The Swans of Fifth Avenue(42)
Oh, it would be a delicious story! He could dine out on it for simply weeks—years, even! But he did feel an uncomfortable stab of loyalty for Babe, a rush of love and protection—feelings so unfamiliar that he scarcely knew how to process them—except for the fact that somehow, he knew he couldn’t do that to her. Not to Babe. He couldn’t expose her that way, after she’d so trustingly exposed herself to him. He couldn’t humiliate her vulnerability, her despair.
But Bill—well, that was another matter. And where things began to get complicated.
He liked Bill Paley. Most people didn’t, actually. Oh, sure, Slim was always very loyal to him, when the girls began dissecting one another’s husbands—although Babe never played that particular game. But oh, God, poor Slim! Oh, the poor dear—but Truman couldn’t think about her right now. No, Bill was the more pressing problem.
Bill Paley was a wily chameleon, warm one minute, dangerously coiled and unpredictable the next. He had no patience, none at all! The way he barked at Babe whenever he wanted something; it did make Truman’s blood boil. Truman knew how heroically Babe worked, he knew how desperate she was to be loved and appreciated, and to see how churlishly Bill treated her stirred up the most inconveniently uncomfortable feelings in him. He actually hated Bill at times, for the hurt, the neglect, he heaped upon exquisite, treasured Babe, whom Truman loved. And who loved him back.
But it was not in Truman’s nature to openly despise people of wealth and taste and privilege. And he had to admit that Bill possessed all of these. The wealth—well! The man ran an empire! Television, radio, CBS records; he invested in Broadway plays, he owned buildings, he shaped the way people thought. The taste—God, what taste! For a man who sometimes had the unraveled edges of a New Orleans pimp, he had an exquisite eye for art and beauty.
Well, the man had picked Babe, hadn’t he? That alone elevated him in Truman’s eyes.
And power. Back to the empire again. And the political connections; he’d had Truman’s—the other Truman, the president—ear. Eisenhower’s, too. His brother-in-law, Jock Whitney, Babe’s sister’s husband, was the ambassador to Great Britain. But power is always tied most directly to money. Bill Paley knew that.
So did Truman Capote.
When Bill asked him to perform that particular—function—the first time, Truman had hesitated. Out of loyalty to Babe, he’d stammered, pretending not to understand the question. Bill retreated hastily, changing the subject to boxing, a sport they both enjoyed.
But the very next night, Bill invited Truman out for a drink at the Links Club. Truman, always eager to invade these hidden bastions of overt masculinity, had accepted. And he’d not been disappointed. The Links Club was a testosterone riot of leather and wood paneling and pictures of golf, golf, and more golf—golf courses, golf clubs, men in ridiculous golf gear. It was full of small rooms where hushed games of backgammon were being conducted, or phone calls to brokers being made. The drinks were all strong and neat, no garnishes. No less than three shoe-shine men—darkies all—waited patiently just outside the lounge.
Truman spied a couple of men he had last encountered in different kinds of clubs, farther—much farther—downtown. One had been dancing with a swarthy Puerto Rican boy dressed like Carmen Miranda in the back room of one of those clubs. He saw the man pale at his entrance, but Truman didn’t break a smile, didn’t raise an eyebrow, didn’t slow his stride at all as he followed Bill to a cozy corner of the main room, decorated in a Scottish nightmare of dark paneling and painting after painting of men in kilts gripping large wooden clubs.
No, no compensation here, not at all.
“Truman, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Anything, Bill,” Truman had replied with a sinking heart. One didn’t refuse—or pretend not to understand—Bill Paley twice in a row.
Bill pressed a hidden buzzer beneath the table between them, and from a concealed panel in the wall, out popped a liveried waiter. Bill ordered two whiskey and sodas and drummed his fingers against the mahogany tabletop; the chairs were well-worn leather, comfortable, with high backs, giving at least an illusion of privacy. After the drinks were delivered, Bill sipped his, then placed it down on the table. He immediately saw the water ring it left, and grinned a suddenly charming, boyish grin.
“Babe and her coasters. At home, every table has dozens. She thinks I’m a slob if I don’t use them.”
“Women!” Truman grunted and pretended to spit on the floor. Bill guffawed.
“Yes. Women. Here’s to them all.” And Bill raised his glass in a toast. Truman did the same. “Now, to the point. You know that little blonde, that Carol something, a friend of yours? I think she’s just a terrific little gal. I bet she’s a real tiger in bed. I’d like to find out, at any rate. Could you arrange it?”
As he had been before, Truman was shocked by the directness. No prevaricating, no warming up to the subject. But he also admired Bill’s methodology. Here was a man who knew what he wanted, and didn’t see the need to waste any time in getting it.
“Bill. I’m flattered that you’d think I’d have any sway over the wonderful women in my life.”
“Cut the crap, Truman. Will you or won’t you? I can get anyone I want, you know.” Bill’s legs were jangling now; he was always restless, always in search of more. At the house, he’d pace and roam. On the plane, he couldn’t sit still, either, always drumming his fingers, crossing and uncrossing his legs, pacing the aisle, driving Babe and Truman to distraction. His big hands were always clasping and unclasping, scratching, rubbing, drawing doodles on pads of paper.