The Swans of Fifth Avenue(2)

Slim finally lit the blessed, blessed cigarette and took a long draw. She leaned back in her chair and exhaled, narrowing her eyes at Pamela. Strange, how Truman could bring them together, how he’d made allies out of enemies with his pen. “She wasn’t, not that I could tell.”

“But Dillon, that odious man in Truman’s story—it is Bill, isn’t it? It’s supposed to be Bill Paley?”

Slim took a big breath, but couldn’t meet her friends’ collective, searching gaze. “Yes. It is, I know it is. Don’t ask me how; I just do.”

Pamela, Gloria, and Marella gasped. So did the other tables nearby; when the four women entered the restaurant together, all heads had turned their way. Some in astonishment, some in outright glee. Others in admiration. But all in curiosity.

Marcel, their favorite waiter, cautiously approached the table with the customary bottle of Cristal. He showed it to them, and Gloria wearily waved her hand in assent; he popped the cork, but without the usual flourish. He knew.

Everyone knew.

The latest issue of Esquire had hit the stands that morning, the cover a profile picture of a fat and pasty-looking Truman Capote, the headline trumpeting the acclaimed author of In Cold Blood’s newest, hotly anticipated short story. “La C?te Basque 1965,” it was called. It was now one P.M. Liz Smith was probably already on the phone, frantically asking their maids if Madam was in or out.

Well, this madam is out, Slim thought to herself. And she might very well stay out, for the rest of the day. Hell, the rest of the night. Where was Papa when she needed him? For she would have hopped the next plane to Cuba, if that were still permissible. And if Hemingway were still alive, daiquiri in one hand, rifle or fly reel in the other, his big, virile, lecherous grin on his face at the sight of her, wondering when the hell he was going to get around to writing a book about her, the most fascinating woman he’d ever met.

Ah, but that was another story, from a different time. A different life.

Today, the story was different. And it wasn’t really her story at all, Slim realized; she had been used, yes. But in the end, her secrets, mainly, remained intact. Still, that did not dampen her sense of betrayal, her bitterness at what her True Heart—her stomach soured at the memory of that pet name!—had done.

The murder Truman Capote had committed, plain as day, by telling the stories he had told. Stories that he did not have a right to tell.

Stories they never should have told him in the first place.

“No one will return his calls now. No one will invite him anywhere. He’s finished in society. Dead—as dead as—” Pam dabbed ostentatiously at her blue eyes, which, Slim couldn’t help but observe, remained resolutely dry.

There was a lull in the conversation, a cloud that dropped over their table, dulling the brilliant light, throwing shadows on the gleaming cutlery, the sparkling crystal.

“Does anyone really remember when they first met him? Or did he just appear, like the plague?” Slim was in a reflective mood; one she did not allow herself often, and one that did not sit well with her companions, generally. Lunch at La C?te Basque was not for soul-searching.

But today was different. Today, they’d opened the pages of Esquire magazine and seen themselves—not merely themselves, but their kind, their tribe, their exclusive, privileged, envied set—eviscerated, skin flayed open, souls laid bare, ugliness acknowledged. Secrets betrayed and lives destroyed. By the viper in their nest; the storyteller in their midst.

But Truman Capote wasn’t the only one who could tell tales, they decided over another glass of Cristal.

“So tell me,” Slim cooed, her tongue comfortably loose, her throat deliciously numb. “How the hell did that southern-fried bastard get here in the first place?”

The four inclined their still-gorgeous necks, put their perfectly coiffed heads together in consultation. Beads and feathers quivered on gesticulating arms. Jewels and gold flashed on punctuating hands as they tried to piece it all together. From the very beginning. The story of how Truman Capote came to betray all his swans—but one especially. The one they all loved the most. Even Truman.

Especially Truman.

The problem with this particular story, however, was that Truman was the one who had told it to them in the first place.





CHAPTER 1


…..





Once upon a time—

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—

There once was a man from Nantucket—

Truman giggled. He covered his mouth like a little boy, and tittered until his slender shoulders shook, his blue eyes so gleefully mischievous that he looked like a statue of Pan come to life.

“Oh, Big Mama! I am such a naughty imp!”

“True Heart, you are priceless!” Slim had laughed, too, she remembered, laughed until her ribs ached. Truman did that to her in those glorious early days; he made her laugh. That was it, really. The simple truth of the matter.

When he was young, back in 1955, when they were all young—or, at least, younger—when fame was new and friendships fledgling, fueled by champagne and caviar and gifts from Tiffany’s, Truman Capote was a hell of a lot of fun to be around.

“Once upon a time,” Slim had finally pronounced.

“Yes. Well…,” and Truman drawled it out in his theatrical way, adding several syllables. “Once upon a time, there was New York.”