Read Online The Loves of Harry Dancer by Lawrence Sanders - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lawrence Sanders
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table for almost two hours. Have coffee. Then move to the oak bar. Dancer orders green Chartreuse.
“Try it,” he urges.
She sips. “What is it?”
“Good for what ails you. It’s made by monks.”
“Monks? I think I’ll skip. Will you finish mine?”
“Sure. What would you like instead?”
“I’d like a Devil’s Tail. If the bartender doesn’t know how. I’ll tell him how to mix it.”
She does. Rum, vodka, lime juice, grenadine, and apricot brandy. Blended with crushed ice. Served in a champagne glass with a lime wedge.
“That I’ve got to taste,” Dancer says. Then: “Wow! If I had two of those you’d have to call the paramedics. Where did you hear about it?”
“Oh…” she says. “I forget who told me.”
They wander out. Holding hands. Valet brings the BMW around. Overcast night. Rumble of thunder to the south. Daggers of lightning.
“I think we’re in for it,” Harry says. “But it probably won’t last long. Just a squall.”
“I love storms,” Sally says. “Don’t you? All that crashing. The world cracking apart.”
“You’re a strange one. I thought you like hot sun and white beaches.”
“I do. But storms are nice, too. I dream of wandering out in a storm naked. Wind against my skin. Getting drenched.”
“And getting zapped by a bolt of lightning.”
“Not me,” she says. “I’m indestructible.”
They drive in silence. Rain begins spattering.
“Where to?” he asks.
She considers a moment. Thinking of Yama and Briscoe in the parking lot.
“Not my place,” she says. “How about yours? I’ve never seen it. Okay?”
“Sure,” he says. But he isn’t sure. In his bed? Sylvia’s bed? “Let’s go,” he says.
By the time they get to his beachfront home the streets are flooded. Lightning is crackling overhead. Thunder snaps a whip all around them. He drives into the carport.
Across A1A, Herman K. Tischman pulls his ratty car onto the spongy verge. Cuts lights and engine. Opens the window a crack. Strips the wrapper from a cheap cigar. Begins to chew. Watching the house.
“Made it,” Harry Dancer says. “Just. Another five minutes and we’d have been bogged down. I hope the power isn’t out.”
“It isn’t,” she says.
It isn’t. He switches on a lamp in the living room. She looks around.
“Beautiful,” she says. “I may move in.”
“Please do,” he says. As lightly as he can. “My wife decorated it. She had good taste.”
“She surely did. Where do those glass doors lead to? A swimming pool?”
“No, I don’t have a pool. It seems silly when you’re a hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean. That’s the patio out there. And the garden.”
She presses her nose against the glass. Stares into windswept darkness. Rain rattles against doors.
“Close neighbors?” she asks.
“Not too close. Plenty of privacy. Bushes and dwarf palms on both sides.”
“They won’t see me then.”
“See you what?”
“Prance naked in your garden.”
“Oh my God,” he says, “you were serious.”
“I want to, Harry. Please let me.”
“Sure,” he says. Not happy about it. “Go ahead. But don’t expect me to join you.”
“I’ve got to get out of these clothes. I’m wearing a girdle. Can you believe it? And it’s killing me.”
She begins taking down her hair. He goes into the kitchen. Takes the Tanqueray bottle from the freezer. Pours himself a stiff jolt. Sips it standing at the sink. Wondering what is happening to him. Doubting what he is doing.
Brings the remainder of his drink back to the living room. She is at the glass doors, fumbling with the lock. Blond hair cascading down her muscled back. Naked, she looks twice as large. Everything about her vital and bursting.
He works the lock for her. Slides back the door. She darts into the storm. Yelping. He closes the door. Stares out. All he can see is a cavorting wraith. Hair streaming in the wind. Pale specter in the black. She is here, there, everywhere. Then gone.
A
“Try it,” he urges.
She sips. “What is it?”
“Good for what ails you. It’s made by monks.”
“Monks? I think I’ll skip. Will you finish mine?”
“Sure. What would you like instead?”
“I’d like a Devil’s Tail. If the bartender doesn’t know how. I’ll tell him how to mix it.”
She does. Rum, vodka, lime juice, grenadine, and apricot brandy. Blended with crushed ice. Served in a champagne glass with a lime wedge.
“That I’ve got to taste,” Dancer says. Then: “Wow! If I had two of those you’d have to call the paramedics. Where did you hear about it?”
“Oh…” she says. “I forget who told me.”
They wander out. Holding hands. Valet brings the BMW around. Overcast night. Rumble of thunder to the south. Daggers of lightning.
“I think we’re in for it,” Harry says. “But it probably won’t last long. Just a squall.”
“I love storms,” Sally says. “Don’t you? All that crashing. The world cracking apart.”
“You’re a strange one. I thought you like hot sun and white beaches.”
“I do. But storms are nice, too. I dream of wandering out in a storm naked. Wind against my skin. Getting drenched.”
“And getting zapped by a bolt of lightning.”
“Not me,” she says. “I’m indestructible.”
They drive in silence. Rain begins spattering.
“Where to?” he asks.
She considers a moment. Thinking of Yama and Briscoe in the parking lot.
“Not my place,” she says. “How about yours? I’ve never seen it. Okay?”
“Sure,” he says. But he isn’t sure. In his bed? Sylvia’s bed? “Let’s go,” he says.
By the time they get to his beachfront home the streets are flooded. Lightning is crackling overhead. Thunder snaps a whip all around them. He drives into the carport.
Across A1A, Herman K. Tischman pulls his ratty car onto the spongy verge. Cuts lights and engine. Opens the window a crack. Strips the wrapper from a cheap cigar. Begins to chew. Watching the house.
“Made it,” Harry Dancer says. “Just. Another five minutes and we’d have been bogged down. I hope the power isn’t out.”
“It isn’t,” she says.
It isn’t. He switches on a lamp in the living room. She looks around.
“Beautiful,” she says. “I may move in.”
“Please do,” he says. As lightly as he can. “My wife decorated it. She had good taste.”
“She surely did. Where do those glass doors lead to? A swimming pool?”
“No, I don’t have a pool. It seems silly when you’re a hundred yards from the Atlantic Ocean. That’s the patio out there. And the garden.”
She presses her nose against the glass. Stares into windswept darkness. Rain rattles against doors.
“Close neighbors?” she asks.
“Not too close. Plenty of privacy. Bushes and dwarf palms on both sides.”
“They won’t see me then.”
“See you what?”
“Prance naked in your garden.”
“Oh my God,” he says, “you were serious.”
“I want to, Harry. Please let me.”
“Sure,” he says. Not happy about it. “Go ahead. But don’t expect me to join you.”
“I’ve got to get out of these clothes. I’m wearing a girdle. Can you believe it? And it’s killing me.”
She begins taking down her hair. He goes into the kitchen. Takes the Tanqueray bottle from the freezer. Pours himself a stiff jolt. Sips it standing at the sink. Wondering what is happening to him. Doubting what he is doing.
Brings the remainder of his drink back to the living room. She is at the glass doors, fumbling with the lock. Blond hair cascading down her muscled back. Naked, she looks twice as large. Everything about her vital and bursting.
He works the lock for her. Slides back the door. She darts into the storm. Yelping. He closes the door. Stares out. All he can see is a cavorting wraith. Hair streaming in the wind. Pale specter in the black. She is here, there, everywhere. Then gone.
A
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