“Where the hell is Groton?” Clayton asked as Corman mounted the last step.
“He came down with something,” Corman told him. “He sent me instead.”
“Sent you?”
“Yes.”
“Why you? This is not a blood-and-guts shoot. No offense,” Clayton said, “but I’ve never worked with you. And you can’t just work with anybody on this kind of thing. This is serious business.”
“I know how to handle it,” Corman assured him.
Clayton eyed him suspiciously. “You do, huh? Well, let me ask you something. How many of these shoots have you done, anyway?”
“Ten, twenty,” Corman said, lying through his teeth.
Clayton wasn’t buying it. “Really? When? Where? Give me some details.”
“In Boston,” Corman replied, grasping for straws. “I worked in Boston before I came to New York.”
Clayton still looked doubtful. “Where in Boston?” he demanded. “What rooms? What affairs? Jesus Christ, we’re not talking about the Ramada Inn here. We’re talking about the Plaza-fucking-Hotel.”
Corman knew his bluff had been called and made a do-or-die grab for the job.
“Look,” he said firmly. “Groton’s sick. He sent me. If you’ve got a problem with that, fine. I understand. So, go get somebody else.” He turned and started to leave.
“No, wait,” Clayton said quickly. “Sorry. Don’t take it personally. It’s just that …”
“Forget it,” Corman said, cozying up again. If he was going to replace Groton permanently, he’d have to get along with Clayton, and he didn’t want to ruin any chance of that on his first solo shoot. “Just relax,” he said easily. “Believe me, I’ll do a good job for you.”
“Okay,” Clayton said. “We’ll forget all about this little dispute. We’ll just go to work, okay?”
Corman nodded. “If you want anything special,” he said, “just let me know.”
Clayton smiled halfheartedly. “Good, thanks.” He slapped his hands together softly. “Well, as they say, we’re into the arena.”
Corman forced out a small laugh, then followed Clayton into the ballroom, walking slowly behind him, making sure he kept the lead.
It was over in less than two hours. Corman stood in the corner, munching a small cracker while Clayton worked the room, methodically pumping the last Pomeroy hand just one more time.
“Well, that’s it,” Clayton said, as he walked over to Corman, snapped off a bit of what was left of the cracker and chewed it slowly. “What’d you think?”
“It was okay,” Corman said.
One of Clayton’s light green eyes seemed to reach out toward him like a small, searching probe. “But did you enjoy it?”
“Yeah,” Corman said lightly. “It was fun.”
Clayton laughed. “You think so?” He laughed again. “Well, anyway, you did a good job. Really. Not bad at all. Maybe we could team up again sometime.”
Corman nodded.
“Would you like that?” Clayton asked.
Corman offered him a quick smile. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
Clayton looked pleased. “All right,” he said. “But if we’re going to work together from time to time, I want to make a few things clear.” He turned and began to stroll out of the room, waving Corman up beside him. “You know what they call this beat?” he asked.
Corman shook his head.
“The snoot patrol,” Clayton told him. “That’s what they call it, all the so-called ‘real’ reporters.” He stopped, studying Corman’s eyes. “Real reporters,” he scoffed. “What bullshit. The editorial writers, the critics, the political reporters with their noses stuck two feet up some Congressman’s ass.” He laughed. “And they have the balls to turn up their noses at this beat?” The laugh thinned into a derisive chuckle, then trailed off entirely. “They’re lost, Corman. Take it from me, they’re completely lost.” He continued on, sailing gracefully over the littered carpet. “Because what they don’t understand is that in this city, what the rich do is the only real news there is.” He looked at Corman earnestly. “I’m talking about human news. I’m talking about the human fucking spirit.”
They moved out of the room, down the stairs. At the side of the Palm Court, Clayton stopped again, his eyes lingering on the wide dining room. The band was playing softly, the piano in the lead, the accompaniment no more than a swaying presence in the background. “The people in editorial, international, all those people,” he said, “they think they’ve got the inside track on how things work, on what people are really like.” He shook his head. “But I’m a student of psychology just as much as they are, and let me tell you something, if you want to know what people are like, you have to study the ones who have everything. You don’t study the hustlers, the scroungers, the ones who have nothing. They’re lost in bullshit. You can’t learn anything from them.”
Corman nodded.
“But if you study the rich,” Clayton went on, “I mean study them very closely, if you do that, you can really find out what people need, what people miss.” He looked at Corman and pointed to his chest. “I’m talking about in here. You know what I mean?”
“I think so.”
Clayton began walking again, strolling quietly among the potted palms, a lean white skiff cruising over tranquil waters. “That’s what makes this beat worthwhile,” he added in conclusion. “The insight.”
Clayton picked up his pace suddenly. Corman trailed after him, just a single step behind, his eyes following the smooth gait and uplifted shoulders, the high, straight back. He wondered where Clayton had gotten all that style, whether he’d been born with it, or just soaked it in over time, like a tan.
Once outside, Clayton stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Several limousines were lined up in front of the hotel. One by one they came forward and people got out of them, then either rushed under the great awning or ducked beneath the doormen’s large black umbrellas.
“Very elegant,” Clayton said musingly as he watched. “The way they keep out of the rain. And very, very serious.” He glanced toward Corman. “You want to see something different?” he asked, as if it had just occurred to him.
“Different?”
“I always go to a certain place after one of these assignments,” Clayton told him. “I usually go by myself. But I was thinking that you might want to come along.”
Corman thought of Lucy, of keeping her, of giving Lexie some bit of encouraging news about his work, of how important Clayton had suddenly become to all of that. “Yeah, okay,” he said.
“Good,” Clayton said happily. “Follow me.”
They walked east to Lexington Avenue, then north into the Sixties, finally stopping at a noisy bar, crowded with people who were gathered in tight circles around tiny marble tables.
“A lot of the ‘real’ reporters hang out in this place,” Clayton said after the two of them had found a table. “This is their real beat, Corman. Not the ‘corridors of power’ they’re always talking. No way. This is their real beat. You know why? Because it determines the way they see things, the way they report things. It determines what they are.” He looked at Corman piercingly. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“I think so.”
“Good,” Clayton said. He ordered a fancy brandy for both of them, sniffed it when it came, then lifted his glass toward Corman. “Fuck ’em all,” he said with a smile.
Corman smiled back, drank, rolled his glass a little nervously between his hands and smiled again.
Clayton watched him for a moment, then nodded toward a man in a tan jacket who stood at the end of the bar. “He’s probably carrying three thousand dollars’ worth of cocaine in his left coat pocket.” He smiled. “Not exactly a Colombian with a buzz-saw, is he?”