Along with the well-stacked promotion which played up all the calculated risque in The Exhibitionist, there was the exciting possibility of pinning a real live name on the pere et fille. No more guessing games here; no parasmut; disappointingly, not even any real dirt to dish even if you recognize publisher Irvin Kane of Tomcat and all his little sex kittens long before the centerfold of the book. He's the ""mammary mogul"" who believes that the magazine can be a liberating force in all the lives of his readers (after a peephole experience in a Japanese pleasure dome makes a man of him). But Attorney General Richard Patterson, an upstanding figure except for his affair with a Hollywood girl, Jill, is ready to prosecute him and Kane counters with a television tape of Jill in her earlier days at Tomcat House where she had pliantly taken care of four'men almost simultaneously--oh, ooh, oops, oy. Jill suicides to take the pressure off her lover and Patterson carries on with the case all the way to court where one philosopher testifies: ""If we believe good books can cause good, then I think we must conclude that bad books can cause bad."" There must be still another postulate--dull books can cause dull.