The Loves of Harry Dancer Read Online Free PDF Page B

ass. Is it drugs?”
    “No. Not drugs. This Dancer is the trustee of a family fund. I represent the children of the decedent. They’re trying to prove that Dancer is not morally fit to administer the trust. Preparatory to bringing suit.”
    “Who were the guys in the Mercedes?”
    “I have no idea. They could have been waiting for a friend.”
    The detective stares at him a long time.
    “Two hundred a day,” he says. “Plus expenses.”
    “All right,” Glitner says.
    The case officer meets with Evelyn Heimdall. Repeats what Tischman told him.
    “The Others have the first round,” he says. Bitterly. “Ev. we’ve got to move on this.”
    “Not to worry,” she says. “Dancer is coming over tonight for dinner.”
    “Good. It’s heating up. I’ve asked Headquarters for information on this Sally Abaddon. The detective is going to try to get a photograph.”
    Heimdall leans forward to pat his cheek.
    “Relax, Tony,” she says. “It’s just the beginning.”
    “She’s a nude dancer,” he says. Mournfully.
    The agent laughs. “We have our weapons, too. Don’t we?”
    Harry Dancer shows up at Evelyn Heimdall’s apartment carrying a bottle of Frangelico.
    “Greeks bearing gifts,” he says.
    “Why should I beware of you?” she says. Smiling. “You don’t scare me.”
    “I don’t? Good. What a great apartment!”
    It is. Fifty yards from the beach. Fronting the ocean. Living room, bedroom, bath, kitchen. And a fine east terrace, wide enough for chairs, lounges, a cocktail table. Sixth floor.
    “Beautiful view,” he enthuses. Standing at the railing. “Looks like you could dive into the water.”
    “No, thanks,” she says. “But notice that no one else can look onto my terrace. I can suntan out here in the altogether.”
    “Watch out for helicopter pilots,” he warns.
    He thinks her apartment charming. Clear. Airy. Lots of Victorian wicker. Ceiling fan. Everything open and clean. Thin billowing drapes. Basket of fresh fruit. Flowers everywhere. Floors tiled in a black-and-white checkerboard. With a few worn oriental rugs.
    She serves gin martinis and tiny, chilled crab claws. On the terrace.
    “I may just move in,” he says.
    “Please do,” she says. “I better warn you: you’re going to be a guinea pig tonight. I’ve made a—a what? Kind of a stew, I guess. I invented it. Chunks of chicken breast, spicy sausage, little shrimp. All sauteed with garlic, scallion greens, sweet red pepper, and little bits of this and that. With enough white wine so we can spoon it onto rice.”
    “I’ve already gained five pounds,” he says. “Just listening. Do you want to talk investments tonight?”
    “Not really. Do you?”
    “No way! I get enough of that at the office. Were you born in New Jersey?”
    “Maine. My father was a minister. And please don’t ask me how long ago that was; I don’t like to think about it.”
    “May I guess your age?”
    “If you like.”
    “Thirty-eight.”
    She smiles. “Close, but no cigar. Thank you for your kindness.”
    “Older?”
    “A bit.”
    “You look marvelous, Mrs. Heimdall.”
    “Can’t we make it Ev and Harry?”
    “Splendid idea. Where did you learn to mix martinis like this?”
    “Not dry enough?”
    “You kidding? Just right. Did you do a lot of entertaining when your husband was…”
    “Quite a bit, yes. I love to cook. How are you getting along with meals since your wife…”
    “I manage. Simple things. Steak and a baked potato. Salad. Stuff like that.”
    “Lonely, Harry?” she asks. Looking at him curiously.
    “Oh yes. You?”
    She nods. “It comes with the territory.”
    “I guess. Planning or hoping to remarry?”
    “Not right away. Not until I get my life together.”
    “You’re joking. Ev, you’re the most together woman I’ve met in a long, long time. May I have another martini?”
    “Of course. Let’s finish the pitcher. Want more ice?”
    “I’ll get it—if I may. Let me wait on you.”
    “A pleasure,” she