The Loves of Harry Dancer Read online

  “Not really. Let’s take the rest of the wine upstairs with us.”

  “Splendid idea,” he says.

  She performs. Knowing their pillow talk and sounds of their lovemaking are being overheard and recorded. She says things and elicits responses from Dancer she thinks will please Shelby Yama and Briscoe.

  Later, Dancer goes into the bathroom to shower. Sally lies alone in the big bed, on sweated sheets. Puts a forearm across her eyes.

  What she feels, she decides, is a peculiar kind of loneliness. Not for someone, but for some thing. A new surety. Her future, that had once seemed bright with the promise of endless joys, now appears drab and lifeless.

  Harry Dancer’s recollections of his life with Sylvia have given her a glimpse of a foreign land of love and solid civility. She would like to live in that world of sweet reasonableness. Day after day exactly like that passed and that to come. Continuity and meaning. With a steady faith like that of Angela’s.

  She cannot hope for marriage to Harry Dancer. She has played her part too well; he thinks of her as an exotic, a wild boff. But not as a mate to love and cherish as he did Sylvia. And if she suggested such a thing, the Department would discipline her. In ways she’d rather not imagine.

  She hears him come out of the bathroom. Takes her arm away from wet eyes. Watches him move about the room, dressing. A sweet, sturdy man, worthy of love. The best, probably, of all her victims. Somehow, in ways unknown to him, and to her, he has taught her guilt.

  She showers. Dresses. He drives her back to the motel. Kisses her goodnight. She goes into her garish suite. Looks around, grimacing. She showers again. For reasons she cannot comprehend. Tries a book. Radio. TV. Nothing works for her. Emptiness roars.

  She pulls on shorts, a T-shirt. Goes outside. Sees a light burning in the room occupied by Angela Bliss. Knocks. Is admitted.

  “That church of yours,” Sally Abaddon says. “On Sunday.” Tries a laugh. “What time does the show go on?”

  42

  Spymasters sit in the center of webs, awaiting tremors. The Corporation’s Chief of Operations believes he has planned well. All his players are in place. He has done what he can to forestall betrayal. Now he must wait. Putting his faith in the talent and resolve of employees hundreds of miles away.

  But he faces an implacable enemy. The treachery of the night code-clerk has been uncovered; the poor fellow has been shipped off to a rehabilitation center. But who knows how many other moles have been implanted in the Corporation’s bureaucracy. And what damage they have done. Are doing.

  The Chief idly touches the keyboard of his desktop computer. He is surrounded by state-of-the-art technology. There is no hardware he lacks to make him more effective at his job. His superiors allow him wide latitude in setting strategy and tactics. He can have no excuse for failure.

  But, he knows, his machines, files, percentage tables and probability ratios—all are meaningless compared to the belief and will of the agents involved. They, being human, are the big gamble. And being human, can be weak, vacillating, even disloyal. They are not interchangeable machine parts, but vulnerable, sentient beings with incalculable defects and strengths.

  He jots notes on his featured actors:

  Anthony Glitner: Case officer. Earnest. Hardworking. Determined. But does this man have the verve and imagination to honcho a complex assignment? Does he, perhaps, lack the moral steel needed? In fact, is he strong enough to bulldoze his way, if necessary, to victory?

  Evelyn Heimdall: Field agent. Warm, attractive woman. Excellent record with no evidence of backsliding. But now exhibiting troubling signs of weakening resolve and a penchant for self-indulgence. Her moral frailty could endanger the entire Dancer campaign.

  Martin Frey: Counterintelligence agent. Professional gigolo. But does he comprehend that his assignment is merely to test Evelyn Heimdall, not actively lure her into betraying her vows? Has he the perception to understand this fine distinction?

  Reading over his notes, the Chief acknowledges that defects on the part of any of his three main protagonists could mean defeat. He reaches for a roll of antacid tablets. Rises, begins to pace about his office. Hand pressed against his diaphragm.

  He realizes, suddenly, that in his brief analyses of personae on the Dancer team, he has neglected the personality and character of the most important player: Harry Dancer himself. Operational problems of the action have made him slight the goal.

  But it is Dancer who, unwittingly, will reveal the strengths and weaknesses of the Corporation agents sent to win him. They cannot fail but react to him, his likes and dislikes, prejudices, joys. His moods.

  In a queer sort of way, in campaigns of this sort, the target becomes the spymaster. Unknown to himself, he runs the team assigned to him. Determines their moves. Makes them revise their tactics. Drives them to despair or offers enough hints so they may happily plot how, eventually, he is to be taken.

  But what kind of man is Harry Dancer? Looking at the thick file of reports on his desk (submitted by Tony Glitner), the Chief of Operations concedes that he has no clear conception of the target. He is this, he is that. Voluble and taciturn. Happy and disconsolate. Sensuous and puritan.

  In other words, the Chief admits, a human being. Incomprehensible. An enigma.

  43

  Harry Dancer on a night beach. Dreaming…“Hey there, grumps,” Sylvia calls. Prancing in. Carrying rackets and tennis bag. “I won, I won, I won! I’m in the semis on Saturday.”

  “Good for you,” Harry says. Smiling. “You’ll go to the finals and take the brass ring.”

  “Nah,” Syl says. “That Laurie Christopher will cream me. She’s got a serve you can’t even see. I’m lucky to make the semis.”

  “Don’t talk like that. I want you to turn pro and hit the circuit so I can retire.”

  “That’ll be the day,” his wife says. Flopping into an armchair. “Mix me something tall and cool, will you, hon? I’m bushed.”

  He brings her a big vodka and cranberry juice with a lot of ice. She kisses the back of his hand gratefully.

  “Seven sets,” she says. “I’m wiped out. I’m going to soak in a hot tub for a least an hour. We’re not going out tonight, are we?”

  “Hadn’t planned on it. There’s a barbecued chicken, salad makings, and half a honeydew.”

  “Sounds divine. But you may have to feed me. I haven’t the strength to lift a fork.”

  “That I’ve got to see.”

  She examines him. “You look a tittle ragged around the edges, professor. Tough day?”

  “They’re all tough. I don’t know how the idea got around that it’s fun to play with OPM—Other People’s Money. I don’t get any fun out of it. Just aggravation and worries.”

  “Try to forget it for tonight. After I revive, I’m going to bang your socks off.”

  “Promises, promises,” he says.

  “Have I ever disappointed?”

  “No,” he admits, “never.”

  She sits sprawled. Bare, brown legs thrust out. Those crazy little fluff balls hanging outside the heels of her tennis shoes. White shorts hiked up. T-shirt showing wide shoulders, strong arms. Short hair spiking up. Face aglow. Healthy, vibrant woman. Juicy. She makes him feel old. Drained.

  “Like what you see?” she asks him.

  “Love it.”

  “You’ll see more later.”

  “Go take your bath before I rape you right here on the rug. I’ll make the salad. Eat in an hour-okay?”

  “You’re the boss,” she says.

  “Since when?”

  He sets the table, carves the chicken, mixes the salad. He also makes another gin martini for himself and a vodka gimlet for Sylvia. He carries the drinks upstairs. She is still lolling in a frothy tub. Bathroom is steamy. Scented.

  He sits on the closed toilet seat. Hands her the gimlet.

  “Plasma,” he says.

  “Thanks, dear. Harry, Blanche and Jeremy Blaine want us for dinner on Friday night.
It’s their turn. I told her I’d check with you first.”

  “Whatever you want.”

  It is the fourth year of their marriage. He knows she is trying to enlarge their lives. Entertain more. Go down to Miami and up to Palm Beach to catch touring Broadway plays. Take cruises. Visit art galleries. Plan a European vacation. Left to himself, his world would be scrunched down to office and home.

  “What would you like to do, hon?”

  “Sure,” he says, “let’s go. He’ll do his W. C.

  Fields imitation, and she’ll complain about how hard it is to get good help. But I can endure it for five hours or so.”

  She sits up in the tub. Soapy water streams from her elegant breasts. She bends a forefinger, flicks suds at him. He ducks.

  “My old grumps,” she says. “You’re in a real mood tonight. Grouty?”

  “Not really. Just subdued. I’ll recover.”

  “You always have. Otherwise I’d have traded you in for a new model a long time ago.”

  She opens the tub drain. Hands him her glass. Stands. He looks at her shimmering body. Slender. Taut. She pulls the curtain. Begins to shower away soap and bath oil film. He goes into the bedroom. Slouches in a little cretonne-covered armchair.

  He is coming out of it. Feels it. Spirits lifting. It’s not the martinis; it’s her. She has that effect. Blessed gift.

  Nothing momentous has happened since she entered the house. Their talk has been banal, their gentle chivying a routine. It is nothing she has said or done. It is her. Her presence. Warm closeness. He belongs to her, she belongs to him. Two against the world. She had it right; the third entity, their marriage, has conquered.

  He cannot conceive what this evening would have been like if she had not come home. If she did not exist. Solace from a bottle, he supposes. Or just hopelessness. Yearning and not finding. In a way it frightens him. His dependence. He is still fearful of investing everything in her. Benefits are enormous. But the risk…

  She comes out of the bathroom in her big, white terry robe. Toweling her hair. Takes her drink from him and drains it.

  “You smell nice,” he says.

  “Sure I do,” she agrees. “I put a drop of this and that here and there. Hey, when do we eat?”

  “Right now,” he says. Rising. “Everything’s ready. Hungry?”

  “Famished,” she says. Suddenly swoops. Hugs him. Kisses. “For you. Feeling better?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I can tell.”

  She eats ravenously. Twirling chicken legs in her sharp teeth. Gobbling salad. When she slows down, he gets her talking about the tennis match. She relives it, set by set. He isn’t all that interested, but he wants to hear her voice. See the animation in her face.

  She is alive. And by some curious process of emotional osmosis yields to him some of her own vitality. She invigorates him. He can only pray it is not a one-way flow. That she is getting something from him—whatever it may be.

  They finish the melon. (Mealy.) Take iced coffees laced with Kahlua out onto the patio. Lie on lounges. Stare up. A nothing sky. No moon, no stars. But they don’t care.

  “I love you, Syl,” he says. Suddenly.

  She turns her head to look at him. “Sweet. And I love you, Harry. But what brought that on?”

  “It just occurred to me that I don’t say it often enough.”

  “You show it.”

  “Do I? I hope so. But I’ve got to learn to verbalize my feelings more. I can’t go through life expecting you or anyone else to know how I feel. Actions speak louder than words? Bullshit they do! Actions are just as open to misinterpretation as words. You’ve got to combine the two. There’s a synergism working there. The whole is more than the sum of its parts.”

  “Thank you, professor,” she says. “I’m just sorry I’m not taking notes.”

  He cracks up. “I deserved that. I can always depend on you to bring me back to earth.”

  They lie then in silence. Sipping their drinks.

  “Want to adopt?” she asks.

  “What?”

  “Adopt. It doesn’t look like you and I are going to be able to make a little bi-bee. Should we adopt? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “It bothers me. Selfish reasons. Competition. I want all your love. That’s lousy, I know, but it’s the way I feel. You want to adopt? If you insist, I’ll go along.”

  “I don’t know what I want, Harry. Sometimes I think, Oh Jesus, yes, I want a smelly little brat running around the house. Patter of tiny feet—and all that. Other times it scares me. The responsibility. So if I’m not sure, that means I’m not ready for it yet—right?”

  “I guess so. When you make up your mind, may I be the first to know?”

  “Absolutely. And then, also, I feel the way you do. You and I have got such a great thing going here, why take the chance of ruining it? Or changing it. And a kid would be a hell of a change. Maybe for the better, maybe for the worse. But I’m scared of the risk.”

  “Well, we don’t have to decide this minute, Syl.

  We’re not that old. Let’s think about it, talk it over again.”

  “You and I can talk about anything, can’t we, Harry?”

  “I hope so. Wouldn’t be much of a marriage if we couldn’t.”

  “Hon, I’m so sleepy I’m practically unconscious.”

  “We can’t talk about that,” he says. Laughing.

  He gets her to her feet. Supporting with a strong arm about her waist. They stumble up the stairs. Singing their favorite song softly together: “I’ll Be Seeing You.” He seats her on the edge of the bed. Props her up with one hand while he turns down coverlet, blanket, top sheet.

  Her eyes are closed. But she murmurs—a child’s burbling—when he wrestles her robe off. He gets her into bed, straightens out her legs. Pulls sheet and blanket up to her chin. Tucks her in. She sighs. Turns onto her side.

  He turns on the air conditioner. Switches off the light. Closes the door gently. Goes back downstairs and cleans up the kitchen. Trying not to make too much clatter. Then he does the rounds, checking locks on doors and windows.

  It is silent in the house. Dim. Empty without her bouncy presence. He pours himself a small cognac. Carries it up to the bedroom, entering cautiously. He finds his way to the little armchair. Sits there, sipping the brandy slowly. Listening to his wife breathing. He feels complete again.

  If there is one law in his business, financial investing, it is: Diversify! Never put all your eggs in one basket. He wonders now, hearing Sylvia sleep, if the same holds true for emotional investing. Is it wise to put all your love in one security? If that fails, where are you?

  But of course money grows, assets increase, allowing for more diversification. But does love grow? Or are we all granted a finite amount to invest as we wish: splurge, gamble or husband. Knowing that when it is gone, it is completely depleted. Nothing left.

  He is not so sure of that. It may be that love requited is love replenished. The principal, wisely committed, earns dividends, compounded. Why, in a lifetime one’s capacity to love might double. It is possible.

  Another of life’s insoluble problems, he mournfully admits. Diversify or concentrate your emotional capital? Choose well; you’ll never get a second chance. But meanwhile his investment of love in that sleeping beauty is returning benefits beyond reckoning. It is silly to worry that she is his total portfolio.

  Sylvia rouses. Calls drowsily. “Harry?”

  “I’m here, love,” he says.

  In a moment she is asleep again. Secure and content.

  44

  The Chairman is restive. Shifting enormous bulk on his throne in the Department’s War Room. That damned Dancer thing is beginning to obsess him. What started out as a simple seduction has evolved into a twist of wills and cunning with the Chief of Operations in the Corporation’s Washington headquarters.

  The Chairman is impatient. He wants results. From someone. Anyone. Reports trickle i
n. He tries to make sense of what’s going on. But there’s little logic to it. No string he can follow to its inevitable end. Unless that frail thread is all stupidity and betrayal.

  It is not his strategy that is at fault. He is certain of that. It is the incompetence of his employees on the scene that frustrates him. They have denied him a quick, smashing conquest.

  Director of the Southeast Region: Magisterial man. With swollen amour propre. Good on routine, but lacking the imagination to run a complex operation. Strictly middle management. If rumors are true, the dolt’s a slave to his baser instincts.

  Shelby Yama: Case officer. Hollywood type, but without the necessary grittiness. Lightweight bossing his first important assignment. He sees it as theatre. Drama. Would he be more successful at farce?

  Sally Abaddon: Field agent. Fantastic record of wins—but is she burning out? Recent reports indicate slackening resolve. But she is the linchpin of the operation. If she weakens, the whole campaign to win Harry Dancer collapses.

  Briscoe: Special agent. Dark, violent man. Thuggish. Too free with the Special Powers. Suspicious. But he does get results. In a position of more power, he might prove dangerous. Use him, but recognize his limitations.

  Angela Bliss: Internal security agent. A ferret. Everything in her file attests to an almost demoniac loyalty. But is there an element of hysteria? The Department is wary of fanatics. Employees like Bliss don’t bend; they break.

  Reviewing his dramatis personae, the Chairman concedes they are not the best team he could have fielded. Neither are they the worst. A mixed bag at best. He is aware of their pressures and tensions. He doubts if they recognize his.

  Occasional frailty of Department personnel has long been a matter of wonder and puzzlement. These people have been promised the world. And paid. Why then should they surrender treasure for dross? The Chairman doesn’t know. But it happens.

  It is something to be guarded against. Backsliding is a constant peril. Treachery lurks. He feels he has done all he can to prevent it. But the action is miles away. He can direct, but he cannot control.