“Why didn’t you ask him for it back?” Helen asked logically.
“ ‘Cause the way it is, this trucker’s unloadin’ other cans of film from this van an’ bringin’ ’em into this here buildin’. He sees our can, thinks he dropped it, an’ puts it right in the middle of a stack of film cans what look just like it. There wasn’t no way to tell it from the others. By the time we reach him, he’s already rolled the stack inside an’ unloaded it.”
“But if you asked the people there, they would have let you look through the film to find your can,” Helen suggested.
“We couldn’t chance it. The place bein’ delivered to was this outfit ‘Operation Yorkville’.”
“You mean that rah-rah censorship outfit?”
“Yeah.”
“But why were they having film delivered?” Helen wondered.
“Propaganda, I guess. You know, these documentaries these outfits take around to show PTAs an’ outfits like that how dirty books is ruinin’ the nation.”
“But then they’re liable to show our picture by mistake!” Helen was startled at the prospect.
“Yeah,” Vito agreed. “That should sure be one helluva PTA meeting.”
“Will I get residuals on it?” Batman wondered.
“Don’t be a jerk,” Vito told him scathingly. “How could you if we can't even admit it’s our picture?” Then his tone became more businesslike. “Come on, you two,” he ordered. “We ain’t got much time. Into the bedroom, and let's re-shoot the scene.”
As the doorknob turned to the bedroom door, Archie dived into the wardrobe closet once again. Crouching down and peering out, he was able to see Helen slip into her nightgown and resume her place on the bed while Batman put on his burglar’s mask and got into position. “Lights! Camera! Action!” Vito called.
Ob, well, Archie thought to himself as he crouched down and watched from his uncomfortable hiding place. That’: show biz!
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE RETAKES broke all records reported by Kinsey or anybody else. Batman was in and out like a flash, and so was the rest of the crew. Vito gave Helen a quick kiss goodbye on her solar plexus-—exactly the point to which the diminutive procurer’s lips reached—and then he and the others were gone.
Archie corkscrewed out of his hiding place. A few quick words by way of goodbye to Helen, and then he too left. Out in the street he hailed a cab and headed for home sweet home. A short while later he arrived at the elaborate town house and groggily made his way up to his room without meeting anybody to whom he might have to give explanations. He was sound asleep the moment he horizontalized his gangly body. It was the deep sleep of the young, the nocturnally active, and the unwillingly pure.
The streetlights of Park Avenue were shining outside his window when Archie finally awoke. The room was dark. Archie turned on the night-table light and yawned his way into the bathroom, shedding his pajamas as he went.
The icy needle spray of the shower hit him like a jolt of LSD, and his consciousness expanded with a yowl of awareness. Masochistically, he stood there and let the icicle-like droplets wash over his body, finally forcing himself to aim the outpouring at his groin just before he leaped from the shower stall. Then he was awake, skin tingling arctically and the rumblings in his adolescent stomach telling him he was as hungry as a wolf.
He threw on a shirt and a pair of slacks and clattered down the back staircase to the kitchen. It was a large kitchen, but when he entered it seemed as crowded as Gimbel’s on Bargain Day. Waiters kept tray-juggling through the swinging doors leading to the rest o the rooms on the ground floor of the house, and there were three chefs busily pounding doughs and setting fire to sculptured pastries doused in brandy. Archie peered around until he spotted Mrs. Huggins, the family’s regular housekeeper, overseeing the hectic scene from her perch on a pantry stool. He made his way over to her.
“What’s going on?” Archie asked the gray-haired lady.
“Your mother is having a party to celebrate the opening of somebody or other’s new play. About a hundred people, I’d judge. And Mr. Jones is meeting with a group of business associates in the library. Both are on short notice, and I’ve had to call in the catering service for help."
“Busy-busy.” Archie shrugged it off. He was used to the confusion surrounding the frequent large gatherers in the house. “How’s chances of my getting some breakfast?” he asked.
Mrs. Huggins glanced pointedly through the window at the night sky. “Breakfast.” She carefully avoided giving the repetition of the word any inflection.
“Sorry.” Archie grinned his most boyishly winning grin. “I guess I'm running a little behind today.”
“I’ll have Cook make you some bacon and eggs.” Mrs. Huggins responded positively.
“Don’t bother. I'll just scrounge around here and get a bite for myself.” Archie drifted over to one of the tables, investigated a platter heaped with delicacies, and selected the makings of a sandwich. He poured a beverage into a glass and pulled a kitchen chair off to one side where he could eat without blocking the flow of traffic.
A few moments later, Mrs. Huggins came upon him. “What’s that you're eating?” she asked in a tone that managed to be suspicious and motherly at the same time.
“A black caviar sandwich and champagne,” Archie replied blithely.
“That's no breakfast for a growing boy.” Her tone was scandalized.
“Sure it is. All kinds of vitamins in caviar. And many a doctor recommends champagne for the liver’s sake.”
“Put it down and let me have Cook fix you some oatmeal.”
“Ugh!” Archie wolfed down the rest of the sandwich and drained the champagne. “Very high in protein, too,” he told her, beating his chest. “Just the thing for that energy boost to meet the new day.”
“Which is over,” she murmured to herself as he beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen before she could carry through her oatmeal threat.
But Mrs. Huggins was wrong. For Archie the day was just beginning—even if it was already nighttime. And it was going to be a very full day, as he started to appreciate almost immediately.
It started with his being accosted in the hall by Lester, the Jones’s butler. “Excuse me,” he greeted Archie, “but there have been several calls and messages for you during the day. Mrs. Jones thought it best not to disturb you, so I’ve kept a record of them.”
“Thanks. What are they?" Archie asked.
Lester consulted a handwritten list. “The first call was from a Miss Helen Riley at about eleven this morning,” he told Archie. “She has called back several times since then and said it was urgent. I asked if there was a number where you might call her back, but she said there wasn't and that she would call again later. Shortly after Miss Riley’s first call, there was a call from a man who declined to leave a message or give his name. He also has called back periodically through the day. The last time he said something about possibly seeing you this evening, but he still refused to identify himself.”
Archie thought about it a moment and decided the anonymous man was probably Strom Huntley, his CIA contact. He wondered if Strorn was in the house now, possibly attending the meeting being held by his stepfather. “Go on,” he told Lester. “Who else?”
“A Miss Steinberg called just before the dinner hour and left a message for you to call back if you were free to play chess this evening. Just after that a Miss Giammori called and left word that a gentleman called Vito wanted to talk to you and that you should—-ahh--watch your step .”
“No editorial comments please, Lester. Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. The gentleman named Vito came to the house about an hour ago, and when I informed him that you couldn’t be disturbed, he insisted on waiting. He was most firm about it. I finally left him in the parlor in the left wing.”