Free The Loves of Harry Dancer by Lawrence Sanders Page B

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
    T he debriefing goes badly. Briscoe 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