The Loves of Harry Dancer

by Lawrence Sanders

  Harry comes back into the kitchen. Has another gin. Larger. Finds he is clenching his fists. Praying he can get through this evening without breaking. Takes a deep breath. Stalks about the empty house. Wondering what kind of role she wants him to play.

  When he walks into the club, he sees her at the far end of the bar. Finishing a vodka gimlet. He stops suddenly. She is wearing the same dress she wore on their first date. Short-hemmed sheath of silver lame. He didn’t know she still had it. Marvels that it fits so beautifully.

  Takes a chair two seats away from her. The bartender comes over. He knows them. Looks quizzically from husband to wife. Separated. Makes no comment.

  “Good evening, James,” Harry says. “Beefeater on the rocks, please.”

  When the drink is served, he glances at Sylvia, then says to the bartender, “Would you ask the lady if I might buy her a drink.”

  James, figuring he’s in the middle of a family squabble, moves over to speak to Sylvia. Comes back to Dancer.

  “Sorry, sir. The lady says to thank you for the offer, but she’ll buy her own.”

  Harry nods. Watches while James mixes a fresh gimlet for Sylvia. The two sit there without speaking. Occasionally glancing at each other in the bar mirror. Then quickly looking away.

  He sees her take out a pack of long Benson and Hedges menthols. Searched through her tapestried bag for matches. Looks about helplessly. Harry is at her elbow in an instant. Flourishing his lighter.

  “Allow me,” he says.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sylvia says. Very cool.

  He holds the flame for her. Hand trembling slightly.

  “Are you a member?” he asks. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you here before.”

  “A new member.”

  “I’m sure you’re going to like it. My name is Harry Dancer. May I join you?”

  “If you wish.”

  He brings his drink. Takes the chair next to her. The bartender looks on approvingly.

  “That’s a lovely dress you’re wearing,” Harry says. “Did you get it in Florida?”

  “No. Manhattan.”

  “Oh? Are you from New York? I used to live there.”

  “I’ve never lived there, but I go up two or three times a year on shopping sprees.”

  “Do you play tennis?”

  “Oh yes. That’s why I joined the club.”

  It is a pickup. Questions and answers. Learning about each other. They talk weather, tennis, Florida beaches, restaurants. She tells him her name. Sylvia Lloyd.

  “May I buy you a drink, Sylvia?” he asks.

  “Thank you, Harry,” she says. “That would be nice.”

  They have dinner at the club. Young strangers meeting for the first time. And after a while it becomes real. The tension. Will she or won’t she? Will he or won’t he? Excitement and fright. Hope and fear of rejection.

  Over coffee and brandy, he says, “Do you live nearby, Sylvia?”

  “Quite near. I walked over here. I have a small condo, but I’m looking for something larger. Where do you live, Harry?”

  “As they say in Florida, down the road a piece. I have a beachfront home.”

  “Beachfront? Sounds divine.”

  “Too big for me, and decorated like a warehouse. But yes, it’s nice. Like to see it?”

  Lock stares. Then she stubs out her cigarette.

  “I’d love to see it,” she says. “But only for a few minutes. Then I’ve got to get home. Tennis date in the morning.”

  “Of course,” he says.

  They will not break up into laughter or tears and end the farce they are playing. Suddenly it is essential to both. Their life together born again. First stirrings. First bloomings. They are young. Nervous and eager. Afraid of making a false step. Pushing too hard or surrendering too easily.

  He shows her around his home. Kitchen. Patio. Upstairs. Everything. They stroll out to the beach. Listen to the sea. Watch palm fronds whip crazily in a gusty wind. Saunter back to the house.

  “It’s beautiful,” she says. “Really beautiful.”

  “I know,” he says. Laughing. “But there’s so much you could do with it.”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “Would you like another brandy?”

  “I shouldn’t, but I will.”

  They kick off their shoes. Slump down in deep armchairs. Regard each other without smiling.

  Now or never, he thinks. “Sylvia,” he says, “do you really have to get back to your place?”

  “Is that a proposition?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I could cancel the tennis date.”

  “Well then?”

  In the bedroom, they leave the lights off. Undress hurriedly in the darkness.

  “I want you to know,” she says, “I don’t usually do—”

  “I know,” he interrupts. “I don’t usually either.”

  They are deliberately awkward in bed. Fumbling. Reality is lost, so well are they acting their roles. Once again it is the first time. They want it to be grand. They are alternately crude and tender. Testing. How may I please her? What does he like best?

  Eventually she yields. And so does he. Then they are raw pulses. There is nothing they will not do. He has never known such a madly passionate woman. Nor she such a determinedly striving man. Their furies fuse.

  “Here.”

  “Now.”

  “This.”

  “Oh!”

  “Dome.”

  “This?”

  “God!”

  “Don’t stop.”

  “Ah.”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you.”

  Memorable lovemaking. An event. Shattering them. They hug tightly. Holding, hiding their secret. Knowing in that brief coupling their lives are changed. They have entered each other. Become one.

  Still playing his part, Harry says, “When do you want to leave?”

  “I don’t want to,” she says. “Ever.”

  Now, Sylvia dead and gone, Harry Dancer is convinced that evening actually happened. In exactly the way he recalls. They played a trick on time. Doubled a moment, from past to present. And now it is past again.

  He is vaguely aware of what he is doing: duplicating his dying wife’s nostalgia for a life lost. Now he is the one bridging past to present and ignoring the future. The golden glory was there; he calls it back to memory. No longer worrying if it is yesterday’s reality or today’s dream.

  68

  Anthony Glitner sits hunched on the beach. Cowering from the midday sun. Wide-brimmed hat pulled low over dark sunglasses. Towel across his pale, freckled shoulders. Another towel protecting his drawn-up knees. Still he feels the sun’s sear. Draining his juices.

  Beside him, Evelyn Heimdall lies prone on cotton blanket. Head nestled on forearm. Bra strap undone. Oiled back glistening. Oiled arms. Oiled legs. Golden girl toasting. She seems part of the sun, sand, sea. Glitner tries not to stare.

  They have finished their picnic lunch. Hamper emptied of barbecued chicken, potato salad, tomatoes and cukes. What little wine left is too warm to swallow. They are incapable of moving. Replete and melted down.

  “So nice,” Evelyn says drowsily. “Perfect day.”

  “Hot,” Tony says. “You like the heat, Ev?”

  “It thaws me. Gets rid of all my aches and pains. My miseries just ooze out.”

  He looks seaward. Catamarans with gorgeous sails tack against the wind. Rubber floats bob about. Swimmers dash into waves, shrieking. And over all, the pitiless glare. Sky is open. No sky at all. Just blue emptiness and flaming sun.

  “More oil,” Evelyn murmurs. “Please. On my back and shoulders. I don’t want to peel.”

  Obediently he leans forward to smooth velvety skin. Feels the heat of her. Firm muscles. She is taut. Tight in her body’s envelope.

  He begins his pitch.

  “I’m getting all excited,” he says. Massaging that vibrant back.

  “That’s nice,” she
says. “So am I. You have good hands, Tony. A sweet touch.”

  “Thank God we’re in public. If not—who knows? I might throw myself upon you with a hoarse cry.”

  She laughs. “Be my guest. You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “Poor Tony,” she says. “What a shame. Regulations got you down?”

  “No,” he says. Hating what he’s doing. “Regulations got me up.”

  When she giggles, her whole body moves in a sexy paroxysm. Flesh ripples. He spreads oil into the cunning hollow behind her knees. Looking at the way her thin bikini panties cleave to her buttocks. Deep crease.

  “Relax, Tony,” she advises. “Rules are made to be broken; you know that.”

  “I’ve got no one to break them with.”

  She lifts her head to stare at him. “I’m here.”

  He tries to smile. “It would be an act of Christian charity.”

  She lowers her head. Closes her eyes. “I’m a charitable woman. My training…”

  He is torn. What started out as a simple test had become more complex. He fights temptation. The physical scene melts his resolve. So easy to succumb.

  “Could we?” he says. Voice choked. “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t worry it so,” she says. “It’s not that important. Don’t even think about the Corporation.”

  “I’ve got to. Heavy decision.”

  “All right then, think about it. I’ll be around. Ready, willing and able.”

  She shouldn’t have said that. Confirming his fears. His momentary lust dissolves. Now all that matters is how to deal with her hedonism. What would be best for the Corporation? For the Harry Dancer campaign?

  “I’ll be good for you, Tony,” she says.

  That night, in Martin Frey’s sweaty embrace, she tells him of the afternoon on the beach with Glitner.

  “He came on to me,” she says. Laughing. “Can you imagine? And I always thought he was such a straight arrow.”

  Frey moves away from her. Sits up. Stares at her. Shocked.

  “What did you say?” he demands. “Your case officer made a pitch?”

  “Did he ever. A real hard-on.”

  “And how did you react?”

  “Went along. Teasing. If he wants to, fine. If he doesn’t, fine. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

  He groans. “Ev, it’s got everything to do with us. It was his suspicion of you that brought me down here in the first place. But my reports clearing you haven’t satisfied him. He still thinks you’re turning.”

  She begins to bite a knuckle. “Martin, are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. You told me yourself that he’s a perceptive man. Sensitive. Ev, he was testing you. Has he ever gone off the code before? To your knowledge?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Then he is a straight arrow. Just trying to find out how far you’ve strayed.”

  “It might have been the sun, the beach. Maybe he’s thawed. The way I have.”

  Frey shakes his head. “I was trained in counterintelligence. I know the techniques. Glitner was entrapping you. And you walked right into it.”

  “I really thought he meant it.”

  “You were wrong. He was putting on an act.”

  She turns a dulled face to him. “Oh God, Martin, what do we do now?”

  “Do we have a choice? What we talked about before—go over to the Others. Make the best deal we can.”

  “Will we be together?”

  “Absolutely. Or we don’t turn. Listen, there’s a lot of top secret stuff we can deliver. The Department would be crazy to turn us down. They may be evil, but they’re not crazy. And if they’re going to pump us dry, we want something in return. Being together is the first thing. It’ll work out, hon; you’ll see.”

  “How do we do it? Who do we surrender to?”

  “Let me handle it. In cases like this, it’s best to go to the top man. Someone who can cut a deal.”

  Shivering with fear, she flings back into his arms. Now the enormity of their treachery inflames them. Denying all. They couple like the plague-stricken. With hysterical intensity. Into a flaming maelstrom. Awaiting a thunderbolt that might destroy them. Or worse, a judgment that might condemn them to an eternity of suffering.

  69

  The Chairman, seated on his War Room throne, scans the latest intelligence briefs from the Southeast Region. Groans with anger. That section is providing more aggravation than the nine other regions combined.

  Treason of the Director’s private secretary is the last straw. Stupidity of the man! To harbor a Corporation mole in his own office. If the Chairman acted on impulse, he’d have the Director terminally demoted immediately.

  But the Chairman rarely acts on impulse or whim. Too dangerous. To his own career. So he reviews carefully the actions that must be taken following the Norma Gravesend disaster.

  Codes will have to be changed, of course. Key personnel switched. Informants protected. Communication techniques revised. All because a fathead Director employed a spy. The Chairman tries not to let his fury cloud his judgment.

  Eliminating the Director is easy. But what is important is the outcome of the campaigns being supervised by that idiot. Like Harry Dancer. With Briscoe in as case officer, the Chairman hopes the Dancer thing may prove to be a solid win. But removing the Director abruptly could jeopardize the conquest of Dancer and a dozen other potential recruits.

  So, sighing, the Chairman decides to temporize. The Director of the Southeast Region can be chopped at any time. The Department’s shoguns are not interested in individuals. Only numbers. A steadily increasing congregation.

  He will let the Director stay on. For the present. With no reprimands, no communications whatsoever. Let the cretin sweat. Wondering when the blade will fall. Meanwhile, affrighted, he might put spurs to his case officers. Demanding converts.

  Like Harry Dancer.

  70

  Briscoe walks in on Sally Abaddon early in the morning. Without calling first. Knocks on the door, she answers, and there he is. Wearing polyester slacks in a hellish plaid. Knitted shirt with the Department logo over the heart. Short sleeves reveal hairy, muscled arms. Left forearm is badly scarred.

  “Hi, babe,” he says. Steely grin. “Let’s you and me have a talk.”

  She lets him in. He asks for a cup of coffee, orange juice, a beer—anything. She brings him coffee. Then he asks for a pastry, Danish, toast—anything. She brings him a powdered doughnut. Having established who’s boss, he sits negligently in a deep armchair. Slurping his breakfast. Watching her steadily as she moves about.

  “This woman you’re spending all your time with,” he starts. “The one who lives next door—what’s her name?”

  “Angela Bliss.”

  “Yeah. You got a thing going with her?”

  “We’re friends. I can’t spend twenty-four hours a day with Harry Dancer.”

  “That’s right, you can’t. Well, this Angela Bliss belongs to the Department. Internal Security. Ted Charon brought her down here from Chicago to do a job on you. Did she tell you that?”

  Abaddon turns away to find a cigarette and light it. She answers with her back to him.

  “No, she didn’t tell me that.”

  “Well, she’s a shoofly cop all right. I had nothing to do with it. Before he got snuffed, Shelby Yama had his suspicions about you. So he got Charon to sic her onto you to see if you’re behaving yourself.”

  “And?” Sally asks. Voice tight.

  “You’re clean. Bliss swears you’re true-blue. So she’s being pulled off the case. Sent back to Chicago for reassignment. She’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow.”

  Abaddon finally sits. Facing him. Crosses her legs. Robe falls open. He looks at her knee, smooth calf. Watches her bare foot jerk up and down.

  “Nervous?” he says.

  “Of course not. Why should I be nervous? Sh
e cleared me, didn’t she? I don’t know what Yama was suspicious about.”

  “Maybe he got worried because you weren’t closing the Dancer deal. Maybe he thought you weren’t seeing enough of him.”

  “I’m going to see him this afternoon. For lunch.”

  “For lunch? And a matinee?”

  “If he wants. Look, Briscoe, some guys you can push, and some guys you can’t. Dancer is the kind of man who sets his own pace. I’ve got to go along or risk losing him. I know my job.”

  “Sure you do, babe. But Cleveland is only interested in results; you know that.”

  “You’ll get results.”

  “Yeah? When?”

  She lights another cigarette. “I can’t say.”

  “A week? A month? Make a guess.”

  She snaps at him. “Get off my back, will you? This is a difficult case. The man is still dreaming about his dead wife. It’s going to take time.”

  “Not good enough,” Briscoe says. Shaking his head. “Your annual Fitness Report is coming up. I’d like to say something nice about you. Catch my drift?”

  “Oh, I catch it all right.”

  “You’re still balling Dancer?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that’s your hook, isn’t it? Lean on him. Threaten to cut him off if he doesn’t come across.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll work.”

  “Then what in hell will work?” he yells. Stops. Tries to control his anger. “Want to play the recordings for him? Show him the tapes? He’s got a responsible position. People depend on him. Tell him if he doesn’t see things our way, he’s down the tube.”

  She stares at him. Trying to keep her face expressionless. “Give me another week, Briscoe.”

  “You’re stalling,” he accuses.

  “No, no. Give me a week to bring him around. If I can’t do it, then we’ll try the recordings and tapes.”

  “A week?” he says. “You’ve got it. See how easy I am to get along with? Just a pussycat—that’s me.”

  “Oh sure,” she says.

  She hopes that’s the end of it. He has finished his coffee and doughnut. She wants him to leave. But he sits there. Staring at her bared legs. She pulls the robe closed. His gaze slowly rises to her face. She never before noticed the color of his eyes. Muddy ice.