into retirement. For whatever reason. Squat, thick man with caterpillar eyebrows. Lips browned from the cigars he chews. And hungry.

  He runs a one-man office on Federal Highway. “Domestic investigations our specialty.” His fee is a hundred a day, plus expenses.

  “You have a permit to carry a handgun?” Glitner asks him.

  “Uh-huh. But why ask? You say this is a cheating husband thing. Why would I need a piece?”

  “You never know,” the case officer says. “The man’s name is Harry Dancer. I’ll leave you his home address, business address, and a photo. See what he’s up to. We’ll meet again in a few days and decide what to do next.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tischman says. Chomping his cold cigar. “Three bills in advance would be nice.”

  They meet four days later.

  “Yeah,” the investigator says. Flipping pages of a pocket notebook. “The guy’s playing around. At a motel. The bimbo is named Sally Abaddon. A nude go-goer at the Tipple Inn. Skin for hire.”

  “That’s fine,” Tony Glitner says. “That’s what we wanted to know.”

  “You want me to keep on it?”

  “Oh yes. We don’t want to stop now.”

  “Uh-huh,” Herman K. Tischman says. Examining the wet butt of his chewed cigar. “You told me this is a possible divorce action. Mrs. Dancer figures her husband is cheating. You’re her lawyer.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Funny,” Tischman says. “The wife has been dead for almost two months now. If you’re a lawyer, you’re not licensed to practice in the State of Florida. Also, while I was planted in that motel parking lot, I saw two other guys on a stakeout. Black Mercedes. What’s going on here?”

  “You really want to know?” Glitner asks.

  “Sure, if it means my ass. Is it drugs?”

  “No. Not drugs. This Dancer is the trustee of a family fund. I represent the children of the decedent. They’re trying to prove that Dancer is not morally fit to administer the trust. Preparatory to bringing suit.”

  “Who were the guys in the Mercedes?”

  “I have no idea. They could have been waiting for a friend.”

  The detective stares at him a long time.

  “Two hundred a day,” he says. “Plus expenses.”

  “All right,” Glitner says.

  The case
officer meets with Evelyn Heimdall. Repeats what Tischman told him.

  “The Others have the first round,” he says. Bitterly. “Ev. we’ve got to move on this.”

  “Not to worry,” she says. “Dancer is coming over tonight for dinner.”

  “Good. It’s heating up. I’ve asked Headquarters for information on this Sally Abaddon. The detective is going to try to get a photograph.”

  Heimdall leans forward to pat his cheek.

  “Relax, Tony,” she says. “It’s just the beginning.”

  “She’s a nude dancer,” he says. Mournfully.

  The agent laughs. “We have our weapons, too. Don’t we?”

  Harry Dancer shows up at Evelyn Heimdall’s apartment carrying a bottle of Frangelico.

  “Greeks bearing gifts,” he says.

  “Why should I beware of you?” she says. Smiling. “You don’t scare me.”

  “I don’t? Good. What a great apartment!”

  It is. Fifty yards from the beach. Fronting the ocean. Living room, bedroom, bath, kitchen. And a fine east terrace, wide enough for chairs, lounges, a cocktail table. Sixth floor.

  “Beautiful view,” he enthuses. Standing at the railing. “Looks like you could dive into the water.”

  “No, thanks,” she says. “But notice that no one else can look onto my terrace. I can suntan out here in the altogether.”

  “Watch out for helicopter pilots,” he warns.

  He thinks her apartment charming. Clear. Airy. Lots of Victorian wicker. Ceiling fan. Everything open and clean. Thin billowing drapes. Basket of fresh fruit. Flowers everywhere. Floors tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard. With a few worn oriental rugs.

  She serves gin martinis and tiny, chilled crab claws. On the terrace.

  “I may just move in,” he says.

  “Please do,” she says. “I better warn you: you’re going to be a guinea pig tonight. I’ve made a—a what? Kind of a stew, I guess. I invented it. Chunks of chicken breast, spicy sausage, little shrimp. All sauteed with garlic, scallion greens, sweet red pepper, and little bits of this and that. With enough white wine so we can spoon it onto rice.”

  “I’ve already gained five pounds,” he says. “Just listening. Do you want to talk investments tonight?”

  “Not really. Do you?”

  “No way! I get enough of that at the office. Were you born in New Jersey?”

  “Maine. My father was a minister. And please don’t ask me how long ago that was; I don’t like to think about it.”