The Loves of Harry Dancer Read Free Page B

Chief of Internal Security says. Frowning. “The guy’s supposed to be a hothead. A real pistol.”
    “We may need a pistol before this is over,” the Regional Director says. He shows his tombstone teeth. “When you’re in this business, anything goes.”

7
    S unday nights are the worst. When Sylvia was alive, they were the best. Just idling. Soft laughter and light rump slaps. Cold dinner. Shrimp or Florida lobster or crabmeat salad. A bottle of something chilled. Teasing each other. They’d eat on the patio. Sometimes they’d take the remainder of the wine, two plastic cups, and wander down to the beach. Sit on sand still warm from the sun. Watch the moon come up. Listen to susurrus of waves. Smell salt tang. Content.
    Then, later, arms about each other’s waist, back to the house. Slow climb to the bedroom. Slow lovemaking. Everything drowsy and right. Pillow talk. Finally, sweet sleep.
    All gone.
    Harry Dancer tries. On that Sunday night he makes himself a chef’s salad. With slices of garlicky salami. Opens a jug of California chablis. Planning the routine. Then puts the salad in the refrigerator. Trades his wine for a double gin on the rocks. Takes his plastic cup to sit on the beach. Looks up at a cloud-clotted sky. Then hangs his head.
    Thinks of the previous day. Mrs. Evelyn Heimdall. Lovely woman. Perceptive. And so like Sylvia he can’t stop staring. Good tennis player. Great legs. Great body.
    Her husband has died; she has been through it. At dinner they talk about grief and what it does to you.
    “You learn,” she says, “that all the old platitudes are true. ‘Life goes on.’ ‘Time heals all wounds.’ And so forth. But even knowing all that, you’re left with an emptiness. A big void in your life. Not knowing how to fill it. But you try.”
    “What do you do?” he asks. Hopefully.
    “Religion helps. Faith. Are you a religious man?”
    “Not especially.”
    “Well, what works for me may not work for you. But it’s something to think about. If you’re looking for an explanation. Not a reason, but an explanation. Think about it.”
    “I will.”
    “Promise?”
    “Of course. Would you like a brandy?”
    Now, on the dark beach with his iced gin, he tries to think about it. But cannot. He cannot conceive of any explanation or any reason. Only chance. Accident. Senselessness.
    If life is without meaning or purpose…Well then? Well then? Intelligent men gather ye rosebuds while ye may. Is there any other choice?
    Gin finished, he struggles to his feet. Plods back to his empty home. Phone begins to ring the moment he steps inside.
    “Hey there, old buddy,” Jeremy Blaine says. “Blanche is having one of her famous headaches. How about you and me wandering out to the Tipple Inn and inspecting the beavers?”
    “All right,” Harry Dancer says.
    They sit at the same tiny table. Order beers. Dancer looks around at the gyrating girls on the three stages.
    “Looking for someone?” Blaine asks. Grinning.
    “Just checking the action.”
    “Uh-huh. How about that brunette on the right? She’s got a tattoo on her tush. Can you believe Ml”
    Drink bottled beer for almost an hour. Shifts of nude women come and go. Girls, really. All young. Firm-bodied. With bikini tans. Something piquant there, Dancer decides. Light and dark. Like marble cake.
    Finally Sally comes on. Golden girl. No bikini marks. Overall glow. And long wheaten hair that could be a wig but looks natural. Her total shaved nakedness provokes. She has a soft sheen. Frenzied oscillations. But graceful for such a big women. Choreographed.
    “Let’s have her over again,” he says.
    “Sure,” Blaine says, “go ahead. I’ve got to trot out to the trough for a minute.” He leaves.
    Set ends. Dancer stands. Waves. Sally sees him. Smiles. Comes over.
    “Another private performance?” she asks.
    He tucks two twenties into her garter. Helps her up onto the table. Her flesh is whipped cream.
    “Can we meet?” he asks.