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.
“I like the show, Truman, that’s all. It appeals to me, for reasons I’m sure you’ll never understand.”
But Truman surprised him. Truman always managed to surprise him.
“Bill, I am the last person on this earth who would criticize your taste. I believe that the most creative, forward-thinking personalities are those with a healthy dose of lowbrow, mixed with highbrow. That’s your genius. As it is mine, I’m not too modest to say. Modesty bores me. I hate people who act coy. Just come right out and say it, if you believe it—I’m the greatest. I’m the cat’s pajamas. I’m it!” And Truman clinked his own glass—a martini—against Bill’s. “So are you, Bill Paley. You are it. We both are. Two titans, astride their world.”
Bill grinned and relaxed. He had to hand it to Truman; he was the only fairy in New York who knew how to talk to men. Real men.
“Oh, Truman, you naughty, naughty boy!” A dishy blonde—not that Carol, but someone who looked a lot like her—wriggled up to them. She was wearing a very low-cut, very tight red satin dress. Immediately, Bill thought that if Babe saw her, she’d wrinkle her nose and decide the fabric was too shiny, the cut too extreme, the overall effect cheap. Sometimes he couldn’t help but see women through his wife’s superior eyes, but it never clouded his overall vision.
“What, Mona?” Truman gazed at the girl with a calm, bemused expression.
“You know, she’s me! I mean, I! Holly Golightly! I’m her! I know you based her on me!”
“Mona, my dearest, most vapid girl, I assure you that I did not. Holly Golightly is entirely my own creation.”
“Oh, no!” The girl inched closer, and looked up at Bill. Her eyes widened, and she squirmed, as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down her back. “Now, I want you to tell this gorgeous man here—”
“Bill Paley, Mona Cartwright. Mona Cartwright, Bill Paley.”
“Oooh! So nice to meet you, Mr. Paley! Anyway, Tru-Tru, I want you to tell Mr. Paley that I am the model for Holly Golightly! The things I’ve told you, over too many cocktails—and then I read them on the pages of your story! The South American—that Brazilian! You know I told you all about that!”
“Mona, you may believe what you like. If it helps you sleep at night, by all means, go to bed thinking you’re Holly Golightly. Now, be a good little Marilyn and wriggle off somewhere else.”
“Truman!” Mona leaned over to kiss Truman on the cheek—and flash Bill her creamy, heaving cleavage. Then she did sashay off, with only one sleepy-lidded backward glance.