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DOWNHILL
Roscoe Arbuckle spent several days in his home, rest* ing and getting hundreds of congratulatory letters and phone calls. He played in one long poker game with the boys and won $40. To him that was a further sign that his luck had turned. The weather had turned warm, and Arbuckle, in a sport shirt with golf breeches, was a familiar sight again in his old hangouts.
He had an important meeting with Jesse Lasky and other producers and executives on April 25th. The decision would then be made as to when ( or if ) he would go into production again. Arbuckle was confident and happy. He told manager Lou Anger, "And if they are cautious, well make a few of our own and show them. We can always get bank money."
The press had stopped writing about Arbuckle, and protest mail had stopped coming in. Arbuckle had every reason to believe that the Virginia Rappe case was dead and buried with her.
At 10:45 on the morning of April 25th, Roscoe Arbuckle showed up forty-five minutes late in the offices of Paramount. He was greeted heartily by men who had paid him as much as $1,000 a day for his buffoonery. He was accompanied by Anger. The men sat around comfortably as the meeting began. Arbuckle rolled his brown paper cigarette with dexterity and said, "You don't know how great it is to be back among you fellows. I never thought I'd look forward to seeing all your ugly pusses." He grinned and the men laughed. One said, "You're no Rudolph Valentino.'' Others laughed.
"Well?" said Arbuckle. "You asked me here."
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