“Don’t be ridiculous, Archer. This is a perfectly respectable man with a wife and children. He’s simply invited me over to have a swim with his family.”
“Only when you get there, the wife and children aren’t home!” Archer guessed with remarkable intuition. “That’s the oldest ploy there is!”
“Archer, why are you so suspicious? Why don’t you trust me?”
“That’s pretty funny, coming from you, after you confessed to me about you and that Strongfellow making out in his—” Archer broke off abruptly and when he resumed speaking, his tone had changed from indignation to pleading. “No. Please. Not again. Believe me, there’s nothing left. Get away from me with that contraption. You won’t even get liver bile. Just the liver itself. Yes, that’s what you’re after! All my vital organs. First the liver, then the gallbladder, then the kidneys, and the intestines, and . . .”
“Archer? Archer?” When there was no answer, Llona jiggled the receiver. “What’s the matter, Archer?”
“That nurse is back with her damned enema bag!” His voice was very faint. “I can’t fight you both at once,” he moaned. “It’s too much for me.”
“Then good-bye, Archer. I’ll come to see you tomorrow for sure. Meanwhile, why don’t you just cooperate with the nurse. She’s only trying to help you get better.”
“She’s an anatomical butcher,” Archer whispered hoarsely. “She’s extracting all my vital organs. She’s a mad scientist out to prove a human being can be deorganed anally.”
“You’re being silly, Archer. Good-bye.” Llona hung up and left the booth.
Comstock Bowdler was waiting for her. He led her from the cocktail lounge and down the block to the garage where he kept his car. Ten minutes later they were on the highway cruising toward his house in the suburbs with the convertible top down.
Another twenty minutes and Bowdler steered the convertible off the highway. As they zig-zagged through a maze of local streets, he turned to Llona with some embarrassment. “Miss Mayper,” he said, reverting to a formality which had been dropped earlier in the evening, “I wonder if I could ask you to do me a favor.”
“Well . . . Sure . . . What is it?”
“Umm . . . Would you mind lying down on the floor of the car?” Comstock blurted it out.
“Would I mind what?”
“Lying down on the floor of the car. Please.”
“Why?”
“Well, this is a pretty small, tight-knit, conservative sort of community where everybody knows everybody else,” Comstock explained. “If somebody saw me driving home with a pretty girl like you, there’d be talk.” He didn’t bother to add that his neighbors knew his family was away, a fact that would turn their indictment from speculative to damning.
“All right.” Llona shrugged and crouched down on the floor of the car, feeling ridiculous.
There was another reason why Comstock Bowdler was so extra-careful. It started to emerge right after they entered the front door of his home. As they came in, the phone was ringing and he hurried to answer it.
Llona didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she was sort of left hanging there in the entrance hallway, not knowing where to go to avoid hearing. At first, occupied with her own thoughts, she didn’t listen. She was thinking that the house had been suspiciously dark as they alit from the convertible. Nor could she see any signs of life now. Oh, well. She shrugged it off. Bowdler’s family must be in the pool, which was probably in the back of the house since Llona hadn’t seen it from the street.
“No-no-no! I don’t think we should mount a campaign aimed at Nymph!” Bowdler was protesting on the phone. The way his voice had shot up attracted Llona’s attention. “Yes, yes, scandalous! Of course! But a flea. A flea, I tell you. One does not mobilize one’s heavy artillery for an assault on a flea . . . An alternative target? Well, yes, as a matter of fact I do have one in mind. The Sunday New York Times magazine section! . . . Yes, I thought that would surprise you. But let me explain. It averages twenty to thirty pages of Lascivious pictures an issue. That’s more than Nymph! . . . Why, I’m talking about the ads, of course. All those stocking ads and girdle ads and bra Yes, and the deodorant ads and the travel ads with the bikinis and the mouthwash ads with people kissing too. Page for page it’s one of the most offensive publication around . . . I agree. It’s even worse than Good Housekeeping . . . No, I don’t think it’s too big for PRUDE to tackle.“ But I do insist that Nymph isn’t important enough to justify our efforts . . . All right, let’s both sleep on it and we’ll discuss it at the next PRUDE meeting. Good night.” Bowdler hung up the phone.
“What’s PRUDE?”
Bowdler whirled around at the sound of Llona’s voice. “I did1n’t realize you were—-“ he started to say.
“I’m sorry. But I couldn’t help hearing. Of course it’s none of my business . . .”
“No, no, my dear. Your curiosity is only natural.” Bowdler’s mind was racing; if he saw dangers, he also perceived certain advantages in taking Llona into his confidence. “Now, you understand that what I’m about to tell you is highly confidential . . .”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t --”
“No, I insist. I trust your discretion.”
“All right then. What’s PRUDE?” Llona asked again.
“It is the Parental Responsibility Union Denouncing Eroticism. And I am the president of the local chapter.”
“Oh. You mean some sort of censorship group?”
“Our function is to guard against the evils of pornography, to alert the public to the ever-increasing dangers.”
“But--but, you’re the editor of Nymph!” Llona was confused. “Isn’t that a little—uh—inconsistent?”
“So who says consistency is such a virtue?”
“Well, perhaps. But still --”
“Accommodation is the secret of life. I have accommodated, that’s all.”
“I don’t think I understand.”
“It’s checks and balances that allow the world to go ‘round. Don’t you see that, my dear? We sell the Russians wheat and stockpile missiles. Our leaders talk of peace and drop millions of tons of bombs. We lecture the underprivileged on self-reliance while tax money subsidizes million-dollar corporations. Such facts set the tone for the nation. And the individual follows suit. That’s all I do. I accommodate.”
“That’s hypocrisy!” Llona blurted out.
“It’s the American way . . . Hypocrisy? Perhaps.”
“No perhaps about it! Hypocrisy! To edit Nymph on the one hand and head up some morality group on the other—”
“Recently there was a hassle between the New York City Police Force and the city administration over the ticket illegally parked cars. Immediately, great numbers of motorists parked their cars in defiance of the law. It was observed that many of these lawbreakers’ vehicles had bumper stickers reading ‘LAW AND ORDER.’ It’s the American way!”
“That’s really reaching for an analogy!” Llona decided.
“Coexistence begins inside oneself. ‘I myself am Heaven and Hell,’ said the poet. I myself am libertine and moralist is what I say. Every man balances between lust and morals. It’s just that in my case the two are more clearly defined than most.”
“But how do you do it?” Llona wondered. “Suppose your neighbors find out what you do for a living? Suppose Raunch Rammer learns you’re a secret censor?”
“There’s no way for my home community to learn about my business. There’s no earthly reason why they should connect me with Hugh Esquire, editor of Nymph. As for Rammer, while I’d just as soon keep my secret, even if he did find out, I could prove to him that I’ve always kept Nymph’s interests in mind. Why, take that conversation I just had. Do you realize that I aborted an attempt to keep Nymph off the local newsstands?”