Lib had already explained about the party, and the Passaic couple came with them.
“Can you tell me?” Fox said on the way out. “Is there really a boat?”
“Not really. I thought of telling him she’s my daughter, but I don’t think he would have bought that, after the way she was feeling me on the dance floor.”
“What a bastard,” Lib said fondly, hugging his arm.
CHAPTER 7
They went in Shayne’s car.
His car phone rang before they had cleared the parking lot. It was Tim Rourke, but Shayne told the operator he was busy, and would call back. Tom Fox, the Passaic footwear man, had had a phone installed in his own car and he was having trouble with it. Police calls kept breaking in. Shayne discussed the problem with him until Mrs. Fox interrupted to ask if there would be pot at the party.
“God, I hope so,” Lib said fervently. “But Armand’s been so broke lately…”
She took them to a house in Coral Gables, a pseudo-Moorish structure with arches and ornamental towers, dating back to the days of the 1920s boom, when people had had live-in servants instead of repairmen. It was now a warren of apartments, each with its own entrance. Armand Baruch, the sex-film impresario, had a lease on the top floor, a long climb up an outside staircase.
One sniff as they entered told Shayne that pot was indeed being served. The Passaic couple debated whether or not, offered a joint, they should accept. Mrs. Fox thought they owed it to their children to find out what the fuss was all about.
“But we start with booze,” Lib announced.
Music came out of several speakers, the volume turned low. They went into a bare room, with a spiral staircase rising to a railed balcony, off which were several bedrooms. There was a cluster of studio lights in one corner, a big Mitchell camera on a tripod, mounted on a crab dolly. Shayne’s impression, looking around, was that the male guests averaged out a dozen years older than the females, almost always the case at show business parties. If the women weren’t younger, they looked younger. Most had year-round tans, but if they were permanent residents of Miami, they stayed on paths seldom traveled by Shayne and his friends.
A bronzed young man wearing his hair in a pony tail, with the armband that marked him as a member of Warehouse security, gave Shayne two looks, the first one casual, the second hard and suspicious. Shayne grinned amiably.
“Nice night for a party.”
“Every night’s a nice night for a party,” Lib said.
The bottles and ice were in a narrow kitchen. She was fixing drinks when a dreamy young man separated himself from a group and came to embrace her. He was wearing sandals and a striped robe. He had so much hair on his face that nothing showed except a furrowed forehead and a pair of pale eyes. His gestures were languid.
“Baby,” he said, brushing his hand across her breast. It was the voice on the tape, introducing the pornographic slides sent to Congressman Tucker. “Have you told these pleasant people about the specialty?”
“Not yet, Armand. Don’t you think it’s better to lead up to it gradually?”
“No, plunge right in.” He turned with a sweep of one arm. “I am Armand Baruch, known to my own flacks as king of the blues. And I have a setup here that may turn out to be the most terrific innovation in the industry since the wide screen. Is anybody old enough to remember the candid photographers who used to take pictures on Collins Avenue?”
He was looking at Mrs. Fox, who shook her head.
“This is my first trip.”
“Armand, let me get the drinks,” Lib said.
“Continue.” Baruch produced a burning cigarette from one of his wide sleeves and drew on it greedily. “You don’t happen to be a grasshead, do you?”
He was still concentrating on Mrs. Fox, who answered, “Not generally, but I may be about to become one! If you’ll show me how.”
“The main thing, dear, is that you don’t want to waste any.”
She did what he told her, but coughed up most of her first lungful of the forbidden smoke. With the second she did better.
“Sidewalk photographers,” Baruch went on. “A good business in its time. Killed by the Polaroid camera. People on vacation like to take something back to prove where they’ve been. Films are more of a problem because of the processing time. But people know they can trust me. I’m in the yellow pages. If I don’t deliver, the Better Business Bureau knows where to find me.”
“This is small stuff for you, isn’t it?” Shayne said.
“You wouldn’t say so if you knew my cash position,” Baruch said sadly. “The bastards have got me tied up. It’s like this,” he said, focusing again on Mrs. Fox. “I have cameras I’m not using. A cameraman I keep on the payroll because he’s the best in the business. A Moviola and editing facilities just sitting around. To add to all that, I have a God-given talent that’s unemployed too much of the time. I can make you a good price. We shoot in either eight or sixteen. You wouldn’t want thirty-five, because these are really home movies, to be shown in the home. But of professional quality is the difference, made by professionals. We’ll cut it and edit it for you. Do you understand what I mean? We shoot as many takes as necessary and use only the best, eliminating the footage that doesn’t seem to work. Color? Included in the price. For a few pennies extra, we’ll add title cards and a sound track.”
“Are you talking about a movie showing us having intercourse?” Mrs. Fox asked, fascinated.
“In a relaxed atmosphere. We use superfast film, espionage film, we call it, so the lights won’t make you self-conscious. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not talking about anything with more than one person. You can’t shoot one of those off the cuff and make it convincing. Husband-wife stuff. I may make suggestions from time to time, but that’s all they’ll be — suggestions. You do exactly what you’d be doing at home, in your own bedroom, and let me get it on film.”
“My God,” Mrs. Fox said.
“You won’t want to show it to everybody, just a few close friends. Think of it as a permanent record. Twenty-five years from now, when you want to recapture the way it was—”
“No,” Fox said firmly.
“I agree with you, honey,” his wife said. “But let’s find out first how much all this would cost.”
“Pennies,” Baruch assured her.
Lib put her hand on Shayne’s wrist and took him to the main room, where he was given another look by the security youth.
“Do you know that kid?” Lib said as they moved away. “I hope to hell not.”
“He’s seen me someplace.”
“Don’t panic, Lib,” she told herself. “You knew you were taking a chance… How do you like Armand’s idea? I think it’s going to make some bread. And speaking of bread, let’s talk about figures. But we’ve got to move around a little first.”
Unlike most of the others, who had finished their thinking for the day, Shayne was aware of the passing of time. He invested fifteen minutes in establishing that he was an ordinary guest, interested in Lib only for obvious physical reasons, and then he suggested that they leave.
She passed him the joint. Baruch and his cameraman, a gnomish little man barely five feet tall, were preparing a camera setup, and most of the guests had drifted to that end of the room. Shayne was on the floor with Lib’s head in his lap.
“You know Armand got his Tucker Committee subpoena?” she said. “They give him a plane ticket and ten dollars per diem. That’s O.K., they’re subpoenaing everybody. But when they start asking questions, somebody’s going to wonder where they got the information. When I talked to the guy from the committee I didn’t know it was this serious. Now I think it may be time to start traveling. The magic has gone out of my sex life. And I’m scared.”