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Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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drove her home and dropped her. Pleading an early morning business meeting.
“You came on too strong,” Yama tells her at the debriefing. “He thinks of you as the nude dancer from the Tipple Inn. A whore. That’s okay, he’ll go along with that—in private. But in public, he wants a lady. The guy’s known around here; he’s got a reputation to uphold. What if he meets some of his blue-nosed clients while he’s having dinner with an obvious bimbo two months after his wife died? They’d have pulled their accounts the next morning. We’ve got to dress you like a goody-goody. First, he won’t worry about being embarrassed if he’s seen with you. Second, he’ll remember what’s under the Miss Prim costume, and he’ll get more excited.”
“You know, Shel,” she says, “you’re not bad.”
They spend two hours preparing her. Long hair up in braids. Minimal makeup. Billowy gown of printed chiffon. High at the neck. Loose, flowing skirt. White pantyhose. Demure shoes with low heels.
Yama inspects her.
“Fantastic,” he says. “You look like you’re going to a prom. All you need is a wrist corsage. Baby, you’re just right. You’ll knock him dead.”
“I’ll try to bring him back here,” she says. Then, casually, “You’re going to record tonight?”
“I don’t see any point in it,” Yama says. “But Briscoe insists on it. We’ll be waiting in the parking lot.”
“Have fun,” she says.
When Dancer shows up in his silver BMW, she looks for his reaction. Sees that Yama is right on target.
“You’re beautiful!” Dancer bursts out. “I was going to suggest a rib joint. But not with you dressed like that. Let’s go to the club; I want to show you off.”
On the drive up to Boca Raton, he keeps talking about how marvelous she looks. How happy he is to be with her. How impressed his friends will be.
“They’ll think I’m robbing the cradle,” he says. Laughing.
She smiles. Puts a hand on his knee.
The club’s dining room is all shadows. Dark wainscoting and red velvet. Lighted candles, fresh flowers on the tables. Hushed chamber with tiptoeing waiters, quiet whisper of voices. “Good evening, Mr. Dancer. Nice to see you again, sir. Yes, Mr. Dancer. Of course, sir. Right this way, please. Is this table satisfactory, Mr. Dancer?”
He waves to several acquaintances. Sally is conscious of the stir she is causing. People turn to stare. Women put on glasses to get a better look.
“We’re giving them something to talk about,” Dancer says.
“So I notice. Does it bother you, Harry?”
“Bother me? You kidding? I’m proud of you.”
They order Beefeater martinis, up. Touch rims.
“Here’s to—what?” he asks.
“Us,” she says.
“I’ll drink to that.”
They study the menus. Bound in plush with golden cords.
“They have Maine lobster,” Dancer says. “Broiled, if you like. Interested?”
“Why don’t you order for us, Harry? I like everything.”
“What would you say to a steak salad? It’s cold, charcoal-grilled sirloin cut into thin slices. With hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, cukes, radishes, mushrooms, capers, croutons, and a lot of other swell stuff. Bibb lettuce. Want to try it?”
“Sounds devilishly good,” she drawls. Imitation of English accent.
He laughs. “Then that’s what we’ll have. With a bottle of new Beaujolais.”
They order. And have another martini. A friend drops by. Dancer introduces Sally Abaddon. Then two men. A couple. Two women. They are all introduced. Chat a moment. Sally is treated cordially.
“You’re lovely, child,” an elderly lady says.
“Thank you,” Sally says. Casting her eyes downward.
“You’re a success,” Dancer tells her.
“Shall I take off all my clothes and dance naked on our table?”
He rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be wicked? What a scene that would be! Want to do it?”
“Later,” she says. Groping him under the table. “A private performance only for you.”
They stay at the
“You came on too strong,” Yama tells her at the debriefing. “He thinks of you as the nude dancer from the Tipple Inn. A whore. That’s okay, he’ll go along with that—in private. But in public, he wants a lady. The guy’s known around here; he’s got a reputation to uphold. What if he meets some of his blue-nosed clients while he’s having dinner with an obvious bimbo two months after his wife died? They’d have pulled their accounts the next morning. We’ve got to dress you like a goody-goody. First, he won’t worry about being embarrassed if he’s seen with you. Second, he’ll remember what’s under the Miss Prim costume, and he’ll get more excited.”
“You know, Shel,” she says, “you’re not bad.”
They spend two hours preparing her. Long hair up in braids. Minimal makeup. Billowy gown of printed chiffon. High at the neck. Loose, flowing skirt. White pantyhose. Demure shoes with low heels.
Yama inspects her.
“Fantastic,” he says. “You look like you’re going to a prom. All you need is a wrist corsage. Baby, you’re just right. You’ll knock him dead.”
“I’ll try to bring him back here,” she says. Then, casually, “You’re going to record tonight?”
“I don’t see any point in it,” Yama says. “But Briscoe insists on it. We’ll be waiting in the parking lot.”
“Have fun,” she says.
When Dancer shows up in his silver BMW, she looks for his reaction. Sees that Yama is right on target.
“You’re beautiful!” Dancer bursts out. “I was going to suggest a rib joint. But not with you dressed like that. Let’s go to the club; I want to show you off.”
On the drive up to Boca Raton, he keeps talking about how marvelous she looks. How happy he is to be with her. How impressed his friends will be.
“They’ll think I’m robbing the cradle,” he says. Laughing.
She smiles. Puts a hand on his knee.
The club’s dining room is all shadows. Dark wainscoting and red velvet. Lighted candles, fresh flowers on the tables. Hushed chamber with tiptoeing waiters, quiet whisper of voices. “Good evening, Mr. Dancer. Nice to see you again, sir. Yes, Mr. Dancer. Of course, sir. Right this way, please. Is this table satisfactory, Mr. Dancer?”
He waves to several acquaintances. Sally is conscious of the stir she is causing. People turn to stare. Women put on glasses to get a better look.
“We’re giving them something to talk about,” Dancer says.
“So I notice. Does it bother you, Harry?”
“Bother me? You kidding? I’m proud of you.”
They order Beefeater martinis, up. Touch rims.
“Here’s to—what?” he asks.
“Us,” she says.
“I’ll drink to that.”
They study the menus. Bound in plush with golden cords.
“They have Maine lobster,” Dancer says. “Broiled, if you like. Interested?”
“Why don’t you order for us, Harry? I like everything.”
“What would you say to a steak salad? It’s cold, charcoal-grilled sirloin cut into thin slices. With hard-boiled eggs, tomatoes, cukes, radishes, mushrooms, capers, croutons, and a lot of other swell stuff. Bibb lettuce. Want to try it?”
“Sounds devilishly good,” she drawls. Imitation of English accent.
He laughs. “Then that’s what we’ll have. With a bottle of new Beaujolais.”
They order. And have another martini. A friend drops by. Dancer introduces Sally Abaddon. Then two men. A couple. Two women. They are all introduced. Chat a moment. Sally is treated cordially.
“You’re lovely, child,” an elderly lady says.
“Thank you,” Sally says. Casting her eyes downward.
“You’re a success,” Dancer tells her.
“Shall I take off all my clothes and dance naked on our table?”
He rolls his eyes. “Wouldn’t that be wicked? What a scene that would be! Want to do it?”
“Later,” she says. Groping him under the table. “A private performance only for you.”
They stay at the
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