The Swans of Fifth Avenue (10 page)

The few times they'd had sex, in fact: “Oh, darling. Yes, that's wonderful. You're a marvel. You know just what to do to make a girl feel—oh.” And the last just a small gasp of surprise. But she never broke a sweat. Never even mussed her makeup. Just looked at him adoringly, with gratitude, then after an appropriate amount of time, wrapped herself up in a sheet and went to fix her hair.

But Truman, the little fairy—
he
was the one to put a shine to her, make her sweat, glow, muss her hair. Just by dancing?

Bill had gone upstairs feeling as if his equilibrium was off, but not knowing entirely why, when he'd heard a small, childish lisp. “Oh, Bill! Come sit with me. I can't sleep.” Startled, Bill found himself peeking into one of the guest rooms. Only to behold a tousled blond apparition in silk pajamas, tucked into bed with the covers up to his chin, patting the mattress beside him.

Bill froze. Was this a proposition? Surely the little fag knew he wasn't like that? By God, he'd throw the twerp out of the house first thing in the—

“Oh, don't look so terrified. You're not my type, I assure you. I just thought you might like to talk. I know I would. I can never go right to sleep after a party. I'm always too wound up.”

And so Bill Paley walked into Truman Capote's bedroom and sat down on the bed, and ended up talking for three hours, during which the two of them repaired to his small kitchen to scramble some eggs and uncork a bottle of champagne. Truman's breadth of knowledge impressed Bill; he asked very intelligent questions about radio and television, and art. He asked advice about having one of his short stories made into a teleplay. He never once propositioned him, or made any inappropriate or lewd gesture or remark, and by the time they both had to admit they couldn't keep their eyes open one more minute, Bill had come to look at Truman as both a peer and a waif. Because there was such an innocence to him; he was so certain of his future, of his place in the literary world, in posterity, even, that Bill could only shake his head. Had Bill Paley, even in his confident youth when everything he touched turned to gold, ever been that certain?

He didn't think so.

The sandwich now assembled, Bill closed his eyes, almost in reverence. His big white teeth bit into the crusty, yet doughy bread; he savored the bracing crunchiness of onion, the saltiness of the salami, the thick brown tang of the mustard. He chewed and chewed, spilling crumbs everywhere, pausing now and then to pick them up with his greasy fingers, licking them between bites.

And when he was finished, when his hands were dripping with oil and mustard, littered with crumbs, his stomach temporarily silenced, he remembered that there would be food tonight at the party; Babe had promised him that, reminding him before he left for work in the morning. “Don't worry, darling, I'll take care of you. We'll have something more substantial than party food!”

And now he wasn't even hungry!

Bill consulted his watch, picked up the phone on his desk, and called his driver. Then he went into his private dressing room; no mere executive bathroom, but a real dressing room with rows of extra suits and shirts and ties. Quickly he shed one wrinkled shirt—he merely dropped it on the floor, never for a second wondering who might pick it up and have it laundered—for a fresh one and put on a different suit jacket, tied a new tie. He splashed some water on his face, combed his hair—cut closer than he used to wear it, to disguise the thinning—and then strode out of his office toward an elevator at the end of the hall. His secretary called out a sincere “Good night, Mr. Paley!” and before him, dozens of other secretaries and vice presidents and directors scraped and bowed, raising hats, wishing him the fondest of good nights.

Bill didn't even notice them. He was thinking of the evening ahead, and gritting his teeth until he realized, with a jolt, that despite the ordeal before him, he was looking forward to seeing Truman. Even though he'd seen him last weekend and would see him this one coming up.

And he hadn't had a friend like that in—well, had he ever? Someone whose company he truly enjoyed, who didn't bring with him any headaches, past or present (like Murrow now; Ed used to be the debonair, bon vivant reminder of the glamorous war years when he and CBS were
the
voice of the war, of dashing correspondents, righteousness, bravery. Now Ed's very presence only reminded him of angry sponsors and President Eisenhower calling him on the phone, asking him why one of his own employees—the face of CBS News, no less—was so intent on being a Pinko?).

So where once he and Ed Murrow had dined at Claridge's while the bombs rained down on London, toasting to the triumph of good over evil and bedding grateful English girls—including Pam Churchill, that tasty little British dish—now he and Truman Capote hobnobbed in Manhattan. With Babe, of course; Bill had to forcibly remind himself of his wife's presence tonight. She would look beautiful, as always. Tall and elegant and coolly perfect. An asset, just as prized as the new Picasso he'd hung in the foyer of the St. Regis pied-à-terre. Just as valuable. Just as essential to his sense of self.

Bill suddenly remembered the sandwich. Did he have any bits of salami stuck between his teeth? He peered at himself in the mirrored elevator wall, baring his teeth, as the uniformed elevator boy tactfully examined his polished black shoes. No, nothing amiss. He looked good—and not just for his age, fifty-seven this year. He was still tall, no sloped shoulders, still flat of stomach although no one who saw how viciously he ate could ever understand how. He still had that grin; that devouring, yet boyishly infectious grin. He looked good. Damn good.

Hmm. Maybe that friend of Truman's that he'd met at another one of these parties, that cute little Carol Marcus, would be there tonight. She was a blond cream puff, a Marilyn look-alike, just his type. Bill grinned, thinking about pink, pert nipples against creamy, filmy silk, writhing hips beneath his hands, softness, suppleness, buoyant boobs slapping against his chest—

And just like that, Bill Paley was hungry again.

“
B
ILL!
H
AVE YOU EVER SEEN
anything like this?” Truman approached him, a martini in one hand, a cigarette in the other. He was red of face, flustered, sweat plastering his thinning hair to his forehead. But he surveyed the room with the satisfaction of a potentate. “Oh, I
love
the Plaza, don't you? It's my favorite place on earth. I just adore how even the bellhops look down their noses at you, as if you might take a shit in the potted plants. How wonderful of Babe to throw me this little shindig!”

“You deserve it, even though I don't want to think about what this little shindig is costing me. What's the new book called again?” Bill downed the last warm drops of watered-down bourbon and signaled for a fresh glass. One magically appeared.

“It's a novella.
Breakfast at Tiffany's.
Random House published it while I was in Europe, but what a nice treat to come home to. And Babe, of course—she simply insisted on throwing this little fete, even as I begged her not to.” Truman shook his head, but he did not appear to be too put out.

This little fete was taking place in the Oak Room at the Plaza; for Mrs. William S. Paley and her friend, the bestselling author Truman Capote, naturally management had closed it to the public on this night. The vaulted ceilings, the gleaming oak walls, the heavy square bar at the end of the room; the old baronial atmosphere of the place was lightened somewhat by cozy little round tables filled with flowers and copies of Truman's book. The red cover, emblazoned with the words
Breakfast at Tiffany's, a Short Novel, and Three Other Stories by Truman Capote—
Bill could see a copy of it wherever he looked, for Babe had bought out Brentano's. Bennett and Phyllis Cerf, holding court at the other end of the room, must be counting the profits even while they were making small talk.

But Bennett was only the publisher. Truman was the writer. And Bill respected artists, creative types. He was like Bennett himself—arbiter and procurer of talent—so he had no great awe for the founder of Random House (and besides, there was no money in books, anyway. Television was where it was at). But around someone like Truman, especially tonight, Bill could sometimes be uncharacteristically shy. For Bill Paley truly admired artists, and he had to admit that Truman, swishy and flamboyant, was a complete professional at his craft, taking it very seriously, secreting himself away from even Babe for long periods of time to work on it. And he was good. Talented. Respected by those who should know, his peers and critics. And so Bill had to respect him, too. And sometimes, just like when Jack Benny and George Burns bent their heads together and dissected a joke with the cold precision of surgeons, Bill got a little tongue-tied.

He hadn't read this book, mind you. And Truman didn't appear to have expected him to—another thing Bill appreciated about him; Truman simply seemed happy to see his friend, to involve him in his celebration. Before he'd joined Bill at the bar, Truman had been swanning about, gliding through the other guests, accepting accolades with humility, poking and provoking—“So what did you think of Holly? The only completely honest character I've ever written, hand to God.” Or, wagging his finger at Slim, at Gloria, at C.Z., at Marella and that dishy little Carol and her equally dishy friend Gloria Vanderbilt—“Now, you don't think I modeled Holly after you, do you? She's my own creation!”

But now, with Bill, he seemed to relax, shrug off the famous-author mantle, and appeared happy to talk about anything other than himself.

“Babe said you were about to buy another Degas. I'd love to see it.”

“Yeah, yeah, my broker has a lead. I don't know where I'll hang it yet, though. That's always the thing, isn't it?”

“Problems, problems,” Truman said with an impish grin, and Bill had to laugh at himself and take a swig of ice-cold bourbon on the rocks.

“Christ, I know, that sounds so pompous. I would have given my left nut to have these kinds of problems, back in the day.”

“Don't I know it.” Truman narrowed his eyes, looking out at the party. The two men were leaning against the great oak bar; from across the room Babe, tall and impossibly beautiful in a red wool Charles James cocktail suit with a portrait collar, stood out even among this rarefied crowd of millionaires and models, actors and authors. “Now, you see, I have to think about what I'll write next. What can possibly trump this last book? It's always on my mind. Do I keep writing short stories? Journalism? What about another novel? I just don't seem to have the stamina for a novel, though. But it does seem as if it's expected of me. I have ideas, of course—I record them all. But I don't know, honey, I just don't. And there's so much pressure, you have no idea! Bennett may smile and say, ‘Take your time,' but he runs a business and I make money for that business, and so I'm a bit like a sharecropper. Indebted to the company store.”

“But you're talent.” Now Bill felt more comfortable; he was on familiar ground here. “Talent has to be made some allowances. I couldn't let Jack Benny work fifty-two weeks a year. He needs a hiatus. And when he's off the air, or we're in reruns, I lose money, believe me. But he needs the time off to recharge. The show would suffer.”

“What about that Lucy show?” Truman arched an eyebrow and rubbed his forehead with his pinkie finger. “I wouldn't call that quality television, Bill.”

“No, you're right. It's not. And she's showing some age—the show, that is.”

“Lucy, too.” And Truman sat his drink down, put both hands to the side of his face, and pulled the skin back, tight.

Bill laughed again. “But people—pardon the pun—love Lucy. Shows like that make money. They allow me to put on other things, more highbrow—Leonard Bernstein's concerts, for example.
Playhouse Ninety.
”

“What's your favorite show, Bill? Tell me, I'm curious. I know a patriarch isn't supposed to have favorites, but you must. And don't just blurt out the show that makes the most money.”

“Gunsmoke,”
Bill replied without a moment's hesitation.

“Oh, my God!” And Truman threw back his head and laughed; he clapped his hands, as delighted as a boy at the circus.

But Bill wasn't at all embarrassed by the reaction; he was accustomed to it.

“
Gunsmoke
is America. It's good versus evil. It's like it used to be—like it used to be in the war.” But he did surprise himself by this comparison; he hadn't thought about it that way before. But by God, that was it, probably. Why he loved the show so damn much. The simple heroism of Marshal Dillon—Ed Murrow during the war, but in a ten-gallon hat instead of a trench coat. The comic relief of Chester. The gruff wisdom of Doc. The too-good-to-be-true whore with the heart of gold, Miss Kitty.

And evil, every episode, in the form of outlaws and bandits and speculators and Indians. Uncomplicated evil. Bad guys who needed their comeuppance, and thanks to him, Bill Paley, by way of Marshal Matt Dillon (played by James Arness, the sweetest, dumbest lug he'd ever met), they would get it. They'd get that bullet in the heart, or a scalping by the Indians, or be run out of town forever. Because they deserved it.

Just like Hitler, just like the Nazis, just like the Japs.

Today, the enemy wasn't so clear. Sometimes Bill was just so heartily sick of all he had to contend with: instilling loyalty oaths, a few years back. God, Ed Murrow had given him an earful about that. There were Commies, Pinkos, those Rosenbergs, giving him one more reason to try to forget he was a Jew. There were always problems with affiliates, griping about the programming; there were always sponsors threatening to withdraw (like Alcoa, pulling out of
See It Now
). Color television—well, he'd lost that battle. David Sarnoff and RCA won. It was their technology, not CBS's, that the government determined to be the industry standard.