“That’s different. I’m a woman. I can fake it. The times guys thought I was going wild with passion when all I really felt was like yawning—-I can’t count ’em. But it’s different with a man. A guy can’t fake. So how do you do it?”
“Practice, baby, practice!” Batman’s tone was smug.
“I’ll bet you live on aphrodisiacs,” Helen guessed.
“You got it. I sprinkle kayf on my oatmeal every morning. For lunch, nothing but thorn apples. That’s a trick I picked up from those old Roman lovers. Those boys really knew their love fruits. And for dinner, nothing but concentrated oysters.”
“Like a perennial bridegroom,” Helen chuckled. “And the bridegroom always cometh.”
“On demand, baby. On demand.”
“What about between meals? The pace you keep up, you must need passion sustenance at odd hours.”
“Then it’s just a simple drink, sweetie. Vodka and Spanish fly. Good for what fails you, like I always tell the fellows. Brings the old jizzum to the necessary boiling point.”
“Okay, you two, let’s go!” Vito interrupted the conversation. “Come on, now. No goofing off. Let’s remember we’re all pros. No time for retakes. Let’s make it look convincing.” He positioned Helen on the bed and pulled the sheet up over her. Then he showed Batman how to stand behind the drape so he could appear at the proper moment and make it look as if he was climbing through the window with the burglar kit. “Ready on the set!" he announced and popped behind Squint, the cameraman. “Lights! Camera! Action! Let ’em roll. . . .”
They had been rolling for some time now, and Archie was having a rough time staying awake in his hiding place. Desperately, he pinched himself, wiped his eyes, and peered through the keyhole again. It looked as if the picture-making session might be drawing to a close.
The burglar had untied Helen at some point during Archie’s lapse of attention. Now it was he who was stretched out naked on the bed with his clothes on a pile on the floor while Helen had become the aggressor. Batman simulated great weariness as he shrank away from her, but the state of his manhood successfully belied his acting. Helen climbed up on the bed and stood over him, looking down, her body erect, feet braced on the mattress on either side of his hips. The camera stayed back for a long shot. Helen took a deep breath and held it so that her naked bosom swelled out to its fullest potential. Then she flexed her knees three times like a champion Olympic high-diver testing the diving board, and leaped.
It was a sort of jack-in-the-box jump. She went straight up in the air, legs bending double, arms locking around her shins. And she came down right on target, impaling the flagpole to the base, her firm, round haunches slamming all her weight down on the burglar’s pelvis.
It was the climactic moment in the lm. It was the cavalry, bugles blaring, charging to the rescue of the encircled wagon train. It was the silver bullet felling Dracula with his teeth a scant inch away from the milk-white throat of the sleeping heroine. It was the brave, flat-chested Navy nurse slipping a pair of hand grenades into her blouse, pulling the pins and walking straight toward the lecherous, evil , smiling, cowardly, nefarious Jap soldiers who’d just raped her kid brother. It was Jimmy Cagney, fatally wounded by a fusillade of tommygun bullets, crawling up the church steps to snarl penance with his dying breath. It was the Marine pilot plunging his dive bomber straight down the smokestack of the Nipponese aircraft carrier about to launch the planes capable of sinking our South Pacific fleet. Yes, Helen’s leap was a cinematic high point.
“Oof?!” Batman’s response was genuine. A fleeting expression of agony crossed his face as his brain relayed the message from his squashed gonads. But he quickly controlled it and bounced along with Helen to the finale.
It ended with him picking up his burglar kit and tottering to the window. He was dressed now, and Helen had put her nightgown back on. She grabbed him for one last kiss.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” she asked.
“What?”
“You came to rob me, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. But I’m too tired. I’ll have to come back tomorrow to finish the job.”
“I’ll be waiting,” Helen promised.
The burglar left. Helen got back into bed and pulled the sheet over her. She closed her eyes. Immediately, there were signs of movement under the sheet. She tossed it aside. The strap of the nightgown slipped off her shoulder so that one breast was bated. She raised a leg and the skirt of the nightie slipped back over her thighs. Her two hands reached down toward the blonde triangle. . . .
“CUT!” Vito yelled. “Good. Print that,” he told Squint. “We’ll have to wait ’til later for the cast party,” be added to Helen. “I gotta get this film developed and in the can. It's gotta be delivered right away.” He shooed Batman and Squint out of the room ahead of him and the door closed behind the three of them.
Helen was looking miffed when she opened the closet door for Archie to emerge. “How do you like that little pimp?” she said through clenched teeth. “He doesn't care about me! He just uses me! Never even apologized for cutting out. Oh! I don’t know why I put up with him!”
“Why do you put up with him?” Archie asked.
“It’s cost me a lot; but there’s one thing that I’ve got; he’s my man! ”
“It seems to me I've heard that song before," Archie caroled back.
“Cold and wet, tired you bet, but there’s one thing I’ve got yet; he’s my man. Two or three girls has he--”
“Enough. I dig. I don’t hand out judgments, baby. Anyway, what I really want to find out from you is —”
“Come on to bed, sweetie.” Helen wriggled invitingly. “We’ll talk later.”
“If I hit that mattress,” Archie said truthfully, “I'll go out like a bum bulb. Honest, any other time I'd hippety-hop at the offer. But now I’ll just have to beg off and ask for a rain-check.”
“It’s your loss.” Helen shrugged. “I’ll see you around.” She nodded pointedly toward the door.
“Wait a minute. There are a few questions I’d like to ask.”
“Like what?”
“Like anything you can tell me about Dixie.”
“Dixie who?”
“Come off it! Dixie-the-doxie who was diddling with Beaumarchais when he was killed.”
“Killed? Somebody was killed?”
“Professor André Beaumarchais! Remember?" Archie was exasperated, and his voice was heavy with sarcasm
“Who?” Helen’s owl-eyes matched the question. “Never heard of him."
“The hell with it!” Archie strode into the sitting room and picked up the telephone. He dialed the operator. “Police headquarters,” he said, his eyes riveted to Helen’s with a look designed to cover the act that he was bluffing.
“Hey! What are you—” She crossed over to him quickly and pushed down the button in the phone cradle. “Let’s not go off half-cocked,” she protested.
“Are you going to talk to me?” Archie demanded. “Or do I call the cops and let you try your wide-eyed games on them?”
“All right. I’ll tell you what I know. It isn’t much anyway.”
“Okay. First of all, what’s the redhead’s last name, and where can I find her?”
“Keller. Dixie Keller. She’s got an apartment over on York Avenue. I don’t know if she’ll still be there after what happened, or not. Anyway, here’s the address and phone number.” Helen scrawled them down on a piece of paper and handed it to Archie.
“How well do you know her?” Archie pocketed the paper.
“Not well. I only met her on a party about six weeks ago. It was a large spree that Vito sent me out on, and there were a lot of girls there.”
“Does Vito handIe Dixie too?”
“No. I don’t know who her connection is. Maybe she doesn’t have any. There's always a few girls like that around. Free-lancers. They come and go.”