“Having us in?”
“Inviting us to the party,” Groton told him. “You wait until everything’s set up. That’s the way it’s done.” He thought a moment. “And another thing, there’ll be a shitload of food spread around. Don’t eat any of it until you’re invited to. They usually invite you, but wait until they do. A beat like this, you got to have manners.” He took another long drag on the cigarette and let his eyes drift from Corman’s shoes to the hat that still rested unsteadily on his head. “And spruce up a little for this kind of gig,” he added. “Brush the dust off your jacket. It’s not like the street. These people, they’re what you might call fashion-conscious, you know? I mean, you don’t see a chauffeur in a sweatshirt, right?”
Corman nodded.
“And another thing about the food,” Groton added. “Don’t eat too much. Don’t make like it’s your meal of the day. Just a nibble, to be sociable. But don’t gobble the stuff. You look like an asshole, you do that.”
“Okay.”
“These are just the tips of the trade,” Groton said. “That’s what you want, right?”
“Yeah.”
Groton glanced about, chewed his lip, turned back to Corman. “You got to get along with the society reporters, too,” he said. “Whoever it is, you got to make like they’re top notch, really know how to move with the upscale crowd, you know? One thing you notice, they get to believing that they’re really one of the bunch, not just people who tell the rest of the world what the rich are doing, but one of the group themselves. That’s bullshit, and the shooter never falls for it. It’s the writers who get sucked into that, but you got to play to it, anyway.”
“All right,” Corman said, then listened as Groton continued on with the rules of the game. He tried to imagine what Lazar would have said in the same situation. But Lazar had never been in the same situation, had never had anything to think about but his camera. He’d lived in a small furnished room just off Times Square, had slept in his clothes, listening for the next voice on the police radio, and leaped up the instant it called to him. He had lived with only the streets as his companion, lover, wife, child, everything. He had nursed the streets, loved them, pitied them. They were in his eyes, mind and heart. He had grown old in his devotion; it had become a state of grace.
“Never more than one glass of champagne,” Groton said. “They see you swilling the good stuff, they might mention it to somebody. And I don’t mean to some greaseball from the City Room. These people don’t know him from the shoeshine boy. They don’t know the people who work at the paper, they know the people who fucking own it.” He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “You got to remember that.”
Again, Corman nodded, and for the next few minutes the two of them sat silently while people swept past them, heading for their rooms or in the opposite direction, toward the large revolving door which led to Park Avenue.
Stuart Clayton came up slowly, his long, slender body draped in an elegant blue double-breasted suit. “You ready, Harry?” he asked.
Groton pulled himself to his feet. “Anytime, Stuart,” he said. “Hey, by the way, you know David Corman?”
Clayton’s eyes shifted over to him. “I don’t think so.”
“He’s a free-lance shooter,” Groton said. “He may be taking over my job.”
“Really?” Clayton said. He offered Corman his hand, shook it, looked back at Groton. “I didn’t know you were leaving the paper.”
“In a couple of weeks,” Groton said, adding nothing else.
“Retirement?” Clayton asked.
Groton shrugged. “I guess that’s what they call it.” He headed off toward the ballroom. “Let’s get going.”
They walked to the ballroom immediately, and for the next few minutes, Corman strolled about, taking in the surroundings, the long tables, filled with hors d’oeuvres, the fully stocked bar, the enormous flower arrangements which stood here and there throughout the room. In the old city, the Fifth Avenue mansions had had ballrooms of their own, sleek marble corridors where the Fricks and the Vanderbilts ate, laughed and made deals across glittering ice sculptures of slopenecked swans. Now they gathered at the Waldorf, the Plaza, the Pierre, their ranks swollen by the well-dressed security men who lined the floral walls, glancing about apprehensively while they spoke softly into the little microphones that winked from their lapels.
It was late in the afternoon by the time the last of the guests had drifted out of the ballroom, but Groton was still shooting, his body craning for this shot, stooping for the next one. There was an obsessive quality to it which Corman found alarming. It was as if Groton were trying to get one last shot of everything he saw, repeatedly taking one picture after another until he’d photographed every face in the room a hundred times, every square inch of carpeting or wall space, every petal of every flower.
Finally Corman caught up with him and touched his shoulder. “Clayton left a long time ago,” he said.
Groton crouched at the edge of a table, focused on a small porcelain tureen and snapped the picture.
“Everybody’s gone,” Corman added softly.
Groton straightened himself, turned to Corman. “Everybody but us,” he said.
“Time for us to go, too, Harry.”
Groton nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said with a sudden weariness. He slung the camera over his shoulder and headed for the door.
The rain had started again by the time they reached the wide entrance to the hotel. Up the avenue, a fountain was spurting its white frothy torrent. For a moment, Groton watched it expressionlessly.
“It wasn’t a bad party,” Corman said, to lighten the atmosphere.
Groton said nothing, his eyes still on the distant fountain.
“Well, I got to go,” Corman said after a moment. He turned up his collar and stepped out from beneath the wide sheltering canopy.
Groton’s eyes darted over to him, intense, wondering, as if he’d just heard something he could not possibly believe or any longer doubt. “I got two more shoots,” he said urgently. “And that’s it.”
Corman glanced back toward him, felt the rain drumming on his hat.
“One on Wednesday, one on Friday,” Groton added.
Corman smiled. “Maybe I’ll come along.”
Groton’s face brightened very briefly, then sank again. “Up to you,” he said.
The Bull and Bear was only around the corner from the Waldorf, but by the time Corman got there he was drenched. A slender stream of water spilled over the brim of his hat as he took it off, shook it gently, then hung it up beside the table which Jeffrey had already taken.
“I don’t think it’s ever going to let up,” Jeffrey said amiably.
Corman eased himself into a chair and glanced at the speckled marble table which separated him from Jeffrey.
“Care for a drink?” Jeffrey asked.
“Scotch.”
“Any particular kind?”
Corman gave him a chilly smile. “Why don’t you order for me, Jeffrey.”
Jeffrey looked at him glumly. “I didn’t mean that to sound pretentious.”
Corman glanced away and said nothing.
“I guess we’ve started off badly,” Jeffrey said.
“Looks that way.”
Jeffrey offered a tentative smile. “So, shall we start again?”
Corman looked at him and nodded.
“Well, is there any particular brand you’d prefer?”
“I usually settle for the house brand,” Corman said. “If you know a better one, order it.”
Jeffrey nodded for the waiter. He appeared instantly. “A Glenlivet for both of us,” Jeffrey said to him.