The Swans of Fifth Avenue(43)

“Then why don’t you?” Truman felt he had to at least pretend to be affronted. Bill wouldn’t respect him if he didn’t.

“It’s distasteful to be direct in this matter, I’ve found. Girls don’t like it so much. They like to be wooed, to think they’re special. And they need time to come around to the idea themselves.”

“Bill Paley. The world’s greatest lover.” Truman arched an eyebrow, and Bill laughed.

“Okay, okay. I just fancy that little blonde. I like blondes, all right? I like them dishy and squishy and blond and pale. And earthy. I like earthy, in bed.”

“Same here. We’re a lot alike, you know.”

“What?” Bill was startled; he nearly spilled his drink as his face paled.

“Well, for instance. Clubs.” Truman cocked his head and gestured around him. “There are certain clubs neither one of us can get into. Am I right?”

Bill’s face hardened, but he nodded. Truman had heard about the awful debacle after Phil Graham had nominated Bill for membership in the F Street Club in Washington; Graham had been told, in no uncertain terms, that they did not accept members of the Hebrew race. Not even those in charge of immense media empires.

“And we both enjoy earthy—lovers.”

Bill again nodded. Carefully.

“And we both love Babe. Or, at least, I do.”

“Of course I love my wife.” Bill sipped his drink slowly, deliberately placing it back down upon the ring of condensation. “I don’t want you to make a big deal out of this, because it’s not one. If you don’t want to, fine. But we’re friends, and friends do each other favors.”

“There are favors, and then there are favors.”

“Look at it this way. If you take care of this, find me a nice girl who won’t make a fuss—as I’ve unfortunately experienced in the past—it would make everyone involved happy. Everyone. We would be keeping it in the family, in a way. And I’m sure you know how much that means to us. Keeping it quiet. Not inviting a mess.”

“Yes, I know how much that means to—us.”

“Truman, you’re a levelheaded man. You also know some interesting people, particularly women. You have a lot of influence over them. And I’m very generous; I’m always eager to help those who help me. But as I said, it’s up to you.”

Bill’s eyes had taken on that reptilian look; he leaned back and gazed at Truman steadily, coldly. Truman had no idea what the man was thinking.

Then Bill leaned forward and clapped Truman on the shoulder. “I just thought of another way we’re alike,” he said with a conspiratorial grin. And despite himself, Truman was thrilled to see it; thrilled to see that William S. Paley thought of him as his equal. His pal. A real boy. The old experience in military school, the old wound of never being man enough—God, it was tiring, wasn’t it, how these things took roost and never, ever left? Like squatters. Yes. The traumas of childhood were like squatters. They took advantage of negligence, weakness, until the point where you couldn’t imagine your life being whole without them.

“How?” Truman asked with a melancholy sigh. “How are we both alike?”

“We’re both collectors. Collectors of women. You and your—what do you call them, Babe and her friends? Your swans?”

“Ah, but this is where we’re different,” Truman replied with a cool smile.

“In what way?”

“I don’t treat them like shit.”

Bill, who had been about to take another drink, froze. He sat for a minute—an eternal, bone-rattling minute—staring at Truman, his eyes betraying no emotion, no anger—but no friendliness, either. Then Bill rose abruptly, told him he had to meet a sponsor for dinner but Truman should take his time and linger, if he wanted. And then he was gone, with a quick but crushing handshake.

Truman watched him stride out of the room. Then he did take his time finishing his drink. He wasn’t going to be hurried by any insufferable waiters’ stares or whispers by shocked members. Right now he belonged here, with them, with men who controlled empires, who hobnobbed with presidents and kings. Men who needed him. Men who asked him to do them manly favors.

But then he felt his face burn; he was being ridiculous. He didn’t want to be these men, not really, for their lives were much more deceitful, full of darker corners where no light ever shone, than his. He was better than them, yes, he was; he had a desperate urge to jump up on the table and scream, “Yes, I’m a homosexual! And I’ve invaded your clubhouse, and you can’t do a damn thing about it! Does anyone want to take a picture, you men with your obsession with giant clubs and little balls?”

He chuckled to himself, wishing with every outrageous cashmere fiber of his being that he could do so. But he couldn’t—no, he wouldn’t. It was his choice, not theirs.

But he did take his time with his drink, inciting the maximum amount of discomfort possible. And on his way out, he whispered in the ear of the man he had seen dancing with the Puerto Rican, “Your secret’s safe with me, darling.”

But when he left, he had asked himself the question he hadn’t quite asked Bill Paley.

What about Babe?

Was it a betrayal to help her husband cheat on her? Well, yes. At its essence, it was.

But Bill was his friend, too. Bill was going to cheat on Babe with or without Truman’s help; he’d been doing it for years. Babe knew it. Hell, the entire city knew it.