And her vulnerability, her touching confessions; he could—and sometimes did—weep at the memory of that day they spent together, that night in her bed when he had lain beside William S. Paley’s wife and known her more completely than her husband ever would. He’d meant it when he said that she was the one woman whom he wished he could love physically. But even as he’d said it, part of him—the part he despised when he was hungover and regretful on certain mornings after—had suppressed a laugh, hearing himself already rearranging the story so he could tell it to those who appreciated his stories, especially the ones about the rich and famous, just like them. Cecil, perhaps—Cecil Beaton, to the masses; or Margaret—that is, Princess Margaret, to most people.
But they were just Cecil and Margaret to him. As were Liz and Grace and Marlon and Marilyn and Audrey and Humphrey and Betty.
“Well,” he’d begin, as he always began, that southern drawl that never failed to hypnotize, like a snake charmer’s tune. “You will not believe what happened to me the other day! Me, the queen of the fairies! Propositioned by a woman—and not just any ol’ woman, mind you. But the fabulous, the one and only, Babe Paley!”
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.