The Loves of Harry Dancer (4 page)

“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 merchandise?”

“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

C
ase 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.”

“May I guess your age?”

“If you like.”

“Thirty-eight.”

She smiles. “Close, but no cigar. Thank you for your kindness.”

“Older?”

“A bit.”

“You look marvelous, Mrs. Heimdall.”

“Can’t we make it Ev and Harry?”

“Splendid idea. Where did you learn to mix martinis like this?”

“Not dry enough?”

“You kidding? Just right. Did you do a lot of entertaining when your husband was…”

“Quite a bit, yes. I love to cook. How are you getting along with meals since your wife…”

“I manage. Simple things. Steak and a baked potato. Salad. Stuff like that.”

“Lonely, Harry?” she asks. Looking at him curiously.

“Oh yes. You?”

She nods. “It comes with the territory.”

“I guess. Planning or hoping to remarry?”

“Not right away. Not until I get my life together.”

“You’re joking. Ev, you’re the most together woman I’ve met in a long, long time. May I have another martini?”

“Of course. Let’s finish the pitcher. Want more ice?”

“I’ll get it—if I may. Let me wait on you.”

“A pleasure,” she says.

He brings the pitcher back from the kitchen. “I lifted the skillet cover and smelled. Dee-licious!”

“There’s a bottle of chablis in the fridge, and a green salad.”

“I saw it, and stole a leaf of endive.”

He swirls the pitcher. Fills her glass. His. They finish the crab claws.

“Lovely night,” she says. Staring up. “How many stars are there?”

“Six hundred million, four hundred and thirty-one thousand, eight hundred and fourteen. I counted.”

“I think it’s eight hundred and fifteen,” she says.

“Then another one’s been added.”

“Your wife,” she says.

He picks up her hand. Kisses the fingertips. “Thank you,” he says. “That was a sweet thing to say.”

Candlelight dinner. White tapers flickering in hurricane lamps. They sit close. Eating. Talking. Laughing. Easy with each other. Comfortable.

“Will you marry again?” she asks. “You asked me. Tit for tat.”

“Watch your language,” he says. “Maybe. Someday. Not for a while.”

“That’s wise. Don’t rush into anything. While you’re lonely and vulnerable. I mean, don’t try to duplicate what you had. Wait awhile.”

“Good advice. And good food. I’m making a pig of myself.”

“Please, let’s finish everything. No dessert, but we can have coffee and your Frangelico on the terrace.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Perfect evening. And you’re perfect.”

“No one’s perfect, Harry.”

“You come as close as anyone I know.”

Outside, they sit in armchairs of white plastic webbing. Sip their coffee. Hazlenut liqueur.

“You loved her very much?” she asks.

“Very. Remember Carole Lombard? A fey spirit. Sylvia was like that. Always up. She was so good for me. I’m inclined to be a grouch. She used to call me ‘Grumps.’ It’s true; I get moody at times. She could always get me out of it. She was the light of my life. Sounds like a pop song, doesn’t it? But it’s true. I never heard her whine or complain. Even when she was dying and knew it. A very courageous woman. I’m not sure I could be that brave. I must be boring you to tears.”

“Of course you’re not, Harry.”

“Let’s go to the track,” he says. “How about Saturday? Make a day of it. Dinner in Miami. It won’t be as good as what we just had, but we’ll manage.”

“I’d love to go. Just tell me the time.”

“Give you a call.”

Then they sit in silence. Content. He takes her hand. Holds it. They look at the spangled sky with wonder. Kissing breeze. Perfumed air. Hissing of the sea. Darkness whirls. Drone of airliner, light flashing.

“Thank you, Ev,” he says.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

It is time for him to leave. They stand reluctantly. Move slowly through the ghostly apartment to the door. Turn to face. He stares.