The Loves of Harry Dancer Page 7

  He does not. But within that soundproofed hidey-hole, he meditates. Plays chess games in his mind. Planning moves to keep him ahead of the Others. Sometimes, checkmated, he accepts defeat. Or settles for a draw.

  But not in the case of Harry Dancer. Not yet.

  Latest intelligence has been puzzling. Norma Gravesend reports that all personnel assigned to the Dancer operation have been informed that Herman K. Tischman, the Corporation’s muscle, has been turned.

  In his closet, kneeling painfully, the Chief ponders the significance of that. He can understand the twisting of Tischman. It makes sense to double one of your opponent’s players. But why announce the corruption publicly? Such victories are usually revealed only on a “need to know” basis.

  The Chief tries to put himself into the devious mind of the fat Chairman of the Department. What is that evil elephant up to? What does he hope to gain by informing so many people of Tischman’s defection?

  Of course! The Chairman is not satisfied that the leak in his Southeast Region has been closed with the elimination of Jeremy Blaine. He is setting a trap. Now, if Tischman is taken out, the Chairman will know a traitor still exists in Regional headquarters. Their Interior Security will take up the search again.

  So, to protect Norma Gravesend, it will be necessary for the Chief to ensure that Herman K. Tischman continues to function. How to do that? The answer seems obvious: Tischman has been turned once; he can be turned again. Double and triple-agents are not all that uncommon. When a man has defected once, he can be whirled like a windmill. Revolving to the strongest pressure.

  He summons Anthony Glitner to Washington. The case officer is shocked to hear of Tischman’s betrayal. The two men discuss how to handle the private investigator.

  “Let’s dump him,” Glitner suggests. “His reports on Dancer’s activities are valuable, but if he’s been taken, we can’t trust him. He may be feeding us disinformation.”

  “Undoubtedly,” the Chief agrees. “But if we eliminate him, we endanger our mole in the Department. How do you think they turned Tischman?”

  “Money,” the case officer says. “The man is greedy.”

  “I suspect you’re right. But our budget is stretched thin as it is; we can’t afford to keep upping the ante.”

  “Well, then…?”

  “Does this Tischman have a family?”

  “Yes, sir. Wife and little girl. About twelve years old. Mary Jane.”

  The Chief fumbles with a roll of Turns. Trying to tear it open. “There is a ploy we’ve used in the past on cases like this. High success rate. It’s called Fatal Illness. Have you ever worked it?”

  “No, Chief. I don’t know what it is.”

  “I’ll explain. You may think it cruel, even immoral. But no one gets hurt. Although there is a certain amount of, ah, discomfort. I think it may bring Mr. Tischman back into the fold.”

  He outlines to Glitner exactly how Fatal Illness is played. The case officer takes notes.

  When the Chief finishes, Glitner snaps his notebook shut. “As you say, sir, it is a little on the scurvy side. But I’m willing to give it a try.”

  “Could one of your people act the healer?”

  “Willoughby, our communications man, could do it. He’s been asking for a more active role. I think he could handle it.”

  “Fine. Tell him if he does well on this, it will go on his record. He wants to be a field agent?”

  “That’s his ambition.”

  “Here’s his chance. Get the scenario rolling as soon as you return to Florida. Tony, are you satisfied with Evelyn Heimdall’s performance?”

  “Absolutely, Chief.”

  “Good. Keep me informed. I want to win this one.”

  “So do I, sir.”

  21

  Sylvia’s death has left him numb. Feelings jumbled. Thoughts fleeting. He believes himself a rational man and resolves to make no determinations concerning his personal life while pain corrodes and emotions churn. He knows he is temporarily incapable of linear thinking, of even imagining what his future might be like.

  But now Sally Abaddon and Evelyn Heimdall have appeared. He does not believe that only loneliness is driving him to embrace them. It is true they are a refuge. But they are also escape. And a challenge to reflect on how he wishes to order his remaining years.

  It is not a decision, he feels, that must be made immediately. He cautions himself to wait, consider, ponder, judge. To think.

  At the same time, a worm of doubt gnaws. Is the temporizing because of fear? Fear that another close, personal, permanent relationship might end as tragically as his love for Sylvia? At 3:00 a.m., wide awake, he listens to the waves turning on the strand and wonders if he is burned-out. Emotions depleted. Unable ever again to feel deeply.

  He tries to hint something of this to Sally Abaddon.

  She looks at him. “You’ve got the jimjams,” she says. “The willies. You spend too much time alone. Brooding. Harry, you’ve got to start living. Having fun. I know just what you need.”

  She is practiced in all the sensual arts. Which buttons to press. Which triggers to pull. Slowly, patiently, she leads him into a netherworld of delights. He follows gladly. For there are no doubts there. No questions. Just physical exhaustion and blessed oblivion.

  He doesn’t know if it is pleasure or pain. Sometimes her passion seems excessive. Verging on hysteria. He can’t believe she is faking it, playing her whore’s trick. Whores don’t dissolve in tears and cling desperately. He tries to understand her, but cannot.

  When he mentions his inner confusion to Evelyn Heimdall, she listens attentively. But prescribes no quick fix.

  “Don’t judge yourself too harshly,” she advises. “You are going through a very difficult period of readjustment. Right now you don’t know what you want. Or who you are, for that matter.”

  “I can’t seem to get my act together,” he says. “I don’t want to whine, but I’m at sixes and sevens. Nothing definite. No foundation.”

  “You’ll come out of it,” she says. “I really believe that. Remember what I said about faith? It does help, Harry.”

  “How do I get started?” he asks. With a foolish laugh.

  “Let’s take a walk on the beach. It’s such a lovely evening. We’ll just talk.”

  “All right,” he says. “Maybe it’ll help me unwind.”

  She is steady, thoughtful. What she tells him makes sense. He had always thought of faith as blind acceptance.

  “It’s a game, Harry,” she says. “Or, if you wish, it’s theater. A part to play. Faith is like civility. Make-believe. It’s very difficult to be polite and courteous to strangers. Or to people you dislike and can’t respect. But without civility, life becomes vile and brutish. And without faith it becomes nothing. Meaningless. Just putting in your time. Like a prison sentence.”

  “I don’t think I could pretend a faith. In anything.”

  She smiles. “You’d be surprised. It becomes a habit. Like breathing. Unconscious. Automatic. After a while, when you stop questioning, you just accept. Then it’s always there.”

  “Are you proselyting me?”

  “I guess you could call it that. You’re obviously unhappy. I want you to be happy. Is that so awful?”

  “Of course it’s not awful,” he says. Taking her hand. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I don’t think I’m ready for it yet.”

  “I’m going to keep nagging you,” she warns.

  “Do that. You’re the sweetest nagger I’ve ever met. Getting tired? Shall we turn back?”

  “I think so.”

  “We can have a cold drink on the patio,” he offers.

  “And then?”

  “We’ll let nature take its course.”

  “Excellent idea,” she says. “Would you like me to stay over?”

  “Please. I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

  “You won’t be. Ever.”

  22

  The debriefing goes badly. Br
iscoe is a pit bull; he keeps snapping.

  “Why did you go to his place?” he asks Sally Abaddon. For the third time. “Why didn’t you take him to your motel? You knew Yama and I were waiting in the parking lot. We wanted it all on tape.”

  “I told you,” she says. “He insisted we go to his home. If I had fought him, the evening would have come to a screeching halt right then.”

  “That makes sense,” Shelby Yama says.

  “No,” Briscoe says, “it does not make sense. Sally, you claim that you’ve got Dancer hooked, that he’ll follow your lead. So?”

  “What difference does it make?” Sally says. “He wanted to go back to his place. We went. I fucked his brains out. And got a commitment from him to take me out of the Tipple Inn. Keep me. Five hundred a week. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  Briscoe stares at her. “If Tischman hadn’t reported, we wouldn’t have known where you were. We’d have been sitting in that damned parking lot all night. From now on, you obey orders—exactly.”

  She throws him a mock salute. “Yes, sir!” she says. Then: “I’m seeing him tonight, and I’ve got to get dressed. Can I leave now?”

  Briscoe lets her go. He sits there, scrubbing his scalp with his knuckles. “I don’t like it,” he tells Yama. “She’s lying. I think she may be getting personally involved.”

  “Sally?” the case officer says. “Never! You know her record. How long she’s been in the field. She hasn’t failed yet.”

  “There’s always a first time,” Briscoe says. “There’s a lot riding on this, Yama; we can’t be too careful. I want you to—” He stops suddenly. “No,” he says, “that’s all right; I’ll handle it myself.”

  He finds Herman K. Tischman in his office. The private detective is on the phone. He hangs up. Turns to Briscoe. Face blanched.

  “My little girl is sick,” he says. “Very high fever. That was my wife on the phone. She says the doctor wants to put Mary Jane in the hospital.”

  “Tough,” Briscoe says. “Where’s Dancer?”

  “In his office. He never leaves before six.”

  “You’ll pick him up then?”

  “Well, uh, I want to get over to the hospital. For a while. But yeah, I’ll pick him up at six.”

  “Okay. Now, two things…First, when you report to Glitner, I don’t want you to say anything about Sally Abaddon. As far as you’re concerned, Dancer isn’t seeing her anymore.”

  The PI peels cellophane from a fresh cigar. Bites down on it. “Won’t Glitner think that’s funny?”

  “What’s funny about it? He’ll figure Abaddon is a tramp. Dancer had a few one-night stands with her, and then gave her the brush. It makes sense.”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Tischman cries.

  Briscoe glares at him. “You like the money, don’t you? You need the money—your little girl in the hospital and all. So don’t ask questions. The second thing is this: I want Dancer’s home wired. Bugs in the phones that’ll pick up calls and interior conversations. Especially the bedroom. You know any techs who could do that?”

  “Well, yeah, I know a couple of guys. But it’ll cost.”

  “I didn’t figure on getting it free. I want it as soon as possible. Like tomorrow.”

  “I’ll try,” Tischman says.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” Briscoe says. “Get it done.”

  Two days later, the condition of Mary Jane Tischman has worsened. She isn’t responding to antibiotics. She is aflame with fever. She is packed in ice, but doctors cannot control the fire. They no longer say: “Serious.” Now they say: “Critical.”

  Anthony Glitner arrives at Tischman’s office just as the investigator is leaving.

  “I can’t talk to you now,” the detective says.

  “I’ve got to get to the hospital.”

  “The hospital? What’s wrong?”

  “My little girl. She’s very sick.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. What is it?”

  “You think anyone knows?” Tischman says. “Those smart high-priced doctors, they can’t do a thing. She’s dying, and all they can say is, Let’s try this or let’s try that. Nothing works. Jesus! Mary Jane is twelve years old. If she goes, my wife’s life is down the drain. And mine, too.”

  “That’s terrible,” Glitner says. “Listen, if the doctors give up on your little girl, give me a call. I know a man who’s had amazing success with cases like that.”

  “No kidding? A doctor?”

  “Not exactly. He doesn’t have a degree. Can’t practice medicine. He calls himself a healer. A faith healer. But it really works.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’ll just put a hand on Mary Jane’s forehead and say a prayer. I know it doesn’t sound like much, but it works. Besides, what have you got to lose?”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Let me talk to my wife about it. This guy charges?”

  “Not much. You’ll be able to handle it. Easily.”

  Next morning, Glitner gets a frantic call from Herman K. Tischman. The investigator is weeping.

  “She’s going,” he reports. “In a coma. My Mary Jane. The docs can’t do nothing. Could you bring that guy of yours around? The healer?”

  “We’ll be right there,” Glitner promises.

  Willoughby is a tall man. Thin. Gangling.

  Lumpy Adam’s apple. Wearing black suit, white shirt, black string tie. Carries a Bible under his arm. He smells faintly of incense.

  “Let him in,” the resident physician says. “Let them all in. Whatever gives them comfort.”

  Tischman, his wife, Glitner, Willoughby—all cluster about Mary Jane’s bed. Staring down at that still form. The healer places his palm against the child’s forehead.

  “Lord God,” he intones, “listen to my prayer.”

  His lips move. They all stand silently. Heads bowed. After a few moments, Willoughby takes his hand away. Lowers the Bible to press it against Mary Jane’s parched lips.

  “It is done,” he says.

  Glitner and Willoughby sit patiently in the waiting room. One hour. Almost two. Then Herman K. Tischman comes rushing in. Face alight.

  “Her temperature’s down!” he shouts. “She’s going to make it.” He grabs up their hands. Won’t let go. Then he embraces Willoughby. Begins crying. “She’s all right. The docs say she’s going to be all right. The fever has broken. Thank you, thank you, thank you. How can I ever repay you?”

  “I’ll tell you,” Anthony Glitner says.

  23

  The Chairman of the Department, in Cleveland headquarters, follows developments in the Harry Dancer case with intense interest. Tischman is still on the job. So the Chairman assumes the leak in the Southeast Region really has been plugged by the elimination of Jeremy Blaine.

  That is good. What is bad is Briscoe’s uncertainty about Sally Abaddon. The Chairman knows full well the importance of the field agent. He or she is the essential pivot on which the whole operation turns. If Sally has been compromised—by the Corporation or her own weakness—the Dancer campaign is lost.

  The Chairman approves the expenditure for the bugging of Dancer’s home. Smart move. It should prove or disprove the validity of Briscoe’s doubts. Apparently all is going well. But the fat man cannot rid himself of the irritating suspicion that he is being outmaneuvered by that belching bastard in Corporation headquarters.

  He is angered by his distance from the scene of action. Having been in the field so many years himself, he knows how often operational reports are falsified, exaggerated, or just incomplete. The agent knows what is happening. The case officer learns a portion of that. And headquarters is informed of a part of that. Intelligence dribbles away as it moves up the chain of command.

  The Chairman, seated before the war map in his reinforced throne, pulls at his rubbery lips and ponders the case of Harry Dancer. Then he snaps his fingers for the floor supervisor.

  He sends a coded message to the Director of the S
outheast Region. He requests a report on anything unusual, puzzling, or unexpected in the personal lives of people involved in the Dancer action.

  It is not much, the Chairman acknowledges.

  But it is all he can do at the moment to calm his fears. Cover all bases. If he is to lose, it will not be from lack of trying. He does not wish to report failure, due to inaction, to his superiors. He knows the consequences.

  24

  If Harry Dancer cannot understand Sally Abaddon, he has company: she cannot understand herself.

  She recognizes what she is risking. Eternal youth. Beauty. The excitement of evil. But something is stirring. A want she can’t define. Vague longing. A wish for—what?

  She searches Dancer’s face. Trying to find the answer there. He is handsome. But she has known handsomer men. He is a good lover. But she has known better. He is kind, gentle, considerate. She has corrupted a hundred men with the same qualities. So what is it?

  She doesn’t know. Can’t label it. Gives up trying. But the chemistry is there. Seducing her. Warm softness. A hint of something better. Not thrilling, but satisfying. And dangerous.

  She wonders if it may be just boredom. Weariness with the sameness of her life. Perhaps, before endangering herself, she should ask for a transfer. Even a vacation. Would that renew her resolve? She doubts it. She is conscious of slow, deep movement. A fault slipping. And then the earthquake. A holiday could not stop it.

  She is aware of Briscoe’s doubts. That cold man suspects something is happening to her. She takes precautions. In bed at the motel, she puts her mouth close to Harry Dancer’s ear, whispers, “I love you.” Knowing it will not be overheard and recorded by those voyeurs in the parking lot.

  “I love you,” she whispers. And when he starts to respond, she puts a soft finger on his lips.

  The scenario calls for his sexual enslavement. Old plot. High success rate. But this time she finds the script offensive. Not so much what his total subjugation will do to him, but what it will do to her. Crushing the thing she feels growing, moving.