The Loves of Harry Dancer by Lawrence Sanders Read Free Book Online Page A

morning. What a way to start the day.”
    “You better have a belt.”
    “Thank you,” he says. Gratefully. “Double gin on the rocks, please. How are you?”
    She doesn’t answer until she brings him the gin. They’re in her motel. Two o’clock in the afternoon. She’s just in from the pool. Glistening with oil. Wearing a crocheted bikini. Hot pink.
    “I’m okay,” she says. “I guess.”
    “What’s the problem?”
    “That place I work. It’s a drag. The money is good, but I can’t stand the slobs. Maybe I should move on. Try another city.”
    “No,” he says. “Don’t do that.”
    He is aware of a curious phenomenon. When he is with her—only with her—his body chemistry seems to change. His body odor is altered. He feels sweat trickling down his ribs, and the scent is foreign to him. Pheromones? Is he reacting to her bold sexuality?
    “How much do you make at the Tipple?”
    “On a good week I can clear a thousand.”
    He is silent.
    “I can live on a lot less than that,” she offers. “It would be worth it if I didn’t have to deal with those slobs.”
    “Let me think about it,” he says. “Maybe we can work something out.”
    “It would be wonderful. We could spend more time together.”
    “And I’d end up in Intensive Care.”
    “No,” she says. Laughing. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Only as much as you can take. And then just a little bit more. Would you like a matinee? Right now?”
    “Thank you, Sally, but I don’t think so. I’m still shook from that funeral. God, his wife—his widow couldn’t stop crying. And I really should get to the office for a while.”
    “You’ve got a few more minutes, haven’t you? Come in and talk to me while I shower.”
    He sits on the closed toilet seat. He watches her naked body behind frosted glass. Water streams. Flesh sparkles. He sees her bend, arch. Golden. It is a fogged dream.
    “I’m off tomorrow night,” she calls. “Can we do something?”
    “Sure. There’s a new Italian restaurant on Federal. Supposed to be good. Want to try it?”
    “Of course. Whatever you want. It’ll give me a chance to dress. You’ve never seen me all dolled up. You won’t be disappointed.”
    She turns off the water. Slides the door back. Steps out on to the chenille mat. Dripping. Hands him a towel.
    “Dry me,” she says. “Please.”
    It’s like polishing a statue. He is slow, tender. When he bends to wipe her legs, she puts her hands on his shoulders.
    “Everywhere,” she says.
    He is close to her. So close. Feels her sun warmth. Her palms cradle his face.
    “Harry,” she says, “I…”
    “What?” “Nothing.”
    “I could call the office,” he says. “Tell them I’m not coming in.” “You do that,” she says.

16
    H erman K. Tischman is sitting out in the parking lot. In his battered, six-year-old Plymouth. Windows down. But he’s sweating. Figures Dancer is good for another hour. At least. What a morning. First the funeral, now this.
    A guy comes up on the passenger side. Chunky. Hair cut in a Florida flattop. He’s holding an unlighted cigarette.
    “Got a match, buddy?” he asks. Gravelly voice.
    Tischman digs into his jacket pocket. While he’s doing that, the stranger opens the passenger door. Slides in beside him.
    “Hi, there,” he says.
    The investigator bites down on his cold cigar.
    “What the hell is this?” he demands. “Get the—”
    “You’re Herman K. Tischman,” the guy says. “Tailing Harry Dancer. Who right now is inside banging a ripe piece named Sally Abaddon.”
    Tischman takes the cigar out of his face. “Tell me more. Tell me who the hell you are.”
    “The name is Briscoe.”
    “Yeah? Were you in a black Mercedes the other night?”
    “That’s right.”
    “You a PI?”
    “Sort of.”
    “You working this Dancer thing, too?”
    “Sure. I think we can do business together.”
    Tischman is crowded into his corner of the front seat. This hard guy is pressing him. The ex-cop thinks