“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.
“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.”