The Loves of Harry Dancer Read Free

I’ve noticed. You’re about the same height and weight. You’ve got a little more up front than she had, but that’s all to the good. Your hair is longer than hers. Can you have it shortened?”
    “Of course. And I’ll have it styled like hers. A gamine cut.”
    “Fine. She liked vodka gimlets. Had a thing for Caesar salads and romance novels. Wore little makeup. Always bare legs. Smoked long Benson and Hedges menthols. Are you getting all this?”
    “I’m getting it. What did she wear?”
    “Mostly designer things. Other people’s names on practically everything she owned.”
    “Ugh. Well, I suppose I can do it. Right-handed or left?”
    “Right. You mean you can do either?”
    “Tony, I have talents you haven’t even guessed.”
    “I believe it. You may have an opportunity to exhibit them. This Sylvia Dancer was reputed to be a tiger in the bed department.”
    “Now how on earth did Intelligence get onto that?”
    “Easy. Harry Dancer’s personal physician is one of ours. He reports that Harry had some worries about keeping up with his wife. He was taking B-12 shots.”
    “Was taking? Recently?”
    “No. The worries date back a few years. Oh, one other thing—Sylvia Dancer liked the horses. Apparently she wasn’t a degenerate gambler; just two-dollar bets. But she loved to see them run at Calder, Hialeah, Gulf Stream—wherever. She owned a pony when she was a kid; maybe that started it.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Background stuff. Parents, education, and so forth. But at the moment I want you to concentrate on your first meeting with Harry Dancer. Let’s go over it again.”
    Evelyn Heimdall dresses carefully for the Sea Watch luncheon. Pale linen Halston sheath. Hair shortened. Lightened slightly. Bare legs. Minimal makeup. Benson and Hedges in her Mark Cross handbag. She has managed two hours in the sun that morning. Skin a bronzy tan.
    It all works. When the hostess brings her over to Dancer’s table, she sees the shock in his face as he stumbles to his feet.
    Small table. Small talk. Both face the ocean at an angle.
    “What’s across?” she asks. Gesturing at the shimmer. “If you sail directly east, what do you hit?”
    “Portugal,” he says. “I think.”
    She thinks it’s West Africa, but doesn’t say so. Takes the long menthol cigarettes from her handbag. He snaps a lighter. Holds it in a hand that trembles.
    Waitress hovers. “Cocktails?”
    “Vodka gimlet,” Heimdall says. “With a piece of lime, please.”
    He orders a gin martini straight up. When it comes, he drains half in a gulp. She sympathizes. Silently.
    “What would you like?” he asks. Studying the menu. Not looking at her. “Their seafood is good. And a really big hamburger.”
    “I wonder if I could get a Caesar salad?”
    “Of course,” he says. Strained voice. Then orders another martini.
    She doesn’t want to hit him too hard too quickly. Turns the talk to her finances. Says she has approximately eight hundred thousand. How should she handle it?
    “Play it cool,” he advises. “At least forty or fifty percent in fixed-income investments. I’ll have to know something about your tax situation, dependents, living expenses, and so forth. I’m conservatively oriented. I wouldn’t put you into high-risk things.”
    She smiles.
    They discuss his fees, problems of transferring assets, tax-exempts versus zero-coupon bonds, insurance. He is very knowledgeable. So is she. But doesn’t let him know it.
    Pleasant luncheon. Iced black coffee and Baileys Irish Cream later. Lazy talk about South Florida. Her reactions. Places to go. Things to see.
    “I’ve got to get out to the tracks,” she says. “I love racing. I’m not a heavy bettor. I just enjoy the scene.”
    He hangs his head. “You’re so like my wife,” he says. So low she can hardly hear him.
    “Oh? I’d like to meet her.”
    “She passed away.” Raises his head to stare at her. “About a month ago.”
    “Oh my God,” she says.